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THE  BOOK  ONLY 


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'17FEB1965 

OSMANIA  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

Call  No.  ,  Accession  No.  £ 


Author  1C, 


This  book  should  be  returned  on  or  before  the  date  last  marked  below. 


The  college  anthology 


BETTER     HEADING 


Better  Reading  One:  Factual  Prose 
Better  Reading  Two:  Literature 


Anthology 


Revised  Edition 


Walter  Blair 
University  of  Chicago 

John  Gerber 
State  University  of  Iowa 


Scott,  ForesmQn  and  Company 
Chicago    Atlanta    Dallas    Palo  Alto    Fair  Lawn,  NJ. 


COPYRIGHT,  1949,  1955,  by  Scott,  Foresman  and  Company. 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America.  The  College  Anthology  is 
composed  of  the  two  volumes:  Better  Reading  1:  Factual  Prose,  copy- 
right, 1945,  1949,  1955,  by  Scott,  Foresman  and  Company;  and  Better 
Reading  2:  Literature,  copyright,  1948,  1954,  by  Scott,  Foresman  and 
Company. 

Specific  acknowledgment  of  the  courtesy  of  those  who  have  made 
possible  the  reprinting  of  selections  from  their  publications  is  made 
either  on  the  first  pages  where  the  selections  appear  or  on  the  Acknowl- 
edgment pages,  v-vi.  Selection  from  Postscript  to  'Yesterday  reprinted 
by  permission  of  Random  House,  Inc.  Copyright,  1947,  by  Lloyd 
Morris.  "The  One-party  Press**  from  Th&JMajor  Campaign  Speeches 
of  Adlai  E.  Stevenson  reptinted  by  jiermissioiKpf  Random  House,  Inc. 
Copyright,  1953,  by  Random  House,  Inc.  "Bofsgid  East  for  Cardiff" 
reprinted  by  permission  of  Random  House,  Inc.  Copyright,  1919,  1946, 
by  Eugene  O'Neill  Selection  from  The  Troubled  AV  reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Random  House,  Inc.  Copyright,  1951,  by*Irwin  Shaw. 

The  illustrations  appearing  in  Literature  on  the  following  pages  are 
the  work  of  Seymour  Fleishman:  90,  219,  220,  460,  *461,  577,  578,  659. 


A  cknowledgments 


THE  EDITORS  gratefully  acknowledge  the  kindness  of  authors  and  pub- 
lishers in  granting  permission  to  reproduce  their  materials  in  The  Col- 
lege Anthology.  The  following  pages  give  special  acknowledgment 
to  those  authors  and  publishers  whose  selections  do  not  carry  copyright 
lines  on  the  fiist  page  on  which  the  selection  appears.  Where  Canadian* 
and  United  States  rights  for  selections  were  granted  by  separate  com- 
panies, acknowledgment  is  also  made  here  to  authors  and  publishers 
for  Canadian  rights. 

John  Cranlord  Adams  and  Irwin  Smith:  permission  to  use  the  model  of 
the  Globe  Theatre  as  the  basis  for  the  drawing  which  appears  on 
page  90. 

Chatto  and  Windus:  Canadian  permission  for  "The  Darling"  from  The 
Darling  and  Other  Stories  by  Anton  Chekhov,  translated  by  Mrs. 
Constance  Carnett. 

Constable  and  Company,  Ltd:  Canadian  permission  for  ''Lucifer  in 
Starlight"  by  George  Meredith. 

J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons,  Ltd.,  and  Dylan  Thomas:  Canadian  permission 
for  "Twenty-four  Years"  by  Dylan  Thomas.  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sous, 
Ltd.,  Messrs.  Wm.  Blackwood,  and  the  trustees  of  the  Conrad  estate: 
Canadian  permission  for  "Heart  of  Darkness"'  and  the  quotation 
from  Youth  by  Joseph  Conrad. 

Doubleday  and  Company,  Lie:  United  States  permission  for  the  quota- 
tion from  Youth  by  Joseph  Conrad. 

Faber  and  Faber,  Ltd:  Canadian  permission  for  "The  Express"  from 
Poems  by  Stephen  Spender;  "Musee  Des  Beaux  Arts"  from  Another 
Time  by  W.  H.  Auden;  "The  Love  Song  of  J.  Alfred  Prufrock"  and 
"Sweeney  Among  the  Nightingales"  from  Collected  Poems  1909- 
1935  by  T.  S.  Eliot. 


Harcourt,  Brace  and  Company,  Inc:  United  States  and  Canadian  per- 
mission for  the  excerpts  from  The  Human  Comedy  by  William 
Saroyan,  copyright  1943  by  William  Saroyan.  Reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Harcourt,  Brace  and  Company,  Inc. 

Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Inc:  United  States  and  Canadian  permission 
for  "Stopping  by  Woods  on  a  Snowy  Evening"  from  Collected 
Poems  of  Robert  Frost.  Copyright  1930,  1939,  by  Henry  Holt  and 
Company,  Inc.  Copyright  1936  by  Robert  Frost.  By  permission  of 
the  publishers. 

John  Lane  the  Bodley  Head  Limited:  Canadian  permission  for  "The 
Open  Window"  from  The  Short  Stories  of  Saki  by  H.  H.  Munro. 

Little,  Brown  and  Company:  United  States  and  Canadian  permission 
for  "There's  a  Certain  Slant  of  Light/'  "The  Chariot,"  and  "I  Died 
for  Beauty"  from  The  Poems  of  Emily  Dickinson. 

Longmans,  Green  and  Company,  Inc.  United  States  and  Canadian 
permission  for  the  excerpt  from  The  American  Whaleman  by  Elmo 
Paul  Hohman.  Copyright  1928  by  Longmans,  Green  and  Company. 

Macmillan  and  Company,  Ltd:  Canadian  permission  for  "In  Time  of 
'The  Breaking  of  Nations'  "  and  "The  Darkling  Thrush"  from  Col- 
lected Poems  of  Thomas  Hardy.  By  permission  of  the  Trustees  of 
the  Hardy  Estate  and  Macmillan  and  Company,  Ltd. 

The  Macmillan  Company:  United  States  and  Canadian  permission  for 
"Cargoes"  from  Poems  by  John  Masefield.  Copyright  1913  by 
Harper  and  Brothers;  1914  by  The  Century  Company  and  by  the 
McClure  Publications;  1912,  1913,  1914  by  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany; 1915,  1923,  1924,  1926,  1930,  1931,  1932  and  1935  by  John 
Masefield. 

Putnam  and  Company,  Ltd:  Canadian  permission  for  A  Night  at  an 
Inn  by  Lord  Dunsany. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons:  United  States  and  Canadian  permission  for 
quotations  from  To  Have  and  Have  Not  by  Ernest  Hemingway. 

The  Society  of  Authors  as  the  Literary  Representative  of  the  Trustees 
of  the  estate  of  the  late  A.  E.  Housman,  and  Messrs.  Jonathan  Cape, 
Ltd.,  publishers  of  his  Collected  Poems:  Canadian  permission  for 
"The  True  Lover"  and  "To  an  Athlete  Dying  Young"  by  A.  E. 
Housman. 

The  Society  of  Authors  and  Mr.  John  Middleton  Murry:  Canadian  per- 
mission for  "Miss  Brill"  from  The  Garden  Party  and  Other  Stories 
by  Katherine  Mansfield. 

A.  P.  Watt  and  Son:  Canadian  permission  for  "The  Man  Who  Would 
Be  King"  from  The  Phantom  Rickshaw  and  Other  Stories  (1888) 
by  Rudyard  Kipling. 

A.  P.  Watt  and  Son,  The  Macmillan  Company  of  Canada,  and  Mrs. 
W.  B.  Yeats:  Canadian  permission  for  "Among  School  Children" 
from  Collected  Poems  of  W.  B.  Yeats. 


Contents* 

xxi    introduction 

Book  one:  Factual  Prose 

part  one 

How  to  follow  explanation 
and  argument 

2   CLUES  TO  MEANING 

5  PATTERNS  OF  EXPLANATION 

Time  arrangement 

6  Samuel  L.  Clemens,  Recipe  for  New  England  pie,  from  A  Tramp 
Abroad 

7  John  Steinbeck,  The  great  frog  hunt,  from  Cannery  Row 

8  Francis  P.   Robinson,   The  Survey  Q3R  method  of  study,  from 
Effective  Study 

Space  arrangement 

10   George  Sessions  Perry,  It's  a  long  way  to  Seattle,  from  Cities  of 
America 

12  Victor  Hugo,  The  battlefield  of  Waterloo,  from  Les  Miserables 

Cause-to-effect  arrangement 

13  Bernard  DeVoto,  Open  air  life  in  the  West 


*  The  two  hooks  Better  Reading  1:  Factual  Prose  and  Better  Reading  2: 
Literature  are  combined  to  make  up  The  College  Anthology.  A  heavy  di- 
vider page  separates  the  two  books  each  of  which  begins  with  page  1. 


Comparison  and  contrast 

16   Ray  Faulkner,  Edwin  Ziegfeld,  and  Gerald  Hill,  Line,  from  Art 
Today 

Analogy 

22   Walter  Prescott  Webb,  Jim   Brown  knows  the  way*  from   The 
Great  Frontier 


Analysis 

31    Ted  Shane,  Fare  warning:  roadside  indigestion 

34  Lloyd  Morris,  Why  The  Reader's  Digest  is  popular,  from  Post- 
script to  Yesterday 

36  Chester  R.  Longwell,  Adolph  Knopf,  and  Richard  D.  Flint, 
Detrital  sediments,  from  A  Textbook  of  Geology 

Familiar-to-unfamiliar  arrangement 
39   Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  Animal  chemistry 

Climactic  arrangement 
42   Charles  Dickens,  Travel  on  the  Ohio  River,  from  American  Notes 

Composite  arrangement 
44   Carl  Becker,  Democracy,  from  Modern  Democracy 

47  TECHNIQUES  OF  ARGUMENT 
49  The  logic  of  argument 

Argument  based  on  details 
49   Carey  McWilliams,  The  marginal  man,  from  A  Mask  for  Privilege 

Argument  based  on  a  general  principle 

52  Thomas  Jefferson,  The  Declaration  of  Independence 
57  Charles  S.  Johnson,  We're  losing  our  moral  courage 
59  In  Philadelphia  nearly  evert/body  reads  The  Bulletin 


Vlll 


Argument  based  on  causal  relations 

61    Norman  Cousins,  Survival  is  yet  possible,  from  Modern  Man  Is 
Obsolete 

Argument  by  analogy:  the  literal  analogy 
64   Sylvia  Wright,  Propagandizing  American  art 

Argument  by  analogy:  the  figurative  analogy 
67   Nadine  Miller,  The  importance  of  advertising 

Argument  by  authority 
69   Monroe  E.  Deutsch,  The  foes  of  the  humanities 

Argument  by  a  combination  of  methods 

78   Thomas  Paine,  Nothing  can  be  mote  fallacious,  hum  Common 
Sense 

80  The  psychology  of  argument 

The  writer  or  speaker  and  the  audience 

81  Joseph  Alsop,  What  is  academic  freedom? 

Modes  of  attack:  the  attack  direct 
88   Chicago  Tribune  editorial,  Churchill  true  to  form 

Modes  of  attack:  the  attack  indirect 
91    Clarence  Day,  The  revolt  of  capital,  from  The  Crow's  Nest 

Arrangement 
95   Franklin  Delano  Roosevelt,  Democracy  is  not  dying 

Words  and  sentences 
98  Abraham  Lincoln,  Second  inaugural  address 


part  two 

Hoiv  to  evaluate  factual  prose 

102  EVALUATING  WHAT  YOU  READ 

104   EVALUATING  A  WORK  FOR  ITS  TRUTH 

109   Adolf  Hitler,  Selections  from  The  State,  from  Mein  Kampf 
113   Harry    L.    Shapiro,    Anthropology's    contribution    to    inter-racial 
understanding 

119   EVALUATING  A  WORK  IN  ITS  OWN  TERMS 

Explanation 
121    Fred  P.  Thieme,  500,000  years  from  now  what  will  we  look  like? 

Argument 

125  Gelett  Burgess,  Pseudonym.,  Shakespeare 

127  Clark  Kinnaird,  A  reply  to  Mr.  Burgess 

130  Hoy  Cranston,  A  reply  to  Mr.  Burgess 

132  Gelett  Burgess,  The  butcher  boy  of  Stratford 

History 

135  Samuel  Eliot  Morison  and  Henry  Steele  Commager,  Independ- 
ence and  the  great  Declaration,  from  The  Growth  of  the  Ameri- 
can Republic 

Biography 

141  Carl  Sandburg,  The  assassination  of  Lincoln,  from  Abraham  Lin- 
coln: The  War  Years 

Criticism 

151  Edmund  Wilson,  John  Steinbeck,  from  The  Boys  in  the  Back 
Room 

159    EVALUATING  A  WORK  AS  LITERATURE 

161  Percy  Holmes  Boynton,  Emerson's  prose,  from  A  History  of  Ameri- 
can Literature 
163   Dwight  MacDonald,  The  Bible  in  modern  undress 


171  Columbia  Encyclopedia,  Fort  Laramie  National  Monument 

172  L,  R.  Hafen  and  F.  M.  Young,  Fort  Laramie  in  1846,  from  Fort 
Laramie  and  the  Pageant  of  the  West 

173  Francis  Parkman,  Fort  Laramie,  from  The  Oregon  Trail 


part  three 

Problems  of  the  modern  world 

178  EDUCATION 

179  A  personal  discovery:  Lincoln  Steffens,  I  become  a  student,  from 
The  Autobiography  of  Lincoln  Steffens 

182    Robert  Maynard  Hutchins,  The  autobiography  of  an  uneducated 

man,  from  Education  for  Freedom 

191    John  Dewey,  The  democratic  faith  and  education 
199    Ernest  Earnest,  Even  A.B.'s  must  eat 

204  LANGUAGE 

204  A  personal  discovery:  Robert  Benchley,  Word  torture,  from  After 
1903-What? 

205  Jacques  Barzun,  English  as  she's  not  taught 

214    Irving  Lee,  They  talk  past  each  other,  from  How  to  Talk  with 

People 

223    William  H.  Whyte,  Jr.,  You,  too,  can  write  the  casual  style 
227   W.  Somerset  Maugham,  Three  aims  for  writers,  from  The  Sum- 

ming  Up 

234  LITERATURE  AND  THE  ARTS 

234    A  personal  discovery:  H.  L.  Mencken,  Larval  stage  of  a  book- 
worm, from  Happy  Days 
241    Sylvia  Wright,  Self -consciousness,  culture,  and  the  Carthaginians 

246  William  Faulkner,  The  writer's  duty 

247  Theodore  Morrison,  Dover  Beach  revisited 

261    Aaron  Copland,   The  creative  process  in   music,   from  What  to 

Listen  for  in  Music 
267  Alfred  H.  Barr,  Jr.,  What  is  modern  painting? 


XI 


277  RELIGION  AND  ETHICS 

277    A  personal  discovery:  Agnes  Repplier,  Sm 

281    The  Gospel  according  to  Matthew,  The  Sermon  on  the  Mount 

285  Henry  David  Thoreau,  Higher  laws,  from  W olden 

293    Albeit  Einstein,  Science  and  religion 

297   Buell  G.  Gallagher,  Armored  with  genuine  faith 

301    MASS  MEDIA 

301    A  personal  discovery.  Eric  Sevareid,  Cub  reporter,  from  Not  So 

Wild  a  Dream 

306    Edgar  Dale,  The  effects  of  the  mass  media 
310   Arthur  Mayer,  Hollywood  verdict:  gilt  but  not  guilty 
319    George  Gallup,  Mass  information  or  mass  entertainment 
326    Adlai  E.  Stevenson,  The  one-party  press 

331  ENVIRONMENT 

331  A  personal  discovery:  Sherwood  Anderson,  Poverty,  from  Sher- 
wood Andersons  Memoirs 

333  Fairfield  Osborn,  Our  plundered  nation,  from  Our  Plundered 
Planet 

342   James  West,  The  class  system  of  Plainville,  from  Plainville,  USA 

356    Fiederick  Lewis  Allen,  The  spirit  of  the  times 

371  GOVERNMENT 

371  A  personal  discovery:  Fiorello  H.  La  Guardia,  My  first  encounters 
with  politics,  from  The  Making  of  an  Insurgent 

Ancient  concepts 

375    The  Bible,  Selections  from  Exodus 
380    Plato,  Crito 

Modern  democratic  concepts 

391   John  Stuart  Mill,  The  limits  of  government  interference,  from 

On  Liberty 
396    Franklin  Delano  Roosevelt,  Progressive  government 

International  organization 

407   David  Lawrence,  The  death  of  the  U.N. 

409    Henry  Cabot  Lodge,  Jr.,  What  the  United  Nations  means  to  the 

United  States 
417   The  Talk  of  the  Town,  Plug  the  weep-holes  in  the  spandrels 


xii 


Book  TWO:  Literature 


part  one 

The  nature  of  imaginative  writing 

2  'FICTION'  VERSUS  TACT 

10  The  cases  of  Jean  Muir  and  Alice  Weller 

10   A  purge  of  performers,  from  Newsweek 

12   Irwin  Shaw,  Alice  Weller,  from  The  Troubled  Air 

20  Riot  in  Rome 

21  Plutarch,  from  The  Life  of  Brutus 

22  William  Shakespeare,  from  The  Tragedy  of  Julius  Caesar 

36  MATTER  AND  MANNER 

36  Happenings 

39  Anonymous,  Frankie  and  Johnny 
42   Lord  Dunsany,  A  night  at  an  inn 

52  Characters 

55   Sinclair  Lewis,  Babbitt  visits  Eathorne,  from  Babbitt 
60   Robert  Browning,  My  last  duchess 


xiii 


63   Anton  Chekhov,  The  swan  song 

70  Setting 

72    Edgar  Allan  Poe,  The  cask  of  Amontillado 
79   John  Keats,  To  autumn 

81  Language 

86    Samuel  L.  Clemens,  Storm  on  Jackson's  Island,  from  The  Adven- 
tures of  Huckleberry  Finn 

88   William  Shakespeare,  On  a  ship  at  sea,  from  The  Tempest 
91  Homer,  A  fierce  rush  of  all  the  winds,  from  the  Odyssey 

94  Robert  Frost,  Storm-fear 

95  TONE 

102  Dorothy  Parker,  Nocturne 

103  Henry  Fielding,  The  character  of  a  great  man,  from  The  History 
of  the  Life  of  the  Late  Mr.  Jonathan  Wild  the  Great 

105   S.  J.  Perelman,  The  idol's  eye 

109  John  Keats,  On  the  grasshopper  and  cricket 

110  MEANINGS 

117   Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  The  minister  s  black  veil 
129    T.  S.  Eliot,  The  love  song  of  J.  Alfred  Prufrock 


part   two 

Evaluations 

136  EVALUATING  LITERATURE 

138   EVALUATIONS  INVOLVING  PARTS 
OR  CHARACTERISTICS 

138  Clarity 

139  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Brahma 

140  Escape 

141  Emily  Dickinson,  /  never  saw  a  moor 


xiv 


142   Special  doctrine 

142  MORALITY 

144  RELIGION 

144  POLITICS     AND     ECONOMICS 

144  PHILOSOPHY 

145  LITERARY     CRITICISM 

146  Short  literary  criticisms  from  New  York  Times,  Granville  Hicks, 
Boston  Transcript,  Floyd  Dell,  Upton  Sinclair,  Ludwig  Lewisohn 

147  Gerard  Manley  Hopkins,  Heaven-haven 

147  Real  life 

147  TRUTH  TO  THE  FACTS  OF  HUMAN  LIFE 
149  TRUTH  TO  HUMAN  NATURE 

152  Short  literary  criticisms  by  Granville  Hicks  and  H.  L.  Mencken 

153  Wessel  Smitter,  On  the  assembly  line 

155  Pleasure  in  artistic  details 

156  Robert  Frost,  Stopping  by  woods  on  a  snowy  evening 
158    Saki,  The  open  window 


161  EVALUATIONS  INVOLVING  THE  WHOLE  WORK 

161  The  work  and  the  reader 

164  James  Russell  Lowell,  Dante's  "Divina  Commcdia" 

165  Anonymous,  Death  to  most  is  a  fearsome  thought 

165  Emily  Dickinson,  /  died  for  beauty 

166  The  work  and  the  author 

169  Jonathan  Edwards,  Sarah  Pierrepont 

170  James  Fenimore  Cooper,  from  The  Pioneers 
172  F.  Scott  Fitzgerald,  from  The  Great  Gatsby 

176  The  work  itself 

176  John  Masefield,  Cargoes 

179  Robert  Herrick,  Upon  Julia's  clothes 

179  Earl  Daniels,  Herrick's  "Upon  Julia's  Clothes" 

181  Matthew  Arnold,  Dover  Beach 

182  John  P.  Kirby,  Arnold's  "Dover  Beach" 

183  Archibald  MacLeish,  Ars  poetica 


XV 


184   Donald  Stauffer,  MacLeish's  "Ars  Poetica"  from  The  Nature  of 

Poetry 
186   Richard   Fogle,   Hawthorne's  "The  Minister's  Black  Veil"  from 

Hawthorne's  Fiction 

191   The  work  and  human  thought  and  understanding 

192     ETHICAL     INSIGHT 

192  SOCIOLOGICAL     INSIGHT 

193  PSYCHOLOGICAL     INSIGHT 

194  USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 

194   Reviews  of  Ernest  Hemingway's  The  Old  Man  and  the  Sea  and 

John  Steinbeck's  East  of  Eden,  from  Book  Review  Digest 
198    Norbert  Davis,  Build  me  a  bungalow  small 
208    Maxim  Gorky,  Boless 


part  three 

Literary  types 

216   THE  SHORT  STORY 

223  The  book  of  Ruth 

227  Giovanni  Boccaccio,  The  falcon 

232  Voltaire,  Memnon  the  philosopher 

237  Prosper  Merimee,  Mateo  Falcone 

246  Alphonse  Daudet,  The  death  of  the  Dauphin 

248  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  Marhheim 

261  Rudyard  Kipling,  The  man  who  would  be  king 

289  Anton  Chekhov,  The  darling 

299  Henry  James,  Mrs.  Medwin 

317  Joseph  Conrad,  Heart  of  darkness 

388  James  Joyce,  Araby 

392  Katherine  Mansfield,  Miss  Brill 

397  Franz  Kafka,  A  hunger  artist 

404  Ernest  Hemingway,  The  killers 

413  Katherine  Anne  Porter,  Flowering  Judas 

423  William  Faulkner,  The  bear 

436  J.  D.  Salinger,  For  Esme—with  love  and  squalor 


XVI 


454   THE  DRAMA 

460   Sophocles,  Oedipus  the  King 

507   William  Shakespeare,  Macbeth 

577   Henrik  Ibsen,  Hedda  Gabler 

647    Eugene  O'Neill,  Bound  east  for  Cardiff 

659  Christopher  Fry,  A  phoenix  too  frequent 


692   POETRY 


699  Hebrew  lyrics 

699  Psalm  1 

699  Psalm  23 

699  Psalm  24 

700  Psalm  100 
700  Psalm  121 


701  The  classical  epic 

701  from  the  Iliad 

714  Geoffrey  Chaucer 

714  from  The  Canterbury  Tales 

722  Ballads 

722  Anonymous,  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

723  Anonymous,  The  wife  of  Ushefs 

725  William  Shakespeare 

725  When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

725  O  mistress  mine 

725  Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 

726  Sonnet  18 

726  Sonnet  29 

727  Sonnet  SO 

727  Sonnet  73 

728  Sonnet  94 
728  Sonn^  129 
728  Sonnet  146 


XVH 


729  Renaissance  lyrics 

729  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  They  flee  from  me 

730  John  Donne,  Song 

730  Love's  alchemy 

731  Ben  Jonson,  An  epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy 

732  Hymn  to  Diana 

732  Robert  Herrick,  Corinna's  going  a-Maying 

734  Thomas  Carew,  Song 

735  George  Herbert,  Virtue 
735  Henry  Vaughan,  The  world 

737  Andrew  Mar  veil,  To  his  coy  mistress 

738  John  Milton 

738  On  the  late  massacre  in  Piedmont 

739  On  his  blindness 
739  from  Paradise  Lost 

743  Restoration  and  eighteenth-century  poems 

743  John  Dryden,  A  song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day 

745  Matthew  Prior,  To  a  child  of  quality 

746  Alexander  Pope,  from  An  Essay  on  Man 

749  William  Collins,  Ode,  written  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1746 

749  Thomas  Gray,  Elegy  written  in  a  country  churchyard 

753  Romantic  and  Victorian  poems 

753  William  Blake,  The  tiger 

754  London 

755  Robert  Burns,  The  deiVs  awa  wi  th*  Exciseman 

756  O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 

756  William  Wordsworth,  The  world  is  too  much  with  us 

757  London,  1802 
757  Ode 

762  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  Kubla  Khan 

764  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  Ozymandias 

764  Ode  to  the  west  wind 

766  John  Keats,  Ode  to  a  nightingale 

769  Ode  on  a  Grecian  urn 

770  Ode  on  melancholy 

111  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  The  rhodora 

111  Each  and  all 

773  Days 


XVlll 


773  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  Tithonus 

775  Edgar  Allan  Poe,  To  Helen 

776  The  city  in  the  sea 

777  Robert  Browning,  Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  cloister 
779  The  bishop  orders  his  tomb  at  St.  Praxed's  Church 
782  James  Russell  Lowell,  To  the  dandelion 

784  Walt  Whitman,  One's-self  I  sing 

784  Once  I  pass'd  through  a  populous  city 

784  /  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing 

785  When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom  d 
792  George  Meredith,  Lucifer  in  starlight 

792  Christina  Georgina  Rossetti,  A  birthday 

793  Emily  Dickinson,  The  chariot 

793  There's  a  certain  slant  of  light 

794  Thomas  Hardy,  The  darkling  thrush 

795  In  time  of  "the  breaking  of  nations" 

795  Gerard  Manley  Hopkins,  The  habit  of  perfection 

796  /  wake  and  feel  the  fell  of  dark 

797  Contemporary  poems 

797  A.  E.  Housman,  The  true  lover 

798  To  an  athlete  dying  young 

799  William  Butler  Yeats,  Among  school  children 

801  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  Miniver  Cheevy 

802  Walter  de  la  Mare,  The  listeners 

803  Robert  Frost,  After  apple-picking 

804  John  Masefield,  On  growing  old 

805  Vachel  Lindsay,  The  leaden-eyed 

805  Sara  Teasdale,  The  long  hill 

806  Elinor  Wylie,  Velvet  shoes 

807  Leonard  Bacon,  An  afternoon  in  Artillery  Walk 

808  T.  S.  Eliot,  Sweeney  among  the  nightingales 

810  Archibald  MacLeish,  You,  Andrew  Marvell 

811  Hart  Crane,  At  Melville's  tomb 
811  L6onie  Adams,  Country  summer 
813  W.  H.  Auden,  Musee  des  beaux  arts 

813  Stephen  Spender,  The  express 

814  Karl  Shapiro,  Auto  wreck 

815  Dylan  Thomas,  Twenty-four  years 

816  Robert  Lowell,  The  holy  innocents 

817  Glossary  and  index  of  critical  terms 

824  Index  of  titles  and  authors  (with  biographical 
information ) 


xix 


The  following  titles  were  given  by  the  editors  to  excerpts  from  longer  works  or  to  un- 
titlecl  selections:  "The  great  frog  hunt,"  "It's  a  long  way  to  Seattle,"  "The  battlefield  of 
Waterloo,"  "Open  air  life  in  the  West,"  "Why  The  Reader's  Digest  is  popular,"  "Detntal 
sediments,"  "Animal  chemistry,"  "Travel  on  the  Ohio  River,"  "Democracy,"  "Survival  is 
yet  possible,"  "Propagandizing  American  art,"  "Nothing  can  be  more  fallacious,"  "Democ- 
racy is  not  dying,"  "A  reply  to  Mr.  Burgess/'  "The  assassination  of  Lincoln,"  "Emerson's 
prose,"  "Fort  Laramie  in  1846,*'  "Three  aims  for  writers,"  "Armored  with  genuine  faith," 
"Poverty,"  "Our  plundered  nation,"  "The  class  system  of  Plainville,"  "My  first  encounters 
with  politics,"  "The  limits  of  government  interference,"  "Plug  the  weep-holes  in  the 
spandrels,"  "Alice  Weller,"  "Babbitt  visits  Eathorne,"  "Stoim  on  Jackson's  Island,"  "On 
a  ship  at  sea,"  "A  fierce  rush  of  all  the  winds,"  "The  character  of  a  great  man." 


XX 


Introduction:  The  College  Anthology 


THE  COLLEGE  ANTHOLOGY  is  composed  of  the  two  volumes,  Better  Reading  1: 
Factual  Prose  and  Better  Reading  2:  Literature.  The  first  volume  concentrates 
upon  developing  skills  in  reading  explanatory  and  persuasive  prose;  the  second 
volume  is  designed  to  develop  the  very  different  skills  involved  in  reading  imagi- 
native literature. 


Concerning  Book  One:  Factual  Prose 

Different  ways  of  reading 

Since  this  is  a  free  country  and  there  are  virtually  no  laws  that  regulate  reading,  all 
Americans  (except  students,  naturally)  read  pretty  much  what  they  please  in  any 
way  that  suits  them.  They  read  different  things  and,  at  different  times,  read  in  dif- 
ferent ways.  And  all  ways  undoubtedly  have  value. 

Suppose  you  pick  up  a  newspaper,  a  magazine,  or  a  book  for  relaxation. 
Whether  your  fare  is  a  comic  book  or  a  mystery  story  or  a  biography  or  an  article 
about  golf,  you  will  find  that  you  can  rest  your  mind.  For  reading  of  this  sort, 
there  is  one  simple  rule— "Relax/*  No  instruction  is  needed  for  following  this  rule, 
since  most  of  us  either  have  a  natural-born  talent  for  following  it  or  can  develop  a 
talent  without  any  help. 

Or  suppose  that  you  are  in  college,  and  you  read  assignments  in  textbooks  in 
order  that  you  may  learn  as  much  as  you  must  of  what  your  teachers  require. 
Using  books  about  geography,  history,  and  other  subjects,  you  will  trust  your 
memory,  underline  passages,  or  take  notes.  And  if  you  are  intelligent  and  retain 
enough  facts,  you  will  eventually  collect  course  credit  and  a  certain  amount  of 
knowledge.  For  such  reading,  the  teachers  of  individual  subjects,  since  they  award 
the  grades,  are  the  rule-makers. 

Suppose  further  that  though  you  seek  for  information,  you  have  escaped,  tem- 
porarily or  permanently,  from  the  ministrations  of  teachers.  You  may,  of  course, 
bother  with  nothing  in  print  except  what  is  of  interest  to  you  and  may  follow  no 
particular  scheme.  Eventually  your  information  will  grow  until,  probably,  you  are 
quite  well  informed  about  some  subjects. 

Gerald  Stanley  Lee  makes  a  very  convincing  case  for  this  kind  of  reading.  "I  am 
inclined  to  think,"  he  writes,  "that  desultory  reading  is  as  good  if  not  better  for  a 


XXI 


man  than  any  other  reading  he  can  do,  if  he  organizes  it—has  habitual  principles 
and  swift  channels  of  thought  to  pour  it  into.  I  do  not  think  it  is  at  all  unlikely, 
from  such  peeps  as  we  common  mortals  get  into  minds  of  men  of  genius,  that  this 
desultory  reading  .  .  .  has  been  the  making  of  them.  The  intensely  suggestive 
habit  of  thought,  the  prehensile  power  of  a  mind,  the  power  of  grasping  wide- 
apart  facts  and  impressions,  of  putting  them  into  prompt  handfuls,  where  any- 
thing can  be  done  with  them  that  one  likes,  could  not  possibly  be  cultivated  to 
better  advantage  than  by  the  practice  of  masterful  and  regular  desultory  reading." 
For  such  reading,  though,  only  such  general  rules  as  Lee  suggests  ("Organize  it. 
Have  habitual  principles  and  swift  channels  of  thought  to  pour  it  into/')  have  been 
prescribed.  Since  it  is  a  highly  individual  procedure,  random  reading  for  infor- 
mation must  follow  an  individual  bent. 

Dangers 

Now  these  ways  of  reading,  for  their  purposes,  are  admirable,  and  any  one  of 
them  at  one  time  or  another  will  be  profitable  for  any  particular  reader.  You  will 
readily  think  of  many  instances  when  such  ways  are  completely  satisfactory.  But 
there  is  no  blinking  the  fact  that  these  various  procedures  have  limitations  and— at 
times— even  dangers. 

Take  the  "relaxing"  technique.  Undoubtedly,  thousands  of  relaxed  followers  of 
Al  Capp's  comic  strip,  "Li'l  Abner,"  have  been  too  inattentive  even  in  looking  at 
the  drawings  to  get  all  the  humor  from  them  that  they  might.  One  of  the  funny 
things  about  the  strip  is  that  it  constantly  pictures,  in  the  guise  of  hillbilly  citizens 
of  Dogpatch,  very  eminent  (and  very  different)  citizens  of  the  outside  world. 
Thus  one  disreputable  Dogpatch  hillbilly  is  the  spittin'  image  of  a  world-famous 
and  dignified  British  statesman;  another  has  the  beauteous  face  and  figure  of  a 
well-known  movie  star;  another  is  pictured  in  the  likeness  of  a  famous  crooner;  still 
another  has  craggy  features  quite  like  those  of  a  much-televised  attorney.  Again, 
those  lacking  both  the  background  and  the  awareness  to  see  that  the  strip  at  times 
parodies  movies  or  best-selling  novels,  at  times  comments  on  current  controversies, 
miss  amusing  comic  elements. 

Not  only  may  relaxed  and  inattentive  readers  fail  to  appreciate  fully  even  some- 
thing so  simple  as  comic  strips;  they  may  also,  without  knowing  it,  be  led  by  their 
"reading"  to  acquire  some  political  beliefs  or  prejudices.  Even  so  unsophisticated 
a  comic  strip  as  Harold  Gray's  "Orphan  Annie"  has  preached  politics— in  this  in- 
stance of  the  conservative  sort.  A  few  years  ago,  at  least  one  editor  discontinued 
publishing  Annie's  adventures  because,  he  said,  he  objected  to  "propaganda"  be- 
ing "smuggled  into  comic  strips  under  the  guise  of  entertainment."  More  recently, 
some  newspapers  omitted  passages  in  the  "Pogo"  comic  strip  when  it  attacked  a 
conservative  senator.  Most  of  us  like  to  feel  that  we  acquire  our  political  attitudes, 
as  well  as  other  ways  of  thinking,  by  active  thought  rather  than  by  sleepy  reading. 

Constantly,  in  addition  to  such  prejudices,  the  relaxed  reader  is  likely  to  garner 
misinformation.  If  you  relaxed  and  read  several  years  ago,  say,  a  certain  tobacco 
company's  claim  in  numerous  advertisements  that  "in  recent  laboratory  'smoking 
bowl'  tests,  Dash  tobacco  burned  eighty-six  degrees  cooler  than  the  average— cool- 

xxii 


est  of  all,"  you  might  easily  have  concluded  that  Dash  tobacco  was  "eighty-six 
degrees  cooler  than"  most  other  brands  of  pipe  tobacco  and  that  it  was  the  "coolest 
of  all"  said  tobaccos.  The  company  that  wrote  the  advertisement,  however,  specifi- 
cally stated  in  a  legal  defense  that  the  advertisement  made  no  such  claim.  Careful 
reading  would  have  shown  that  the  advertisement  did  not  indicate  either  the  exact 
nature  of  the  tests  or  the  kinds  or  numbers  of  tobaccos  used,  and  that  it  only 
claimed  that  Dash  tobacco  was  eighty-six  degrees  cooler  than  the  average  tobacco 
tested. 

Or  take  the  "textbook"  technique.  Students  ordinarily  have  to  read  textbooks, 
of  course,  to  pass  examinations;  and  often  they  have  to  be  sweetly  trustful  in  stow- 
ing away  statements  from  the  texts  which  they  later  dutifully  reproduce  on  exami- 
nations. But  if  any  student,  by  so  reading  and  learning  from  textbooks,  acquires 
the  habit  of  swallowing  without  question  anything  he  reads,  he  is  a  sad  victim 
of  this  particular  kind  of  reading,  valuable  and  important  though  such  reading 
may  be. 

Random  reading,  too,  may  have  its  dangers.  Like  the  relaxed  reader,  the  desul- 
tory reader  may  be  too  inattentive  to  details  for  his  own  good.  Like  the  textbook 
reader,  he  may  accept  too  many  statements  without  question.  And,  of  course, 
there  is  the  danger  that  a  random  reader  sometimes  will  take  for  granted  that  he 
has  covered  or  mastered  a  subject  when  he  has  done  nothing  of  the  sort. 

Finally,  none  of  these  kinds  of  readers,  probably,  will  cultivate  the  sort  of  in- 
sight into  the  methods  of  good  authors  which  prepares  for  his  utilizing  such  meth- 
ods when  they  may  help  his  own  writing.  Since  none  of  these  readers  is  much 
concerned  with  effective  techniques  for  expression,  none  consciously  acquires  them 
as  he  reads. 

When  careful  reading  is  important 

Sometimes  such  dangers  may  be  unimportant.  Your  needs  and  the  nature  of  what 
you  are  reading  at  given  times  may  make  it  pointless  to  give  attention  to  humorous 
nuances,  propaganda,  wiiting  techniques,  even  some  inaccuracies.  On  such  occa- 
sions, an  easy-going  method  of  reading  will,  of  course,  be  adequate. 

But  there  will  be  many  times  when  careful  reading  will  be  important  for  you. 
Take  a  few  simple  examples:  If  you  are  learning  from  a  set  of  instructions  how  to 
lay  a  cement  sidewalk— or  how  to  bake  a  cake— you  will  need  to  learn  precisely, 
and  in  the  exact  order,  what  the  steps  are  in  doing  the  job  well.  If  you  are  reading 
the  plea  of  a  politician  for  your  vote  (provided  you  are  eager  to  vote  intelligently), 
you  will  need  to  know  exactly  what  he  says,  and  how  sound  his  arguments  are.  If 
you  are  reading  a  legal  contract  preparatory  to  signing  it,  you  will  want  to  know  in 
the  minutest  detail  what  its  provisions  are.  If  you  are  reading  a  scientific  report, 
a  book  on  philosophy,  a  historical  document,  an  essay  by  an  important  author— in 
preparation  for  the  writing  of  a  term  paper  or  a  longer  study —you  will  not  be 
satisfied  with  anything  less  than  a  complete  mastery  of  every  detail. 

Misreading  a  passage 

The  way  of  reading  suggested  by  this  book  will,  we  hope,  help  you  avoid  some  of 
the  limitations  and  dangers  of  easy-going  reading  when  it  is  particularly  important 

xxiii 


that  you  do  so.  To  see  how  and  why  it  may  do  this,  consider  the  following  short 
and  rather  simple  passage,  the  way  some  will  misread  it,  and  what  we  suggest  as 
a  remedy.  Here  is  the  passage: 

...  A  great  deal  of  the  impatience  that  underlies  the  growing  despair  in  some 
quarters  over  the  prospects  for  coping  with  world  Communism  by  means  short  of 
large-scale  violence  seems  to  me  to  flow  precisely  from  the  illusion,  no  doubt  bred 
by  our  nineteenth-century  experience,  that  there  could  and  should  be  such  a  thing 
as  total  military  security  for  the  United  States,  and  that  anything  short  of  this  is  in 
the  long  run  intolerable.  And  similarly,  these  frenzies  many  of  us  seem  to  have 
developed  with  respect  to  the  problem  of  internal  subversion— do  they  not  reflect 
a  belief  that  it  should  be  possible  for  a  great  power  to  free  itself  completely  from 
the  entire  problem  of  penetration  and  intrigue  in  its  life  by  outside  forces  and, 
again,  that  it  is  intolerable  that  this  should  not  be  done,  so  intolerable,  in  fact,  that 
if  it  is  not  done,  this  must  be  attributed  to  some  stubborn  delinquency,  if  not 
treason,  in  the  bowels  of  our  public  establishment?  .  .  . 

There  is  something  about  this  quest  for  absolute  security  that  is  self-defeating. 
It  is  an  exercise  which,  like  every  form  of  perfectionism,  undermines  and  destroys 
its  own  basic  purpose.  The  French  have  their  wonderful  proverb:  Le  rnieiix  est 
I'ennemi  du  bien—the  absolute  best  is  the  enemy  of  the  good.  Nothing  truer  has 
ever  been  said.  A  foreign  policy  aimed  at  the  achievement  of  total  security  is  the 
one  thing  I  can  think  of  that  is  entirely  capable  of  bringing  this  country  to  a  point 
where  it  will  have  no  security  at  all.  And  a  ruthless,  reckless  insistence  on  attempt- 
ing to  stamp  out  everything  that  could  conceivably  constitute  a  reflection  of  im- 
proper foreign  influence  on  our  national  life,  regardless  of  the  actual  damage  it  is 
doing  or  the  cost  of  eliminating  it,  in  terms  of  other  American  values,  is  the  one 
thing  I  can  think  of  that  could  reduce  us  all  to  a  point  where  the  very  independ- 
ence we  are  seeking  to  defend  would  be  meaningless,  for  we  would  be  doing 
things  to  ourselves  as  vicious  arid  tyrannical  as  any  that  might  be  brought  to  us 
from  outside.— GEORGE  F.  KENNAN,  "The  Illusion  of  Security,"  The  Atlantic, 
August  1954. 

Easy-going  readers  can  make  a  number  of  wild  statements  about  even  so  clear 
a  passage  as  this,  and  the  sad  experience  of  teachers  indicates  that  they  probably 
will.  For  example,  readers  might  come  up  with  the  following  misinterpretations: 
(1)  "Mr.  Kennan  is  saying  that,  since  it's  impossible  for  the  United  States  to  defend 
itself  against  world  Communism,  we'd  better  give  up."  (2)  "The  author  says  that 
our  government  is  so  bad  and  we  have  so  much  treason  we  might  as  well  give  up 
the  idea  of  having  internal  security."  (3)  "His  point  is  that  we  just  can't  afford 
armed  forces  that  are  big  enough  to  defend  our  country  or  a  secret  service  that 
can  cope  with  all  the  Communist  spies,  but  we  should  do  our  absolute  best,  regard- 
less of  what  the  French  say."  (4)  "Obviously  a  Communist  propagandist  of  some 
sort,  Mr.  Kennan  is  making  the  silly  claim  that  if  our  army  and  our  security  set-up 
are  perfect,  they'll  be  less  helpful  than  if  they  have  faults." 

Ridiculous?  Yes.  But  suppose  we  want  to  be  sure  that  these  readings  aie  wrong 
and  a  different  reading  is  better— how  are  we  to  cope  with  such  misreadirigs?  If 
you  say,  "Read  the  passage  carefully  to  get  the  real  meaning,"  the  perpetrator  of 

xxiv 


each  of  the  above  outrages  will  probably  reply,  "Oh,  I  did."  Even  if  you  read  the 
passage  aloud  to  these  misreaders,  they  probably  will  say  in  a  smug  chorus,  "See?" 
What  you  need,  clearly,  is  a  way  of  arguing  that  some  readings  are  right— a  way  of 
proving  to  others,  and  to  yourself,  that  your  careful  reading  makes  the  best  sense. 

The  way  taught  by  this  book 

This  text  attempts  to  teach  such  a  procedure.  The  way  here  taught  is  character- 
ized by  careful  attention  to  three  things  as  aids  to  the  reader  in  understanding  the 
author:  (1)  the  meanings— literal  and  emotional— of  words;  (2)  the  context,  i.e., 
the  relationship  of  what  the  author  is  saying  to  what  he  has  said  or  will  say  later; 
(3)  the  form  used  by  the  writer,  i.e.,  the  order  of  words  in  sentences  and  the  or- 
ganization of  paragraphs  and  of  longer  units  of  prose.  We  ask  that  you  consider 
all  these— word  meanings,  context,  and  form— in  relationship  to  the  author's  pur- 
pose and  message. 

You  can,  for  instance,  achieve  an  understanding  of  Kennan's  passage  which  is 
clearly  and  demonstrably  more  than  guesswork  by  carefully  noting  both  the  mean- 
ings of  words  and  the  form  used  by  the  author— the  way  the  sentences  and  the 
paragraphs  are  organized— and  by  making  sure  that  you  are  prepared  to  prove  any 
statement  you  make  by  referring  to  details  in  the  passage.  ( Here  you  have  no  evi- 
dence about  the  context— the  whole  article— in  which  the  passage  occurs.)  Note 
precisely  how  you  will  prove  your  statements:  You  will  prove  statements  about 
meaning  largely  by  calling  attention  to  relevant  details  in  the  form  or  in  the 
method  of  development;  and  you  will  prove  statements  about  form  or  method 
largely  by  pointing  out  details  in  the  subject  matter. 

Consider  how  you  would  verify  the  following  statement  about  the  meaning  of 
the  passage:  "Kennan  holds  that  (1)  much  distress  in  America  today  derives  from 
an  outmoded  illusion  that  total  security  against  both  armed  power  and  internal 
subversion  is  possible,  and  (2)  actions  based  upon  this  illusion  could  be  ruinous 
to  our  country."  Proof  of  the  accuracy  of  this  statement  can  come  from  pointing 
to  details  in  the  author's  procedure:  "The  passage  is  divided  into  two  paragraphs. 
The  first  deals  with  point  one— the  widespread  distress  which  derives  from  the 
outmoded  illusion  about  total  security.  The  second  deals  with  point  two— the 
terrible  possible  results  of  acting  on  the  basis  of  such  an  incorrect  belief.  Each 
paragraph  deals  in  turn  with  illusion  about  two  kinds  of  total  security,  against 
aggression  and  against  'improper  foreign  influence  in  our  national  life';  and  each 
emphasizes  its  point  by  discussing  it  in  terms  of  both  of  these.  The  author  also 
emphasizes  the  thought  of  the  second  paragraph  by  stating  it  three  times  in  gen- 
eral terms  at  the  start.  Everything  about  the  way  the  paragraph  is  written,  there- 
fore, supports  my  claim  about  its  meaning." 

Now  consider  how  you  would  support  a  statement  about  the  form  employed— 
the  writer's  method:  "The  author  orders  his  two  paragraphs  according  to  ( 1 )  time 
order,  and  (2)  importance."  To  prove  the  accuracy  of  this  statement  you  might 
point  to  details  of  meaning  in  this  way:  'The  first  paragraph  lists  past  and  present 
effects  of  certain  erroneous  beliefs.  The  second  sets  forth  possible  future  effects 
of  acting  on  those  beliefs.  The  first  paragraph  tells  about  'impatience,'  'growing 


XXV 


Practically  all  of  us  learn  to  enjoy  some  forms  of  literature  without  much  con- 
scious effort.  Shortly  after  we  learn  to  talk,  we  find  that  it  is  fun  to  recite  or  to 
sing  Mother  Goose  rhymes  and  to  listen  to  stories.  A  few  years  later,  we  discover 
the  charms  of  comic  books,  fairy  tales,  cowboy  stories,  and  moving  pictures.  After 
we  have  grown  up,  generally  even  those  of  us  who  have  eluded  education  enjoy 
literature  of  some  sort— movies,  radio  thrillers,  campfire  yarns,  magazine  stories, 
detective  novels,  or  the  popular  songs  which  are  sung  for  us  or  which  we  ourselves 
sing  to  delight  ourselves  and,  if  possible,  others. 

An  untutored,  instinctive  enjoyment  of  literature  probably  is  a  form  of  "the  pur- 
suit of  happiness,"  and  as  such  should  be,  in  general,  unconfined.  Anyone  should 
be  allowed  to  read  in  any  fashion  he  likes— in  bed  or  in  a  swimming  pool,  from 
right  to  left  or  left  to  right,  upside  down  or  right  side  up,  stupidly  or  wisely;  he 
should  be  allowed  to  hear  songs  sung  or  to  watch  movies  or  plays  as  he  pleases, 
provided  he  doesn't  interfere  with  other  people.  Similarly,  anyone  should  be  al- 
lowed to  golf,  swim,  shoot,  and  make  remarks  about  the  universe  in  his  own  sweet 
way,  subject  only  to  the  same  sensible  limitations. 

It  is  quite  likely,  however,  that  even  a  natural  athlete  will  golf,  swim,  or  shoot 
better  if  he  has  some  training  in  the  art.  And  a  natural-born  orator  will  talk  better, 
not  only  about  the  universe  but  about  any  other  subject,  if  he  has  learned  some- 
thing about  it.  Similarly,  almost  any  reader  of  literature  will  benefit  from  instruc- 
tion in  the  art  of  understanding  and  judging  what  he  reads.  And  almost  any 
reader  will  talk  more  interestingly  and  informatively  about  what  he  has  read  if  ho 
knows  something  about  literature  in  general  and  certain  works  in  particular.  This 
is  the  justification  for  this  book. 

There  are  several  ways  of  teaching  people  how  to  read  literature.  We,  the 
editors,  believe  that  a  good  way  is  to  start  with  simple  problems  and  to  work  grad- 
ually to  more  complex  ones.  We  also  believe  that,  just  as  the  athlete  acquires 
skill  not  only  by  receiving  instruction  but  also  by  practicing,  the  reader  will  make 
progress  not  only  by  being  told  how  to  solve  certain  problems  but  also  by  practic- 
ing their  solution  himself.  Our  beliefs  have  shaped  this  book.  We  concentrate 
here  upon  imaginative  literature,  since  it  demands  reading  skills  by  and  large 
quite  different  from  those  required  by  factual  prose.  And  we  start  with  uncompli- 
cated though  fundamental  matters  and  proceed,  by  degrees,  to  more  complicated 
ones,  with  exercises  along  the  way. 

Part  I  helps  the  reader  discover  the  nature  of  imaginative  literature  in  general— 
not  one  type  but  all  three  types:  fiction,  drama,  and  poetry.  Since  his  concern  is 
with  no  particular  type  but  with  fundamental  aspects  of  all  types,  throughout  this 
section  the  reader  is  asked  to  look  in  turn  at  fictional  works,  plays,  and  poems. 
The  starting  point  is  a  contrast  between  "fact"  and  "fiction"— between  informative 
prose  and  imaginative  writing,  which  shows  what  the  latter  achieves  and  what, 
therefore,  its  readers  should  ordinarily  expect  of  it.  We  discuss  in  detail  such  a 
contrast  between  specific  passages  of  fact  and  of  fiction.  Then,  in  order  that  the 
reader  may  himself  notice  the  unique  qualities  of  literature,  we  provide  other 
specific  passages— fictional,  poetic,  and  dramatic— followed  by  questions  requiring 
similar  and  supplementary  contrasts. 

xxviii 


In  a  like  way,  the  "Manner  and  matter"  of  literary  works  are  then  discussed  and 
studied,  the  elements  which  are  shaped  by  the  author's  craftsmanship— "Happen- 
ings," "Characters,"  "Setting,"  and  "Language."  Then,  through  reading  discussions 
and  working  out  exercises,  the  reader  concludes  this  section  with  a  study  of  two 
sum  or  end  achievements  of  these  parts— "Tone"  and  "Meanings."  Part  I,  then, 
offers  a  survey  of  fundamentals— of  the  basic  ingredients  of  all  types  of  literature 
51  nd  the  way  authors  control  them. 

In  Part  I,  the  emphasis  is  upon  the  reader's  simply  seeing  clearly  and  describ- 
ing what  he  has  read— details  in  the  selection  itself.  Far  too  many  readers  become 
so  preoccupied  with  their  own  reactions  that  they  never  see  the  works  themselves 
distinctly.  Yet  insight  into  the  precise  nature  of  the  works  is  a  prerequisite,  we 
believe,  to  intelligent  evaluation.  Here,  therefore,  we  encourage  objective  insights 
rather  than  personal  reactions.  The  reader  proves  statements  made  in  answer  to 
questions  about  each  selection  by  pointing  to  relevant  passages.  The  problem  of 
evaluation  is  avoided  as  much  as  possible:  the  emphasis  is  upon  provable  state- 
ments about  the  work. 

But  of  course  really  good  reading  requires  more  than  a  scrutiny  of  a  work,  more 
than  a  dispassionate  description  of  it.  No  one  can  or  should  read  literature  with- 
out reacting  personally  to  it.  Reading  is  a  personal  activity  which  everyone  carries 
on  to  meet  his  own  requirements  and  to  satisfy  his  own  needs.  When  he  talks 
about  his  discoveries  and  adventures  in  stories,  plays,  and  poems,  the  reader  needs 
to  talk  not  only  about  the  works  but  also  of  their  values  for  him. 

Part  II  takes  up  this  impoitant  aspect  of  reading— "Evaluations."  We  use  the 
plural  of  the  word  since  we  think  that  there  are  many  literary  values.  And  be- 
cause we  believe  that  the  keenest  reader  and  wisest  critic  should  be  aware,  both 
in  theory  and  practice,  of  several  possible  approaches,  several  possible  "dividends," 
we  consider  a  number  in  turn  and  then  provide  exercises  which  will  give  the 
reader  experiences  with  all  of  them.  Several  exercises  now  require  evaluations  of 
selections  in  Part  I;  others  require  evaluation  of  new  material.  Thereafter,  we  en- 
eourage  the  reader  to  determine  which  method  of  evaluation— or  preferably  which 
ones— will  best  satisfy  him. 

Parts  I  and  II,  in  dealing  with  general  aspects  of  literature  and  literary  evalua- 
tions, have  not  distinguished  between  varied  types  of  literature.  But,  of  course, 
each  type— fiction,  drama,  and  poetry— has  its  own  peculiar  limitations  and  poten- 
tialities. It  is  important  for  the  reader  to  know  about  these.  Therefore,  in  Part  III, 
we  turn  to  a  consideration  of  types,  in  order.  An  introductory  discussion  of  each 
type  points  out  its  main  characteristics,  and  headnotes  for  particular  works  or 
groups  of  works  are  provided  when  needed.  Because  of  the  importance  of  con- 
temporaneous audiences  and  theaters  in  shaping  plays,  we  precede  each  drama 
with  a  relevant  historical  discussion  and  with  illustrations  designed  to  help  the 
reader  visualize  the  production  of  the  play  in  its  own  period.  Here,  as  elsewhere 
in  the  book,  our  selections  range  from  the  distant  past  to  the  present,  representing 
some  of  the  greatest  imaginative  artists  of  all  times  as  well  as  other  artists  of 
varying  excellence. 

to  the  last  pages  of  the  book,  we  have  placed  two  indexes.  The  first  is  a  "Glos- 


XXIX 


sary  and  Index  of  Critical  Terms"  which  defines  terms  or  cites  passages  in  the  text 
which  treat  them.  Because  many  terms  are  valuable  for  communicating  different 
insights  and  evaluations,  we  have  tried  to  provide  readers  with  a  fairly  large  num- 
ber of  the  most  useful  ones.  The  second  index  is  an  "Index  of  Titles  and  Authors," 
which  not  only  lists  selections  and  authors  included  in  The  College  Anthology  but 
also  provides  essential  facts  and  statistics  about  the  authors. 

We  wish  to  acknowledge  the  valuable  aid  of  the  many  teachers  who  have  used 
the  Better  Reading  books  and  who  have  kindly  suggested  improvements  of  method 
and  changes  in  selections.  To  A.  Craig  Baird,  Chester  Cable,  James  V.  Cunning- 
ham, Leon  Dickinson,  Clarence  H.  Faust,  Ernest  P.  Kuhl,  Gerald  Else,  Charles  T. 
Miller,  Victor  Harris,  and  Lester  Longman,  our  colleagues,  we  give  our  sincere 
thanks  for  helpful  suggestions  concerning  our  general  plan,  our  working  out  of 
details,  and  our  choice  of  selections.  We  are  grateful,  as  well,  to  the  English  com- 
position staff  of  the  University  of  Chicago  and  to  the  Communications  Skills  staff 
of  the  State  University  of  Iowa,  with  whom  we  have  worked  on  the  problem  of 
teaching  students  to  read.  We  also  wish  to  thank  the  many  authors  and  publishers 
who  have  permitted  us  to  include  selections  from  their  books.  Their  cooperation 
is  specifically  indicated  either  in  the  credit  lines  accompanying  the  selections  or 
in  the  list  of  acknowledgments  on  pages  v-vi. 

w.  B. 
j.  c. 


XXX 


Book  one:  Factual  prose 


part  1 

How  to  follow 
explanation  and  argument 


CLUES   TO    MEANING 


You  HAVE  before  you,  say,  a  piece 
of  factual  writing.  It  is  a  piece  of 
writing,  in  other  words,  in  which  the 
author  has  tried  to  clarify  an  idea  or  to 
argue  in  behalf  of  a  certain  attitude.  In 
order  to  absorb  his  facts  or  to  judge  his 
argument,  you  need  to  discover  exactly 
what  he  has  said.  How  do  you  do  this? 

An  obvious  answer,  of  course,  is  that 
you  read  his  words,  you  think  about 
them  while  you  read  and  ( if  necessary ) 
after  you  have  read,  and  in  this  way  you 
get  his  meaning.  But  how  can  you  make 
sure  that  the  meaning  which  you  have 
found  is  the  actual  meaning— what  the 
author  really  said— rather  than  some- 
thing you  have  just  decided  he  ought 
to  be  saying? 

To  answer  this  question,  let  us  con- 
sider your  way  of  comprehending  a  very 
simple  sentence,  "I  see  the  dog."  You 
know  what  this  sentence  says  for  three 
reasons:  (1)  You  are  acquainted  with 
the  meanings  of  the  words  You  make 
use  of  your  knowledge  of  each  of  the 
words  in  the  sentence:  as  it  were,  you 
"translate"  each  precisely  into  what  it 
signifies.  If  the  sentence  read,  "I  see 
the  stethometer,"  you  probably  wouldn't 
understand  it  until  you  had  looked  up 
and  defined  for  yourself  the  last  word. 
You  pay  attention  to  the  forms  of  the 
words  and  you  understand  what  they 
signify.  You  know,  for  instance,  that  the 
author's  use  of  the  form  of  the  verb 
"see,"  instead  of  "saw"  or  "have  seen," 
makes  clear  that  the  time  of  the  action 
is  the  present.  (2)  You  consider  the 
context.  If  the  sentence  happens  to  be 


one  of  a  number  in  a  paragraph  or  ar- 
ticle, you  learn  the  meaning  by  noticing 
the  surrounding  discussion:  the  word 
"dog"  may  mean  a  domesticated  car- 
nivorous quadruped;  a  wild  animal  be- 
longing to  the  dog  family,  such  as  a 
wolf  or  a  fox;  a  prairie  dog,  a  despicable 
fellow;  a  "gay"  dog;  or  a  mechanical 
device  for  gripping  or  holding  some- 
thing. It  is  by  noticing  the  nature  of 
the  context  that  you  discover  which 
of  these  meanings  applies.  You  take 
into  account  not  only  literal  mean- 
ings but  also  the  emotional  associations 
—the  connotations  of  the  words.  (3) 
You  pay  attention  to  the  order  of  the 
words.  You  notice  the  sequence  in 
which  the  author  has  arranged  the 
words  in  his  sentence,  and  your  under- 
standing of  this  order  helps  you  de- 
cipher his  meaning.  The  fact  that  the 
word  "I"  is  at  the  start  of  the  sentence 
indicates  that  it  is  the  subject:  a  differ- 
ent order  ("The  dog  sees  me,"  for  ex- 
ample) would  convey  a  completely  dif- 
ferent meaning. 

You  can  show  that  you  understand 
this  sentence  by  citing  exactly  the  de- 
tails which  have  helped  you  to  discover 
what  it  means— your  understanding  of 
the  significations  of  the  words,  your  ex- 
amination of  the  nature  of  the  context, 
and  your  perception  of  the  meaning 
of  the  arrangement  which  has  been 
used  in  putting  the  sentence  together. 
In  other  words,  you  master  meaning— 
and  indicate  that  you  have  done  so— by 
understanding  not  only  what  individual 
words  signify  but  also  by  giving  thought 


CLUES   TO   MEANING 


to  the  way  the  author's  method  of  ex- 
pression is  interrelated  with  what  he  is 
saying. 

The  exercises  in  Part  One  of  this  book 
are  designed  to  develop  and  to  test  your 
reading  for  understanding  and  for  per- 
ception of  the  author's  ways  of  solving 
problems  of  expression.  Almost,  though 
not  quite,  exclusively,  they  ask  you  to 
think  about  the  relationships  between 
(1)  words,  contexts,  arrangements  of 
words,  and  (2)  meanings.  (Later  on, 
emphasis  will  shift  to  evaluations  of 
forms  and  points  of  view.) 

One  important  reading  skill  that  you 
will  need  to  develop  is  the  ability  to  ask 
and  answer  appropriate  and  significant 
questions  on  the  material  you  read.  To 
help  you  develop  this  ability,  Part  One 
provides  with  each  selection  detailed 
questions,  questions  of  the  type  that  you 
should  learn  to  ask  yourself.  The  ques- 
tions (according  to  their  nature)  will 
call  forth  answers  of  three  sorts:  (1) 
those  which  you  can  support  by  cita- 
tions of  word  meanings,  contexts,  and 
arrangements,  and  about  which  there 
will  be  little  dispute;  (2)  those  which 
will  involve  disagreements  about  the 
relative  importance  of  some  things 
which  you  and  others  notice  in  pas- 
gages;  and  (3)  those  which  report  per- 
sonal reactions. 

Look,  for  instance,  at  the  second  se- 
lection in  this  book,  John  Steinbeck's 
"The  Great  Frog  Hunt,"  pages  7-8.  The 
headnote  tells  you  that  the  overall  pat- 
tern is  a  "time  arrangement,"  i.e.,  an 
ordering  of  details  according  to  the 
times  when  they  occur.  The  selection 
follows,  accompanied  by  questions.  Let 
us  see  how  you  might  answer  the  first 
question: 

Question  «  1  (A):  What  are  the  stages 
in  the  traditional  frog  hunt? 


Answer:  (A)  If  the  hunt  is  unsuccess- 
ful. Stage  1:  The  hunter  approaches 
with  his  weapon  and  the  frog  sits  stilL 
Stage  2:  The  hunter  takes  the  action 
which  should  "get"  the  frog.  Stage  3: 
At  the  last  second,  the  frog  (a)  jumps, 
(b)  plops  into  the  water,  (c)  swims  to 
the  bottom.  Stage  4:  The  frog  waits. 
Stage  5:  The  hunter  goes  away. 

Answer:  (B)  If  the  hunt  is  successful. 
Stage  1:  The  hunter  approaches  with 
his  weapon  and  the  frog  sits  still.  Stage 
2:  The  hunter  lunges,  and  gets  the  frog. 

To  find  this  answer,  you  notice  the 
meanings  of  the  words,  both  those 
which  indicate  relationships  and  those 
which  are  subjects  and  predicates  of  the 
sentences.  You  consider  the  words  in 
their  context.  You  notice  the  order  of 
the  words  within  the  sentence  and  the 
order  of  the  sentences  themselves.1 


1  Although  an  explanation  of  how  you  find  this 
answer  will  undoubtedly  take  much  longer  than 
the  process  itself,  it  may  be  helpful  to  go  through 
the  procedure  in  some  detail  at  this  time.  The 
context  shortly  makes  clear  to  you  that  the  word 
"frog"  here  means  "a  tailless,  leaping  amphibian." 
You  notice  that  the  opening  two  sentences  intro- 
duce the  topic  which  is  involved  in  the  question, 
"The  traditional  frog  hunt"  ("a  pattern  of  hunt 
and  parry"  developed  "during  the  millennia  that 
frogs  and  men  have  lived  in  the  same  world"). 
You  notice,  next,  that  the  third  sentence  describes 
part  of  the  pattern,  and  since  you  have  learned 
from  the  headnote  that  the  author  has  used  a 
time  arrangement,  you  assume  that  this  will  be  the 
first  stage.  Your  assumption  is  confirmed  when 
\our  further  reading  shows  that  the  other  happen- 
ings described  come  later  than  this  one.  You  go  on 
to  sentence  4,  and  notice  that  it  tells  of  what  the 
frog  does  simultaneously  with  the  approach  of  the 
hunter  (he  waits)— and  you  decide  that  since  no 
change  of  time  is  involved,  this  sentence  must 
concern  a  second  aspect  of  the  first  stage.  You 
next  look  for  indications  of  time  which  will  mark 
off  the  second  stage.  You  find  Stage  2  heralded  by 
"until,"  Stage  3  by  "then,"  Stage  4  by  "and,"  and 
Stage  5  by  "until,"  all  in  sentence  5.  "Now  and 
then,"  in  sentence  8,  shows  you  that  there  is  an 
alternative  version  of  this  traditional  pattern,  that 
sometimes  the  whole  proce^  ends  with  Stage  2— 
if  the  hunter  is  too  quick  fr  the  frog,  and  so  you 
divide  your  answer  into  pt  ts  A  and  B. 


ClUES   TO    ME  \N1NG 


To  argue  that  your  answer  is  correct, 
you  may  make  use  exactly  of  the  details 
in  the  passage,  and  the  line  of  reasoning 
which  led  to  your  conclusions.  In  this 
way,  you  can  prove  that  your  answer  is 
not  a  guess  but  an  analysis  the  accuracy 
of  which  can  be  demonstrated. 

This  is  a  sample  of  the  kind  of  ac- 
tivity you  will  be  carrying  on  as  you 
answer  the  questions  in  Part  One  of  this 
book.  A  large  share  of  the  questions  will 
call  for  answers  as  clearly  justifiable  as 
this  one.  What  you  need  to  do  in  an- 
swering such  questions  is  hunt  down 
and  find  incontrovertible  evidence  in 
the  passage  itself.  There  will  be  a  small 
number  of  questions,  in  addition,  which 
will  call  for  answers  of  two  other  sorts— 
(2)  answers  about  which  there  may  be 
reasonable  disagreement,  and  (3)  an- 
swers which  state  personal  reactions. 
Jt  may  be  useful  for  you  to  look  at 
questions  which  call  for  answers  of  the 
second  and  third  types. 

(2)  About  question  «1  (i)  on  page  8, 
"What  is  the  point  in  shifting  the  simile 
from  berries  to  potatoes?"  there  may  be 
a  respectable  difference  of  opinion.  You 
answer  this  question,  first,  by  consider- 
ing exactly  what  these  similes  may  con- 
tribute to  the  development  of  the  pas- 
sage. You  find  that  the  similes  may  be 
justified  in  two  ways:  (a)  they  are 
vivid,  i.e.,  they  help  the  reader  visualize 
and  therefore  understand  what  happens. 
Each  figure  thus  helps  to  explain  a  de- 
tail in  the  operation— the  berry  figure, 
the  way  a  great  number  of  frogs  is  cap- 
tured, and  the  potato  figure,  the  way  the 
frogs  are  tossed  into  gunny  sacks,  (b) 
They  are  incongruous,  first,  with  the 
usual  depiction  of  frogs,  second,  with 
one  another.  Therefore,  they  provide 
one  more  humorous  touch  in  a  passage 
which  is  generally  humorous.  Having 


taken  this  first  step  toward  answering 
the  question,  you  next  consider  the  na- 
ture of  the  point,  i.e.,  the  important 
achievement  of  the  similes.  Since  there 
is  no  way  of  proving  that  the  point  is 
either  one  or  both  of  these  achieve- 
ments, there  may  be  argument  about 
the  problem.  Note,  however,  that  even 
in  answering  such  a  question,  there  will 
be  agreement  about  the  possible  values 
of  the  shift;  there  will  be  disagreement 
only  concerning  the  relative  importance 
of  the  values. 

(3)  Question  «  1  (F)  (p.  7)  reads, 
"What  effect  is  created  by  repeating 
'And  the  feet'?"  Like  all  questions  deal- 
ing with  the  "effect"  of  a  passage,  this 
calls  for  a  personal  reaction.  Since  the 
"effect"  is  upon  you,  you  are  the  final 
authority  upon  its  nature.  Here,  in  other 
words,  you  are  asked  to  discuss  your 
emotional  and  intellectual  reaction  to  a 
particular  phrase.  Nevertheless,  your 
answer  will  appear  to  be  rather  silly  un- 
less it  shows  that  you  have  reacted  intel- 
ligently to  the  text.  If,  for  instance,  you 
say,  "The  effect  is  to  make  me  think  of  an 
abstract  painting  by  Picasso," your  audi- 
tors will  feel  that  the  relationship  be- 
tween the  passage  and  you  has  been 
rather  tenuous.  A  more  sensible  answer 
would  be  one  which  dealt  not  only  with 
the  effect  upon  you  but  also  with  the  de- 
tails in  the  text  which  created  that  effect. 
One  such  answer, for  instance, might  be: 
"I  notice  that  this  is  the  fifth  time  that 
the  word 'feet' occurs  in  seven  successive 
sentences.  The  impression  I  get,  as  a 
result,  is  of  a  great  number  of  rushing, 
flinging,  threshing,  inexorable  feet.  The 
repetition  of  the  phrase  'And  the  feet' 
emphasizes  the  number  of  references 
and  adds  to  the  impression.  Since  at  this 
point,  I  am  humorously  sharing  the  ex- 
citement of  the  bewildered  frogs,  the 


CLUES   TO    MEANING 


effect  is  to  communicate  their  desperate 
confusion  by  repeating  the  chief  cause 
of  it."  Such  an  answer  not  only  tells  of 
the  impact  of  the  phrase;  it  also  suggests 
why  it  has  such  an  impact  and  relates 
die  phrase  to  details  in  the  passage. 

In  answering  most  of  the  questions  in 
Part  One,  then,  you  will  need  to  con- 
sider only  the  text  itself.  In  answering 
a  few,  you  will  agree  about  possible 


answers  but  you  may  disagree  about 
which  is  superior.  Finally,  in  answering 
a  few  others,  you  will  describe  your  own 
reactions  to  a  passage,  preferably  relat- 
ing your  reactions  to  details  in  the  pas- 
sage. In  answering  every  question,  you 
will  do  well  to  hunt,  in  the  text  itself, 
for  the  clues  given  by  the  words,  con- 
texts, and  arrangements  which  the  au- 
thor uses  to  communicate  his  meanings. 


PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


NATURALLY  most  selections  in  Part 
One  will  be  longer  than  a  single 
sentence  or  paragraph,  but  in  reading 
and  comprehending  longer  pieces  of 
work  you  use  a  method  quite  similar  to 
that  used  for  deciphering  the  meaning 
of  a  sentence.  (For  the  reading  of  a 
paragraph  in  this  fashion,  see  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  Kennan  passage  in  the 
"Introduction.")  A  piece  of  factual 
prose,  large  or  small,  is  a  sort  of 
mosaic,  the  parts  of  which  are  words, 
sentences,  paragraphs,  perhaps  chap- 
ters. If  you  are  to  acquire  the  facts 
explained  in  such  a  piece  of  prose,  you 
will  need  to  give  thought  not  only  to 
the  meanings  of  individual  words  but 
also  to  the  meanings  conveyed  by  the 
author's  methods  in  ordering  words, 
sentences,  paragraphs,  or  sections. 

Each  of  the  following  selections  typi- 
fies a  pattern  of  thought  and  expression 
frequently  used  by  authors  of  factual 
prose— a  pattern,  therefore,  which  you 
will  need  to  recognize  in  order  to  un- 
derstand the  relationships  between 


ideas,  and  hence  the  ideas  themselves. 
In  a  headnote  for  each  selection,  the 
editors  describe  the  pattern  of  the  whole 
selection.  The  selection  then  follows, 
accompanied  by  questions  which  re- 
quire that  you  notice  how  words, 
phrases,  sentences,  and  paragraphs— 
small  and  larger  parts  of  the  mosaic- 
contribute  to  the  development  of  the 
overall  pattern. 

As  you  read,  you  will  see  that  a  writer 
or  speaker,  when  he  wishes  to  explain 
something,  may  organize  his  material  in 
any  of  a  number  of  ways— chronologi- 
cally or  in  a  time  sequence  ("The  Great 
Frog  Hunt,"  p.  7,  "Recipe  for  New 
England  Pie/'  p.  6,  "The  Survey  Q3R 
Method  of  Study,"  p.  9);  according 
to  a  space  arrangement  ("It's  a  Long 
Way  to  Seattle,"  p.  10,  "The  Battle- 
field of  Waterloo,"  p.  12);  a  cause-to- 
effect  arrangement  ("Open  Air  Life 
in  the  West,"  p.  13);  comparison  and 
contrast  ("Line,"  p.  16);  analogy 
("Jim  Brown  Knows  the  Way,"  p.  22); 
analysis  ("Fare  Warning:  Roadside  In- 


PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


digestion,"  p.  31,  "Why  the  Reader's 
Digest  Is  Popular,"  p.  34,  "Detrital 
Sediments,"  p.  36);  familiar-to-un- 
familiar  arrangement  ("Animal  Chem- 
istry,"  p.  39);  climactic  arrangement 
("Travel  on  the  Ohio  River,"  p.  42); 
or  composite  arrangement  ("Democ- 
racy,"  p.  44). 

All  these  exercises  are,  of  course,  not 
ends  in  themselves  but  means  to  de- 


veloping  your  understanding.  After  you 
have  noted  how  these  smaller  units  are 
organized  in  Part  One  of  this  book,  you 
will  see  in  your  studies  of  Parts  Two 
and  Three  how  they  are  combined  to 
form  longer  articles.  For  the  moment, 
however,  you  will  be  concerned  with 
the  reading  of  smaller  units  of  factual 
prose  given  in  the  following  selections 
in  Part  One. 


SAMUEL  L.  CLEMENS  Recipe  foY  New  England  pie 


TIME  ARRANGEMENT.  The  following  selection  is  from  Mark  Twain's  A  Tramp 
Abroad.  It  is  a  simple  example  of  probably  the  most  common  of  all  the  patterns 
used  in  explanation—  a  chronological  or  time  arrangement.  A  well-written  recipe 
or  set  of  directions  for  doing  something  takes  up  the  steps  or  stages,  one  at  a 
time,  in  the  order  of  their  occurrence.  In  such  a  piece  of  writing,  the  writer's 
three  chief  tasks,  obviously,  are  (1)  to  make  sure  that  he  arranges  his  material 
in  the  time  order,  (2)  to  make  sure  that  he  presents  his  directions  clearly,  and 
(3)  to  make  sure  that  he  indicates  to  the  reader  when  each  step  begins  and  ends. 

To  MAKE  this  excellent  breakfast  dish,  proceed  as  follows:  Take  a  suf- 
ficiency of  water  and  a  sufficiency  of  flour,  and  construct  a  bullet-prooi 
dough.  Work  this  into  the  form  of  a  disk,  with  the  edges  turned  up  some 
three-fourths  of  an  inch.  Toughen  and  kiln-dry  it  a  couple  of  days  in  a  mild 
but  unvarying  temperature.  Construct  a  cover  for  this  redoubt  in  the  same 
way  and  of  the  same  material.  Fill  with  stewed  dried  apples;  aggravate  with 
cloves,  lemon-peel,  and  slabs  of  citron;  add  two  portions  of  New  Orleans 
sugar,  then  solder  on  the  lid  and  set  in  a  safe  place  till  it  petrifies.  Serve  cold 
at  breakfast  and  invite  your  enemy.  «  I 

«  I  (  A  )  How  has  Mark  Twain  indicated  that  he  is  following  a  "time  arrangement"  in 
this  recipe?  (  B  )  Indicate,  in  your  own  words,  what  the  various  steps  are.  (  c  )  Point  out 
words,  phrases,  or  sentence  constructions  which  mark  off  the  steps.  (D)  What  attitude 
does  Clemens  seem  to  have  toward  New  England  pie?  How  does  his  choice  of  words 
and  details  help  you  discover  this  attitude?  (E)  Is  this  funny?  Why  or  why  not? 


6        PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


JOHN    STEINBECK     TTlC    glCat    frog 


TIME  ARRANGEMENT.  This  passage  from  0  novel  tells  a  story.  But  since  it  makes 
clear  the  nature  of  a  process,  it  also  explains.  A  good  many  passages  of  exposition 
—explanations  of  processes,  of  the  events  in  someone's  life,  of  historical  happen- 
ings—have a  pattern  essentially  like  that  of  fiction.  The  writer  of  such  explana- 
tions, like  the  writer  of  a  recipe,  must  make  clear  the  sequence  of  events  or  steps 
by  ordering  their  details  according  to  time  and  by  marking  off  the  stages  with 
transitional  words  or  phrases  or  whole  sentences.  Steinbeck,  as  the  study  of  this 
passage  will  show,  has  ordered  his  events  chronologically  and  has  clearly  marked 
off  the  stages  in  his  story. 

DURING  THE  millennia  that  frogs  and  men  have  lived  in  the  same  world, 
it  is  probable  that  men  have  hunted  frogs.  And  during  that  time  a 
pattern  of  hunt  and  parry  has  developed.  The  man  with  net  or  bow  or  lance 
or  gun  creeps  noiselessly,  as  he  thinks,  toward  the  frog.  The  pattern  requires 
that  the  frog  sit  still,  sit  very  still  and  wait.  The  rules  of  the  game  require 
the  frog  to  wait  until  the  final  flicker  of  a  second,  when  the  net  is  descending, 
when  the  lance  is  in  the  air,  when  the  finger  squeezes  the  trigger,  then  the 
frog  jumps,  plops  into  the  water,  swims  to  the  bottom  and  waits  until  the 
man  goes  away.  That  is  the  way  it  is  done,  the  way  it  has  always  been  done. 
Frogs  have  every  right  to  expect  it  will  always  be  done  that  way.  Now  and 
then  the  net  is  too  quick,  the  lance  pierces,  the  gun  flicks  and  that  frog  is 
gone,  but  it  is  all  fair  and  in  the  framework.  Frogs  don't  resent  that.  But 
how  could  they  have  anticipated  Mack's  new  method?  How  could  they  have 
foreseen  the  horror  that  followed?  The  sudden  flashing  of  lights,  the  shout- 
ing and  squealing  of  men,  the  rush  of  feet.  Every  frog  leaped,  plopped  into 
the  pool,  and  swam  frantically  to  the  bottom.  Then  into  the  pool  plunged  the 
line  of  men,  stamping,  churning,  moving  in  a  crazy  line  up  the  pool,  flinging 
their  feet  about.  Hysterically  the  frogs  displaced  from  their  placid  spots 
swam  ahead  of  the  crazy  thrashing  feet  and  the  feet  came  on.  Frogs  are 
good  swimmers  but  they  haven't  much  endurance.  Down  the  pool  they  went 


From  Cannery  Row.  Copyright  1945  by  John  Steinbeck.  Reprinted  by  permission  of 
The  Viking  Press,  Inc.,  New  York. 

«  I  (A)  What  are  the  stages  in  the  traditional  frog  hunt?  (B)  What  is  gained  by 
describing  the  traditional  "pattern"  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  frogs?  (c)  The  author 
says,  "The  frogs  cJont  resent  that."  What,  presumably,  do  they  resent?  (D)  What  ideas 
does  the  "But"  (in  the  sentence  beginning  "But  how  could  they  have  anticipated")  bring 
into  opposition?  What  is  the  function  of  the  sentence  which  it  introduces?  (E)  Why 
does  the  sentence  beginning  "Every  frog  leaped"  repeat  part  of  an  earlier  one?  Why  is 
"frantically"  introduced?  (F)  What  effect  is  created  by  repeating  "And  the  feet"? 

THE    GREAT    FROG    HUNT         7 


until  finally  they  were  bunched  and  crowded  against  the  end.  And  the  feet 
and  wildly  plunging  bodies  followed  them.  A  few  frogs  lost  their  heads  and 
floundered  among  the  feet  and  got  through  and  these  were  saved.  But  the 
majority  decided  to  leave  this  pool  forever,  to  find  a  new  home  in  a  new 
country  where  this  kind  of  thing  didn't  happen.  A  wave  of  frantic,  frustrated 
frogs,  big  ones,  little  ones,  brown  ones,  green  ones,  men  frogs  and  women 
frogs,  a  wave  of  them  broke  over  the  bank,  crawled,  leaped,  scrambled.  They 
clambered  up  the  grass,  they  clutched  at  each  other,  little  ones  rode  on  big 
ones.  And  then—horror  on  horror— the  flashlights  found  them.  Two  men 
gathered  them  like  berries.  The  line  came  out  of  the  water  and  closed  in  on 
their  rear  and  gathered  them  like  potatoes.  Tens  and  fifties  of  them  were 
flung  into  the  gunny  sacks,  and  the  sacks  filled  with  tired,  frightened,  and 
disillusioned  frogs,  with  dripping,  whimpering  frogs.  Some  got  away,  of 
course,  and  some  had  been  saved  in  the  pool.  But  never  in  frog  history  had 
such  an  execution  taken  place.  Frogs  by  the  pound,  by  the  fifty  pounds. 
They  weren't  counted  but  there  must  have  been  six  or  seven  hundred.  Then 
happily  Mack  tied  up  the  necks  of  the  sacks.  They  were  soaking,  dripping 
wet  and  the  air  was  cool.  «  1 


(c)  In  the  sentence  beginning  "A  wave  of  frantic"  how  is  the  effect  heightened  by  all 
the  parallelisms  and  repetitions?  (H)  What  is  meant  by  "the  flashlights  found  them"? 
( i )  What  is  the  point  in  shifting  the  simile  from  berries  to  potatoes? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  ( j )  What  different  ways  of  hunting  are  included  in  the  tradi- 
tional "pattern"?  Exactly  how  was  Mack's  "new  method"  different  from  the  "pattern"? 
(K)  How  does  Steinbeck  arouse  our  sympathy  for  the  frogs?  What  human  attributes  does 
he  give  them?  Point  out  words  and  phrases.  (L)  This  selection  is  given  as  an  example 
of  a  time  arrangement.  By  what  different  means  has  Steinbeck  established  the  time  rela- 
tionship? Point  out  specific  words  and  phrases.  (M)  Where  might  you  divide  this  pas- 
sage to  make  two  paragraphs  of  it?  Would  there  be  any  value  in  making  this  change? 
(  N  )  Point  out  and  justify,  if  you  can,  ( a )  verbless  sentences,  ( b )  the  sentences  beginning 
with  "And"  (c)  repetition  of  a  word  in  the  same  sentence,  (d)  any  characteristics  of 
style  that  seem  unusual  to  you. 


FRANCIS    P.    ROBINSON 

The  Survey  Q3R  method  of  study 

TIME  ARRANGEMENT.  This  example  of  an  explanation  organized  according  to 
a  time  arrangement  represents  a  type  of  reading  matter  which  is  quite  important 
to  students— the  textbook.  Authors  of  such  works  often,  like  Professor  Robinson, 
use  every  means  they  can  think  of  to  make  the  divisions  of  their  treatments  com- 

8          PATTERNS    OF    KXPI  AVA'llOV 


pletely  clear  to  the  reader.  This  piece  will  be  of  interest  to  students  not  only 
because  it  is  an  example  of  textbook  writing  but  also  because  it  outlines  a  method 
of  studying  textbooks  which  many  students  have  found  very  helpful. 

THE  TITLE  for  this  new  higher-level  study  skill  is  abbreviated  in  the  cur- 
rent fashion  to  make  it  easier  to  remember  and  to  make  reference  to  it 
more  simple.  The  symbols  stand  for  the  steps  which  the  student  follows  in 
using  the  method;  a  description  of  each  of  these  steps  is  given  below:  «  I 

SURVEY  1.  Glance  over  tlie  headings  in  the  chapter  to  see  the  few  big 
points  which  will  be  developed.  This  survey  should  not  take 
more  than  a  minute  and  will  show  the  three  to  six  core  ideas 
around  which  the  rest  of  the  discussion  will  cluster.  If  the 
chapter  has  a  final  summary  paragraph  this  will  also  list  the 
ideas  developed  in  the  chapter.  This  orientation  will  help  you 
organize  the  ideas  as  you  read  them  later.  «  2 

QUESTION  2.  Now  begin  to  work.  Turn  the  first  heading  into  a  question. 
This  will  arouse  your  curiosity  and  so  increase  comprehension. 
It  will  bring  to  mind  information  already  known,  thus  helping 
you  to  understand  that  section  more  quickly.  And  the  question 
will  make  important  points  stand  out  while  explanatory  detail 
is  recognized  as  such.  This  turning  a  heading  into  a  question 
can  be  done  on  the  instant  of  reading  the  heading,  but  it  de- 
mands a  conscious  effort  on  the  part  of  the  reader  to  make  this 
query  for  which  he  must  read  to  find  the  answer.  «  3 

3.  Read  to  answer  that  question,  i.e.,  to  the  end  of  the  first 
headed  section.  This  is  not  a  passive  plowing  along  each  line, 
but  an  active  search  for  the  answer.  «  4 

4.  Having  read  the  first  section,  look  away  from  the  book  and  try 
briefly  to  recite  the  answer  to  your  question.   Use  your  own 
words  and  name  an  example.  If  you  can  do  this  you  know  what 
is  in  the  book;  if  you  can't,  glance  over  the  section  again.   An 
excellent  way  to  do  this  reciting  from  memory  is  to  jot  down 
cue  phrases  in  outline  form  on  a  sheet  of  paper.   Make  these 
notes  very  brief! 


HEAP 


RECITE 


From  Effective  Study  by  Francis  P.  Robinson.  Copyright,  1941,  1946  by  Harper  & 
Brothers.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Harper  &  Brothers. 

«  I  (  A  )  How  soon,  and  in  what  ways,  do  you  learn  that  this  passage  is  to  be  organ- 
ized according  to  time? 

«  2  (  B  )  Which  of  the  procedures  for  finding  the  chief  points  in  a  chapter  would  be 
useful  for  a  survey  of  this  passage  by  Robinson? 

«  3    (c)  What  are  the  advantages  of  turning  the  first  heading  into  a  question? 


THE    SURVEY    Q3H    METHOD    OF    STUDY         9 


NOW  REPEAT  STEPS  2,  3  AND  4  ON  EACH  SUCCEEDING  HEADED 
SECTION.  THAT  IS,  TURN  THE  NEXT  HEADING  INTO  A  QUESTION, 
READ  TO  ANSWER  THAT  QUESTION,  AND  RECITE  THE  ANSWER  BY 
JOTTING  DOWN  CUE  PHRASES  IN  YOUR  OUTLINE.  READ  IN  THIS 
WAY  UNTIL  THE  ENTIRE  LESSON  IS  COMPLETED.  «  5 

REVIEW  5.  When  the  lesson  has  thus  been  read  through,  look  over  your 
notes  to  get  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  points  and  of  their  relation- 
ship and  check  your  memory  as  to  the  content  by  reciting  on 
the  major  subpoints  under  each  heading.  This  checking  of 
memory  can  be  done  by  covering  up  the  notes  and  trying  to 
recall  the  main  points.  Then  expose  each  major  point  and  try 
to  recall  the  subpoints  listed  under  it.  «  6 

These  five  steps  of  the  Survey  Q3R  Method-Survey,  Question,  Bead, 
Recite,  and  Review— when  polished  into  a  smooth  and  efficient  method 
should  result  in  the  student  reading  faster,  picking  out  the  important  points, 
and  fixing  them  in  memory.  The  student  will  find  one  other  worthwhile  out- 
come: quiz  questions  will  seem  happily  familiar  because  the  headings  turned 
into  questions  are  usually  the  points  emphasized  in  quizzes.  In  predicting 
actual  quiz  questions  and  looking  up  the  answers  beforehand,  the  student 
feels  that  he  is  effectively  studying  what  is  considered  important  in  a 
course.  «  7 


«  5  (D)  What  justification  does  the  author  have  for  reconsidering  steps  2  and  3  under 
heading  4? 

«  6  (E)  Precisely  how  does  the  process  called  "Review"  differ  from  the  process  called 
"Recite"? 

«7  (F)  What,  according  to  Robinson,  are  the  values  of  the  Survey  Q3R  Method 
of  study? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (c)  What  devices  in  addition  to  those  which  you  have  seen  in 
previous  selections  has  the  author  used  to  mark  off  the  stages  of  the  process?  How  many 
of  these  devices  do  you  believe  to  be  desirable?  Why? 


GEORGE  SESSIONS  PERRY  If  s  a  long  way  to  Seattle 

SPACE  ARRANGEMENT.  In  developing  the  idea  expressed  in  the  title  of  this  selec- 
tion, Perry  goes  into  detail,  i.e.,  he  indicates  by  the  use  of  particulars  how  re- 
mote Seattle  is  "from  almost  anywhere  else."  Starting  with  points  on  the  East 
Coast,  he  treats,  in  East-to-West  order,  a  series  of  geographic  areas.  Spatial 
relationships  thus  determine  the  order  which  he  follows  in  his  explanation. 

10        PATTERNS    OF    EXPLANATION 


THE  CENTRAL  FACT  about  Seattle,  the  thing  that  particularly  differentiates 
it  from  most  other  cities  in  the  United  States,  is  that  it  is  situated  back 
of,  beyond,  away  from  almost  anywhere  else.  From  such  Eastern  centers  of 
population  as  Baltimore,  New  York  and  Boston,  it  is  just  about  as  long  a  way 
to  Seattle  as  it  is  to  Tipperary.  The  Wright  brothers  have  moved  Mt.  Rainier 
closer  to  Manhattan  in  terms  of  time,  but  not  a  millimeter  closer  in  space. 
And  you'll  never  have  a  personal  feel  of  the  somehow  soul-expanding 
enormity  of  this  intervening  land  mass  until  you  have  traversed  its  astonish- 
ingly dissimilar  surface  at  ground  level.  «  I 

When  you  leave  the  populous  cast-north-central  area,  the  last  large  city 
you  see  is  Minneapolis.  Then  for  hundreds  of  miles  you  roll  across  the  rich 
flat  black  plains  of  western  Minnesota  and  North  Dakota,  smooth  land  that 
is  adorned  in  summer  with  billions  of  yellow  blossoms  of  wild  mustard  and 
oceans  of  blue-green  spring  wheat.  In  western  North  Dakota  the  earth 
begins  to  go  into  convulsions,  and  you  are  in  the  Bad  Lands.  Here,  and  on 
across  the  broad  reaches  of  Montana,  the  towns  are  multiple  scores  of  miles 
apart.  Each  is  a  kind  of  miniature  Reno,  with  lots  of  boots  and  bars  and 
clinking  silver  dollars,  lots  of  rugged,  weather-cured  people.  All  the  saluta- 
tions you  receive  are  in  loud,  friendly  voices.  You  sense  in  the  people  an 
exhilarating  pride- without-smugness.  «  2 

By  the  time  you  reach  that  alfresco  Maginot  line,  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
you  can  no  longer  hear  the  names  of  Lewis  and  Clark  without  doffing  your 
hat  and  coming  to  attention.  For  they  explored  all  this  without  benefit  of 
A.A.A.,  Duncan  Hines  or  internal-combustion  engines.  Even  today  there  are 
only  the  highway  signs  and  the  sight  of  American  farm  machinery  working 
in  the  valleys  to  remind  you  that  you  haven't,  through  some  ill-starred  fluke, 
wandered  off  into  Tibet  to  have  your  misadventures  posthumously  recorded 
by  James  Hilton.  «  3 

Spokane,  Seattle's  inland  outpost— and  you  may  be  sure  that  is  not  the 
way  Spokane  thinks  of  herself— is  the  first  city  of  more  than  40,000  you've 


From  Cities  of  America  by  George  Sessions  Perry.  Copyright  1945  by  The  Curtis 
Publishing  Co.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author. 

«  I  (  A  )  How  many  times  is  the  idea  of  the  first  sentence  repeated?  What  justification 
is  there  for  such  frequent  repetition?  How  does  the  author  avoid  monotony? 

«  2  (B)  How  does  the  first  sentence  in  paragraph  2  relate  to  paragraph  1?  To  para- 
graph 2?  (c)  How  do  the  organization  and  development  of  paragraph  2  contribute  to 
the  central  thought  of  the  selection? 

«  3  (  D  )  What  words  in  paragraph  3  relate  it  to  the  preceding  paragraphs?  How  do 
they  indicate  the  organization  of  the  whole  selection?  (E)  What  is  meant  by  "alfresco 
Maginot  line"?  How  docs  this  figure  of  speech  help  the  author  present  his  thought? 
What  is  the  relevance  of  the  talk  about  (a)  Lewis  and  Clark?  (b)  Tibet? 

«4    (F)  If  Perry  has  organized  his  explanation  correctly,  is  Spokane  east  or  west  of 

IT'S    A    LONG    WAY    TO    SEATTLE        11 


seen  in  well  over  a  thousand  miles.  Then  you  cross  a  desert,  pass  through 
some  magnificent  timber  and  over  the  Cascade  Mountains.  Finally,  almost 
unbelievably,  there,  doubly  enchanted  by  nature  and  distance,  lies 
Seattle.  «4 


(a)  the  Rocky  Mountains,  (b)  the  Cascade  Mountains?  Justify  your  answer.  (G)  How 
does  the  final  sentence  ( a )  summarize,  ( b )  augment  the  thought  heretofore  developed? 
THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (H)  Hoiv  is  the  overall  organization  well  adapted  to  the 
development  of  the  thought  of  the  four  paragraphs?  How  are  the  precise  things  said 
about  Minnesota,  North  Dakota,  Montana,  the  Rockies,  Spokane,  the  desert,  and  the 
Cascade  Mountains  relevant  to  Perry's  central  idea?  (i)  What  reasons  might  be  given 
for  the  paragraphing? 


VICTOR    HUGO 


The  battlefield  of  Waterloo 


SPACE  ARRANGEMENT.  Hugo,  like  Perry,  is  concerned  with  relationships  in  space, 
and  he  therefore  uses  an  arrangement  derived  from  such  relationships  in  order- 
ing his  explanation.  In  his  novel  Les  Miserables,  preparing  to  describe  the  battle 
of  Waterloo,  he  was  faced  with  the  problem  of  giving  readers  enough  informa- 
tion about  the  lay  of  the  land  so  that  they  might  follow  his  account  of  the  move- 
ments of  troops.  Essentially,  what  he  had  to  do  was  to  make  clear,  first,  what  the 
whole  field  was  like,  and  then,  how  the  opposing  forces  were  deployed.  Wisely, 
therefore,  he  let  the  actual  location  of  various  details  in  the  landscape  suggest 
the  order  in  which  he  told  of  these  details.  He  started  by  comparing  the  whole 
battlefield  to  a  familiar  figure— the  capital  letter  "A"— and  then  proceeded  sys- 
tematically to  place  details  on  that  basic  figure. 

THOSE  WHO  would  get  a  clear  idea  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo  have  only 
to  lay  down  upon  the  ground  in  their  mind  a  capital  A.  The  left  stroke 
of  the  A  is  the  road  from  Nivelles,  the  right  stroke  is  the  road  from  Genappe, 
the  cross  of  the  A  is  the  sunken  road  from  Chain  to  Braine-rAlleud.  The 
top  of  the  A  is  Mont  St.  Jean,  Wellington  is  there;  the  left-hand  lower  point 
is  Hougomont,  Reille  is  there  with  Jerome  Bonaparte;  the  right-hand  lower 
point  is  La  Belle  Alliance,  Napoleon  is  there.  A  little  below  the  point  where 
the  cross  of  the  A  meets,  and  cuts  the  right  stroke,  is  La  Haie  Sainte.  At  the 
middle  of  this  cross  is  the  precise  point  where  the  final  battle  word  was 
spoken.  There  the  lion  is  placed,  the  involuntary  symbol  of  the  supreme 
heroism  of  the  imperial  guard.  «  I 

«  I    (A)  What  exactly  does  the  first  sentence  do?   (B)  From  the  details  given  in  the 
second  and  third  sentences,  start  a  diagram  of  the  battlefield, 

12        PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


The  triangle  contained  at  the  top  of  the  A,  between  the  two  strokes  and 
the  cross,  is  the  plateau  of  Mont  St.  Jean.  The  struggle  for  this  plateau  was 
the  whole  of  the  battle.  «  2 

The  wings  of  the  two  armies  extended  to  the  right  and  left  of  the  two 
roads  from  Genappe  and  from  Nivelles;  D'Erlon  being  opposite  Picton, 
Reille  opposite  Hill.  «  3 

Behind  the  point  of  the  A,  behind  the  plateau  of  Mont  St.  Jean,  is  the 
forest  of  the  Soignes.  «  4 

As  to  the  plain  itself,  we  must  imagine  a  vast,  undulating  country;  each 
wave  commands  the  next,  and  these  undulations,  rising  toward  Mont  St. 
Jean,  are  there  bounded  by  the  forest.  «  5 

«  2  and  «  3  (D)  What  kind  of  information  is  given  in  paragraphs  2  and  3?  How  does 
it  differ  from  that  in  paragraph  1? 

«  4  and  «  5  (E)  How  does  the  information  in  paragraphs  4  and  5  differ  from  that  in 
paragraphs  2  and  3?  (  F  )  What  information  given  earlier  is  necessary  for  the  understand- 
ing of  pmagraphs  4  and  5?  What  is  not? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (  G  )  Finish  your  diagram  of  the  battlefield.  (  H  )  What  specific 
words  and  phrases  does  Hugo  employ  to  establish  space  relationships?  Underline  each  of 
them.  Where  in  the  sentence  do  they  usually  occur?  (i)  Do  ijou  think  you  could  follow 
the  account  of  troop  movements?  If  not,  what  changes  or  additions  do  you  think  would 
muke  the  explanation  clear?  ( j )  Why  is  the  organization  better  adapted  to  the  develop- 
ment of  the  important  concept  here  than  an  organization  similar  to  Perry's  would  be? 


BERNARD    DEVOTO 


2UI    life    HI    tllC 


CAUSE-TO-EFFECT  ARRANGEMENT.  The  relationship  between  cause  and  effect  is  fre- 
quently demonstrated  by  writers  of  explanations.  Students  of  physics  and  of 
chemistry,  of  sociology  and  of  history,  of  art,  music,  and  literature  are  constantly 
interested  in  studying  and  reporting  reasons  for  the  phenomena  in  their  fields. 
The  following  passage  is  an  example  of  this  kind  of  explanation.  In  the  opening 
paragraph,  Mr.  DeVoto  tells  about  certain  conditions,  or  causes,  which  prevail 
in  the  West,  and  later  he  traces  the  results,  or  effects,  of  these  conditions. 

BASIC  in  the  Western  way  of  life  is  the  naturalness  of  living  much  in  the 
open.  You  do  not  need  the  weather  forecast  in  order  to  set  the  date  for 
a  picnic,  a  camping  trip,  a  hunting  or  fishing  or  skiing  expedition;  for  a 

From  "The  Anxious  West,"  Harper's  Magazine,  December  1946.   Reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Bernard  DeVoto. 

OPEN   AIR   LIFE   IN   THE    WEST        13 


Calendar  will  do.  The  climate  is  violent  but  it  is  also  stable,  and  in  the 
seasons  when  rain  is  not  to  be  expected  there  will  be  no  rain.  Winters  are 
short  except  in  the  high  country,  which  lengthens  the  season  for  summer 
sports,  and  the  high  country  is  so  accessible  that  the  season  for  winter  sports 
lasts  through  June  and  in  some  places  all  year.  The  great  fact  is  the  moun- 
tains. Mountains  are  within  the  driving  range  of  all  Westerners,  even  those 
on  the  eastern  edge  of  the  high  plains  who  can  reach  the  Black  Hills.  They 
are  a  refuge  from  heat  and  dust,  from  the  aridity  that  dehydrates  you  and 
the  intensity  of  sun  that  shrinks  the  ego.  The  forests  are  in  the  mountains, 
with  the  fish  and  game,  the  trails,  the  creeks,  the  ski  runs,  and  the  cliffs  that 
need  rope  work.  More  important  still,  they  put  solitude  and  silence  at  the 
disposal  of  everyone.  Western  life  has  come  to  incorporate  mountain  living. 
A  national  forest  near  large  towns— the  Wasatch  Forest  for  instance,  which 
straddles  the  range  it  is  named  for  just  above  Salt  Lake  City— will  have  a 
million  or  more  visitors  in  the  course  of  a  year,  practically  all  of  them  from 
the  immediate  vicinity.  «  I 

As  a  result  most  Westerners  are  hunters  and  fishermen  and  campers.  Most 
of  them  are  in  some  degree  mountain  climbers,  naturalists,  geologists.  They 
know  nature  at  first  hand  and  intimately,  are  adept  at  outdoor  skills,  can 
maintain  themselves  comfortably  in  the  wilderness.  Furthermore,  since  they 
have  grown  up  to  these  things  naturally  they  have  not  romanticized  or 
stylized  them— except,  that  is,  for  the  myth  of  the  cattle  business.  There  are 
no  rituals.  A  Westerner  cooking  a  meal  in  the  forest  is  simply  cooking  a  meal 
in  the  best  way  with  the  means  at  hand— there  is  none  of  the  high-church 
nonsense  that  accompanies  outdoor  cooking  in  Westchester  or  Long  Island. 
Westerners  are  habituated  to  firearms  and  the  right  to  bear  them  has  not 
been  abridged,  but  not  even  the  movies  have  succeeded  in  tricking  out 
Western  firearms  with  the  twaddle  that  has  developed  about  them  in  the 
South.  «2 

Such  folkways  have  produced  the  West's  happiest  contribution  to  archi- 
tecture. I  do  not  mean  the  bungalow,  which  is  an  eyesore,  but  the  mountain 


«  I  (  A  )  What  peculiarities  of  the  climate  and  geography  of  the  West  does  paragraph 
1  discuss?  What  outdoor  activities  does  each  of  these  peculiarities  make  possible?  Point 
out  devices  whereby  the  author  indicates  the  relationships.  (B)  What  justifications  may 
be  suggested  for  the  organization  of  this  paragraph? 

«  2  ( c )  "As  a  result,"  the  first  sentence  in  paragraph  2  begins.  How  many  sentences 
in  the  paragraph  might  this  phrase  introduce?  (D)  Give  the  meanings  of  the  following 
words  as  they  are  used  in  this  context:  romanticized,  stylized,  rituals,  high-church  non- 
sense, twaddle.  Are  all  of  them  well  chosen?  (E)  What  new  cause  for  out-of-door  living 
is  offered  in  this  paragraph?  Trace  the  specific  relationship  between  this  cause  and  its 
effects*  At  what  points  and  in  what  ways  does  the  author  emphasize  "the  naturalness 
of  living  much  in  the  open'? 

14        PATTERNS   OF    EXPLANATION 


cabin.  It  is  made  of  logs,  usually  lodgepole  pine,  which  are  peeled  and  var- 
nished with  clear  shellac;  sometimes  for  the  exterior  surfaces  a  little  burnt 
sienna  is  added  to  the  shellac.  The  logs  are  chinked  with  concrete;  chimneys 
and  fireplaces  are  made  of  stones  ("rocks"  in  the  West)  from  the  nearest 
creek.  The  result  is  a  charming,  comfortable,  functional  dwelling  which 
blends  with  the  landscape,  warm  in  winter,  cool  in  summer,  almost  vermin- 
proof.  It  is  excellent  everywhere  except  when  the  resort  business  parodies  it 
by  covering  steel  and  concrete  hotels  with  a  veneer  of  logs.  «  3 

An  astonishingly  large  number  of  Westerners  own  such  cabins  or  still  more 
inexpensive  camps  in  the  mountains.  They  visit  them  at  all  seasons,  not  only 
for  the  annual  vacation  and  at  weekends  but  on  momentary  impulse.  Similar 
cabins  and  camps  can  be  rented  everywhere.  And  almost  no  one  is  too  poor 
to  own  an  automobile  and  a  camping  outfit;  those  who  use  them,  in  fact, 
get  farther  into  the  wilderness  and  come  to  know  it  better  than  those  with 
fixed  camps.  So  the  frontier's  mastery  of  the  outdoors  has  remained  a  part 
of  Western  life.  It  has  contributed  alike  to  the  realism  and  the  mysticism 
that  make  so  striking  a  mixture  in  the  Western  consciousness.  Familiarity 
with  the  skills  of  Western  occupations  is  also  widespread;  most  Westerners 
know  something  about  mining,  prospecting,  engineering,  lumbering,  sheep 
growing,  and  cattle  raising.  The  Westerner  is  the  best  American  outdoors- 
man  and  he  is  almost  the  only  remaining  American  who  rides  a  horse 
naturally,  not  as  one  practicing  a  cult.  «  4 


«  3  (  F  )  In  paragraph  3  what  is  meant  by  "Such  folkways"?  Precisely  hcnv  Jiave  these 
folkways  produced  the  mountain  cabin? 

«  4  (G)  What  preparation  has  there  been  for  this  sentence:  "So  the  frontier's  mastery 
of  the  outdoors  has  remained  a  part  of  Western  life"?  For  the  final  sentence  in  the 
selection? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (H)  What  has  the  author  achieved  by  paragraphing  this 
passage  as  he  has?  Could  the  paragraphing  occur  at  any  other  points?  If  so,  should  it 
have?  (i)  Comment  upon  (a)  the  choice  of  words,  (b)  the  kinds  of  sentences  in  this 
passage.  (Justify  your  comments  by  pointing  out  specific  words  and  sentences.)  Dis- 
cuss the  appropriateness  or  inappropriateness  of  the  style,  (j)  Summarize  the  various 
causal  relationships  discussed  in  this  passage. 


OPEN   AIR    LIFE   IN    THE   WEST        15 


RAY    FAULKNER 
EDWIN    ZIEGFELD 
GERALD    HILL  LlIlC 


COMPARISON  AND  CONTRAST.  To  make  clear  the  nature  of  one  or  more  members  of 
the  same  class  (character  and  character,  type  and  type,  idea  and  idea,  etc.),  au- 
thors often  set  one  off  against  the  other.  For  instance,  a  critic  might  explain  his 
conception  of  the  character  of  Hamlet  by  comparing  or  contrasting  him  with  other 
characters  in  the  same  play,  or  with  characters  in  other  plays.  By  exploring  areas 
of  likenesses  and  differences,  such  authors  limit  and  therefore  clarify  their  subjects. 
Ordinarily,  they  turn  from  one  subject  to  another,  one  aspect  or  quality  to  another, 
one  likeness  or  difference  to  another,  and  the  reader  needs,  of  course,  to  notice 
which  procedure  is  being  followed.  Thus,  in  reading  what  follows,  you  need  to 
see  that  in  the  opening  paragraph,  the  authors  initiate  their  explanation  of  "Line" 
as  a  plastic  element  of  art  by  contrasting  the  way  a  graphic  artist  (i.e.,  one  paint- 
ing or  drawing)  works  with  the  way  a  sculptor  works.  Thereafter,  you  need  to 
see  how  comparisons  and  contrasts  between  artistic  creations  by  Picasso,  Rivera, 
Klee,  and  Colder—and  between  three  abstractions  (figure  1)  —additionally  clarify 
the  meaning  of  the  term,  the  varied  ways  line  is  used,  and  the  possible  reason 
for  certain  artistic  effects. 

IN  MAKING  a  painting  or  a  pencil  drawing  we  cannot  work  directly  with 
form,  as  can  a  sculptor.  Instead,  we  work  with  symbols  and  conven- 
tions that  indicate  form.  The  simplest  of  these  is  line.  Look  at  the  draw- 
ing of  three  youths  by  Pablo  Picasso  ( Figure  2,  p.  18 ).  There  is  no  shading 
or  modeling,  yet  without  any  of  these  devices  Picasso  has  succeeded  in  de- 
fining human  forms  in  a  most  convincing  manner.  Notice  the  three-dimen- 
sional quality  in  the  head  and  hand  at  the  extreme  left.  Notice  how  the 
differences  between  hair  and  textiles  have  been  indicated.  Form,  texture, 
and  space  have  all  been  represented  by  using  line  only.  A  wealth  of  sug- 
gestion and  indication  have  been  portrayed  with  an  economy  of  effort.  ( In 
case  you  think  that  effective  line  drawings  are  as  easy  to  do  as  they  appear 
to  be,  try  one.)  «  I 

Contrast  Picasso's  drawing  with  the  one  of  the  Mexican  mother  and  child 
by  the  Mexican  artist,  Diego  Rivera  (Figure  3,  p.  19).  Notice  in  particular 
the  hands  and  faces  in  the  two  drawings.  Do  you  get  different  reactions  from 
them?  Why?  One  is  delicate  and  reposed,  the  other  is  strong,  moving, 

From  Art  Today,  Revised  Edition,  by  Ray  Faulkner,  Edwin  Ziegfeld,  and  Gerald  Hill. 
By  permission  of  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Inc.,  Copyright  1941,  1949. 

«  I  (A)  In  what  terms  are  the  sculptor  and  the  graphic  artist  (a)  compared  as 
to  aims,  (b)  contrasted  as  to  methods?  (B)  Exactly  what  do  the  details  you  are  asked 
to  note  in  the  drawing  by  Picasso  show  about  the  meaning  of  the  term  "line"? 

16        PATTERNS   OF    EXPLANATION 


Imost  brutal.  Forget  the  subject  matter:  turn  the  pictures  upside  down. 
The  difference  still  exists  because  it  lies  in  the  quality  of  the  line  of  the  two 
rtists.  «  2 

Creative  artists  are  always  seeking  new  ways  to  express  their  observa- 
ions,  and  few  have  been  more  inventive  than  Paul  Klee  and  Alexander 
balder.  Look  at  Figure  4,  p.  20,  to  see  the  geometric  interplay  of  line  in 
[lee's  "Family  Promenade  (Tempo  II)."  Ruled  lines  enclose  angular  planes 
vhich  depict  four  persons  and  two  dogs  taking  a  walk.  By  avoiding  the 
ibvious  ways  of  drawing,  Klee  takes  us  into  the  realm  of  fantasy  and 
whimsy.  He  reveals  a  new  aspect  of  familiar  objects  and  activities.  The 
text  time  you  see  persons  and  dogs  walking,  remember  this  drawing.  You 
rill  probably  find  that  it  looks  more  like  the  subject  matter  than  you 
yould  have  guessed.  «  3 

In  "The  Hostess"  (Figure  5,  p.  20)  Alexander  Calder  treats  line  three 
limensionally.  With  rare  perception,  he  has  grasped— and  caricatured— a 
ypical  gesture  of  a  hostess  greeting  her  guests.  Such  actions,  especially  if 
xaggerated,  have  their  humorous  side,  and  that  is  what  Calder  wishes  to  con- 
ey. Art,  like  drama  and  literature,  can  be  humorous  but  not  often  is  it 
xpressed  as  subtly  with  line  alone  as  in  these  two  examples.  «  4 

For  proof  that  mere  lines  and  shapes  can  be  expressive,  look  at  those 
abelecl  Action,  Bondage,  and  Humor  in  Figure  1.  Even  if  they  were  not 


ACTION  BONDAGE  HUMOR 


1.  Abstractions  representing  Action,  Bondage,  and  Humor  show  the  expressive 
ossibilities  of  line. 

ibeled  and  you  were  asked  to  guess  their  meaning,  the  chances  are  that 
on  would  come  close  to  the  words  used  in  the  caption.  Try  these  draw- 
igs  on  your  friends.  Tell  them  the  three  titles  and  ask  them  to  indicate 
yhich  title  applies  to  which  drawing.  Action  may  be  described  in  many 


«  2  ( c )  Does  a  contrast  between  the  drawings  by  Picasso  and  Rivera  result  in  your 
oticing  ( a )  the  effects,  and  ( b )  the  qualities  which  the  authors  claim  it  will? 

«  3  and  «  4  (  D  )  What  new  achievements  in  the  use  of  line  are  illustrated,  respec- 
vely,  by  Klee  and  Calder?  What  is  meant  by  "three  dimensionally"?  ( See  the  descrip- 
on  of  figure  5. ) 

LINE      17 


2.  A  drawing  by  Pablo  Picasso  in  which  solid  forms  and  empty  space  are  con- 
vincingly represented  through  line  alone.  Sensitive  line  expresses  the  character 
of  the  dancers. 


18       PATTERNS   OF  EXPLANATION 


3.  In  this  brush-and-ink  drawing  Diego  Rivera  has  used  heavy  lines  to  depict 
a  Mexican  peasant  and  child.  Contrast  the  line  quality  with  that  in  Picasso's 
drawing;  in  both,  line  has  been  used  to  express  as  well  as  to  represent  the  sub- 
jects. 

UNE     19 


Drawing  and  sculpture  in  which 
line  is  used  ingeniously  and  humor- 
ously to  express  people  in  action. 

4.  (Upper)  Paul  Klee's  "Family 
Promenade   (Tempo  II)"  shows  a 
family  taking  a  walk.     Drawn  with 
a    ruling    pen,    the    precise    lines 
become     "descriptive      geometry," 
which  portrays  objects  moving  in 
space. 

5.  (Lower)    Alexander  Calder's 
wire   sculpture   called    "The    Hos- 
tess" might  be  described  as  a  line 
drawing  in   three   dimensions,    tor 
in  it  line  actually  carves  and  de- 
fines space. 


20         PATTERNS    OF    EXPLANATION 


ways:  quick  movement,  speed,  motion,  excitement,  etc.  Bondage  might 
be  constriction,  enclosure,  repression,  depression,  etc.  For  humor  we  might 
say  wit,  merriment,  whimsicality,  facetiousness,  and  so  forth.  «  5 

The  list  of  adjectives  that  could  be  used  to  describe  the  expressive  power 
of  line  (form,  space,  color,  and  texture  as  well)  would  include  most  of 
those  listed  in  Roget's  Thesaurus.  Here  are  a  few:  long  or  short;  thick  or 
thin;  pointed  or  obtuse;  straight,  curved,  or  zigzag;  vertical,  horizontal,  or 
diagonal;  ascending  or  descending;  advancing  or  receding;  expanding 
or  contracting;  fast  or  slow;  staccato  or  legato;  vigorous  or  serene;  majestic 
or  playful.  These  are  only  sets  of  extremes  between  which  there  are  in- 
finite gradations.  And  these  qualities  never  occur  in  isolation.  A  line  may 
be  long,  thick,  straight,  and  vertical;  or  it  can  be  short,  thick,  straight,  and 
vertical.  The  two  will  not  give  the  same  effect.  A  statistician  could  spend 
several  lifetimes  computing  the  potential  permutations.  You  can  spend 
a  lifetime  experimenting  with  or  merely  appreciating  the  suggestive  elo- 
quence ot  the  plastic  elements.  «  6 

Why  is  it,  however,  that  an  artist  with  a  few  simple  lines  on  a  flat 
piece  of  paper,  or  with  sticks  and  stones  organized  in  space  as  architecture, 
can  project  to  us  the  essentials  of  human  experience?  Perhaps  we  will 
never  know  the  answer,  but  here  is  a  thought:  When  we  are  tired  and 
lie  down  to  sleep,  we  assume  a  horizontal  position— invariably  the  things 
that  mean  repose  to  us  are  horizontal  objects  such  as  large,  calm  bodies 
of  water  or  flat,  gently  rolling  hills  and  meadows.  When  we  are  up  and 
about,  we  move  in  vertical  positions,  and  when  vertical  lines  are  seen  in 
pictures  with  horizontal  lines,  the  vertical  ones  look  more  awake  and 
strong.  When  we  run  or  are  otherwise  unusually  active,  our  bodies  assume 
a  diagonal  position,  head  thrust  forward,  balance  somewhat  precarious, 
elbows  and  knees  forming  angles  like  those  in  the  sketch  called  Action. 
It  seems,  then,  that  forms  have  a  definite,  distinct  basis  in  human  ex- 
perience, that  an  artist  may  make  a  building,  a  statue,  a  painting,  or 
:t  piece  of  furniture  look  restful,  or  alive  and  imposing,  or  excited  and 
moving.  «  7 

«  5  (  E  )  What  are  abstractions?  Why  do  the  authors  appear  to  believe  that  look- 
ing at  the  three  in  figure  1  will  prove  that  "mere  lines  and  shapes  can  be  expressive'9? 
(F)  Witt  the  experiment  suggested  work?  Why  or  why  not?  If  it  does  not,  will  the 
authors'  whole  discussion  be  proved  invalid? 

«  6  (  G  )  What  is  Roget's  Thesaurus?  What  do  the  words  drawn  from  it  have  to  do 
with  "the  expressive  power  of  line"?  Are  any  of  the  words  applicable  to  the  drawings 
which  have  been  cited  earlier?  If  not,  what  words  are  applicable? 

«  7  (  H  )  Justify  the  use  of  the  word  "however"  ( first  sentence )  in  terms  of  the  rela- 
tionship of  this  paragraph  to  the  rest  of  the  selection;  the  use  of  the  word  "then"  (last 
sentence )  in  terms  of  the  thought  developed  in  this  paragraph.  ( i )  What  do  the  authors 
accomplish  by  beginning  three  successive  sentences  with  the  words,  "When  we"? 

LINE      21 


Line,  however,  is  not  always  used  to  express  deep  human  emotion  and 
experience  in  this  manner.  Often  it  is  used  merely  for  a  conventional 
representation  of  objects— the  line  drawings  of  a  building  prepared  by 
an  architect,  or  the  drawings  of  a  bridge  made  by  an  engineer;  the 
lines  drawn  on  maps  to  represent  rivers,  roads,  or  contours;  or  the  lines 
drawn  on  paper  to  represent  words.  Such  use  of  line  is  primarily  utili- 
tarian, a  convenient  way  of  communicating  our  ideas  to  another  person. 
To  be  sure,  there  are  strong  possibilities  for  beauty  in  the  lines  of  a  well- 
printed  page,  a  well-drawn  construction  detail  but  their  major  purpose 
is  utilitarian.  Whichever  the  emphasis— expression  of  human  emotion  or 
communication  of  factual  materials— line  is  an  important  plastic  element 
at  the  disposal  of  the  artist.  «  8 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (j)  Why  is  the  frequent  use  of  comparisons  and  contrasts 
practically  inevitable  in  presenting  the  concepts  developed  here?  (K)  Point  out  differ- 
ent procedures  used  to  introduce  comparisons  and  contrasts.  (L)  Write  a  discussion, 
embodying  comparisons  and  contrasts ,  of  (a)  four  other  drawings  or  paintings,  or 
(b)  the  use  of  color  by  several  artists. 


WALTER  PRESCOTT  WEBB  Jim  Brown  knows  the  way 

ANALOGY.  An  often  successful  method  of  explaining  a  difficult  and  unfamiliar 
subject  is  to  compare  it  with  something  more  familiar  and  more  concrete— to 
use  a  figurative  comparison  rather  than  the  literal  kind  used  in  "Line"  (p.  16). 
In  this  passage  from  his  historical  study  The  Great  Frontier,  Webb  sets  out  to 
acquaint  his  readers  with  the  effects  of  the  American  frontier  on  man's  Old 
World  institutions,  ideas,  and  living  habits.  To  do  this  in  abstract  terms  alone 
might  not  have  been  satisfactorily  clear.  Shrewdly,  then,  Webb  turns  to  "an 
imaginative  example"— an  analogy:  he  introduces  four  men  representing  the  older 
civilization  and  a  fifth,  Jim  Brown,  representing  the  new  way  of  life  on  the 
frontier,  and  then  unfolds  a  little  drama  in  three  scenes,  an  account  of  an  expedi- 
tion. The  narrative  makes  clear  in  concrete  terms  how  the  frontier  "worked  men 
over  inside.'9 

MAN  BROUGHT  with  him  to  the  frontier  of  North  America  his  whole 
European  culture  complex.    That  consisted  of  his  institutions  of 
economics,  religion,  and  government;  it  consisted  of  his  ideas,  mechanical 
techniques,  tools,  clothes,  and  his  habit  of  dependence  on  those  forces  of 
civilization  which  pushed  in  on  him  from  all  sides  to  hold  him  fast  in  his 

Reprinted  from  The  Great  Frontier  by  Walter  Prescott  Webb,  Houghton  Mifflin  Com- 
pany. 

22       PATTERNS  OF   EXPLANATION 


groove  of  class  and  circumstance.  I  propose  to  show  how  nature,  i.e.,  the 
frontier,  went  to  work  on  this  complicated  culture  complex,  and  despite 
all  resistance,  changed  its  pattern  into  something  else.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  this  new  master,  nature,  imposed  the  change.  The  change  to  new 
ways  and  attitudes  came  because  nature  would  not  yield  to  the  old  ones, 
and  man  had  to  devise  something  to  which  it  would  finally  yield.  It  was 
only  the  things  that  work,  and  in  the  last  analysis,  those  that  man  acting 
with  a  minimum  of  social  support  can  make  work,  that  endured  in  frontier 
society.  «  I 

If  we  seek  out  a  single  word  to  describe  the  principle  on  which  the  fron- 
tier operated  on  man-made  institutions,  we  find  no  better  one  than  dis- 
integration. This  disintegrate  effect  can  be  illustrated  with  many  exam- 
ples in  American  history,  and  likewise  in  the  history  of  other  frontier  com* 
monwealths.  The  examples  I  shall  use  will  be  drawn  from  the  American 
experience.  I  think  the  case  may  be  better  put  this  way:  European  institu- 
tions and  practices  wore  themselves  out  against  the  abrasive  frontier  grind- 
stone. It  was  the  fact  that  they  wore  out— everybody  knew  they  had  worn 
out,  and  were  not  thrown  out— that  distinguishes  a  frontier  revolution  from 
a  revolution  in  a  highly  organized  society.  In  civilization  institutions  may 
cease  to  be  useful  or  to  function  as  intended,  but  they  still  have  defenders, 
advocates  with  vested  interests,  and  all  that;  the  result  is  that  they  often 
have  to  be  discarded  by  force.  The  frontier,  being  passive  and  impersonal, 
is  not  concerned  with  what  institutions  or  tools  are  used  against  it;  it  has 
no  vested  interest  in  them,  no  advocates  for  them,  but  by  the  time  the  fron- 
tier gets  through  with  either  a  tool  or  an  institution  that  will  not  work, 
everybody  is  glad  to  lay  it  aside  for  one  that  will.  Therefore  it  comes  about 
that  when  man  enters  the  frontier  with  equipment  derived  from  civiliza- 
tion, the  disintegration  begins  at  once  and  goes  on  rapidly.  It  is  this 
process  that  we  may  now  examine.  We  shall  see  the  individual  survive 
his  institutions,  and  remain  the  indestructible  element  which  even  the 
roughest  emery  of  the  frontier  could  not  erode  away.  «  2 

When  the  man  enters  the  frontier,  the  walls  of  institutions  are  for  the 
time  being  down  as  a  physical  fact,  but  memory  of  old  relationships,  of 
rank  and  status,  remains  as  a  psychological  fact.  They  must  be  removed 
by  experience  on  the  frontier  and  not  by  mere  presence  there.  How  experi- 
ence changes  rank  and  status  is  illustrated  in  the  following  section,  an  im- 
aginative example  of  an  actual  process.  «  3 

«  I  (A)  State  in  your  own  words  the  thesis  of  this  paragraph,  and  prove  that  your 
interpretation  of  it  is  sound. 

«  2  and  «  3  (B)  Indicate  in  detail  how  the  figures  of  speech  involving  the  grindstone 
and  the  walls  are  related  to  the  thought  of  the  first  paragraph.  Why  are  they  useful 

JIM   BROWN   KNOWS   THE  WAY        23 


The  case  is  that  of  five  men  who  set  out  on  an  expedition  into  the  frontier 
as  it  existed  in  some  broad  region  in  the  area  of  the  United  States  from 
1607  to,  let  us  say,  1850.  Let  us  assume  that  the  five  men  are  going  into 
the  Mississippi  Valley  in  about  the  year  1800,  that  all  are  of  good  natural 
intelligence.  Four  of  them  are  exceptional  in  that  they  have  risen  to  high 
position  in  their  respective  occupations.  They  represent  civilization  at  its 
best.  The  fifth  man— and  the  one  on  which  we  must  keep  an  eye— has  not 
so  distinguished  himself.  He  might  be  the  man  we  have  been  talking  about 
in  this  chapter.  Let  us  give  each  man  his  name  and  respective  rank.  «  4 

1.  General  William  Folwell  was  born  somewhere  in  Europe.    He  took 
military  training  and  at  an  early  age  entered  the  king's  service  as  an  officer. 
He  fought  in  all  the  wars  that  came  his  way,  rose  from  one  position  to  an- 
other until  he  became  a  general.    He  had  in  the  end  thousands  of  men 
under  his  command;  and  until  circumstances  made  it  necessary  for  him 
to  come  to  America,  he  enjoyed  great  power.    He  had  many  decorations, 
medals  and  certificates  of  merit.   Imperious  by  nature,  he  liked  to  wear  the 
smart  military  uniform,  give  orders,  and  wear  his  medals  as  a  mark  ol 
honors  civilization  had  conferred  on  him.   We  shall  let  him  wear  his  uni- 
form and  medals  on  this  expedition.    We  naturally  assume  that  he  is  in 
charge  of  it.  «  5 

2.  Mr.  Charles  J.  Claybrook  represents  business,  the  business  world.   He 
is  the  head  of  large  commercial  enterprises,  a  director  of  banks,  a  man  who 
owns  and  controls  much  money.    He  has  long  been  accustomed  to  the 
power,  the  obsequious  service  and  the  prestige  that  the  possession  of  money 
conveys.    He  knows  all  its  rules,  habits,  and  attitudes,  and  how  to  bring 
it  forth  from  secret  places.  We  will  of  course  permit  him  to  take  as  much 
of  his  money  as  he  desires  on  this  expedition,  assuming  that  he  is  on  the 
lookout  for  a  "good  proposition."    He  represents  the  best  that  civilization 
has  produced  in  his  line.   He  is  still  young,  able-bodied  but  a  little  plump 
from  being  waited  on  too  much  with  too  much.  His  clothes  are  of  the  finest 
material,  especially  tailored  for  roughing  it.  «  6 

3.  Professor  Ernest  J.  Fairchilds  represents  learning  and  erudition.    He 
speaks  many  languages  ( European,  of  course )  and  is  spoken  of  with  great 
respect  at  Oxford,  Cambridge,  Heidelberg,  and  perhaps  at  Harvard.    His 
scientific  discoveries  and  investigations  have  pushed  out  the  boundaries 
of  knowledge  in  that  great  movement  which  corresponded  with  the  expan- 


here?   ( c )  Where  and  why  does  Webb  indicate  clearly  that  the  development  of  his  idea 
is  to  be  by  analogy? 

«  4  (D)  How  does  it  serve  the  author's  purpose  to  mention  a  wide  area  and  a  long 
span  of  years  and  then,  more  specifically,  the  Mississippi  Valley  and  the  year  1800  as 
the  setting  of  his  drama? 

24        PATTERNS    OF   EXPLANATION 


sion  of  the  frontiers.  He  has  studied  so  hard  that  he  has  ruined  his  diges- 
tion, and  has  to  be  very  careful  of  what  he  eats.  His  interest  in  the  expedi- 
tion is  purely  that  of  the  scholar.  We  will  permit  him  to  carry  such  books 
and  apparatus  as  he  may  wish.  General  Folwell  and  Mr.  Claybrook,  being 
practical  persons,  are  not  too  enthusiastic  about  him  and  note  with  concern 
his  dyspeptic  pallor.  They  do  respect  him  because  he  represents  the  best 
that  civilization  has  done  in  the  field  of  scholarship.  «  7 

4.  The  Reverend  Henderson  Fowler  is  one  of  the  best  representatives  of 
religion  that  European  civilization  has  produced.    A  jolly  sort,  you  know, 
brought  up  in  the  correct  tradition  with  a  thorough  knowledge  of  and  a 
reasonable  belief  in  the  Ten  Commandments  and  with  enough  Latin  and 
Greek  to  enable  him  to  get  by  anywhere.    His  muscular  frame  and  sound 
constitution  have  not  been  undermined  by  too  much  hard  study.   He  repre- 
sents a  finger  of  some  European  creed  extended  to  feel  the  religious  pulse 
of  the  frontier.    His  performance  there  would  surprise  no  one  more  than 
himself,  but  of  that  he  is  as  yet  fortunately  ignorant.    He  anticipates  that 
the  report  he  will  write  is  bound  to  bring  favor  from  his  superiors  because 
he  has  a  good  style.  «  8 

5.  James  Daniel  Brown  is  the  fifth  member  of  the  party,  and  for  him 
civilization  has  done  very  little.  He  never  had  an  honor,  wore  an  epaulette, 
or  went  much  farther  than  b-a  baker  in  Webster's  Blue-Backed  Speller. 
Having  a  good  mind  and  being  a  curious  person,  he  has  continued  to  read 
and  knows  enough  arithmetic  to  figure  up  what  is  due  him.   He  did  manage 
to  learn  a  little  about  surveying  by  carrying  the  chain  one  year  in  the  west- 
ern territory.  His  given  names— James  and  Daniel— indicate  that  his  family 
read  the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  if  not  immediately,  far  back,  and  that 
they  had  respect  for  the  apostle  and  the  prophet.    He  would  be  startled 
himself  on  hearing  these  names  because  he  is  known  everywhere  in  his 
community  as  Jim  Brown,  just  plain  Jim  Brown.    The  neighbors  call  him 
Jim,  and  though  they  respect  him  for  his  good  sense,  they  have  never 
thought  of  giving  him  a  title.  «  9 

The  attitude  of  the  other  four  members  toward  Jim  Brown  varies  as  they 
vary  in  disposition  and  psychology.  General  Folwell  addressed  him  once 
as  "boy,"  but  for  some  reason  he  discontinued  that  army  term  without  know- 
ing just  why.  Mr.  Claybrook  gave  him  businesslike  instructions  about  what 
he  wanted  done  with  his  luggage  and  called  him  Brown.  The  scholar  and 
minister  were  through  long  habit  more  reserved.  «  10 

«4-9  (E)  What  do  Folwell,  Claybrook,  Fairchilds,  Fowler,  and  Brown  represent? 
Why  is  (a)  the  name,  (b)  the  background  of  each  appropriate  for  this  particular  "im- 
aginative example"? 

«  1 0  and  «  1 1     (  F  )  What  is  the  concern  of  each  of  these  two  paragraphs?   Can  one 

JIM    BROWN    KNOWS    THE    WAY        25 


Perhaps  Jim  Brown's  attitude  toward  the  four  men  is  also  worthy  of 
notice.  There  seemed  to  be  no  occasion  for  him  to  call  any  of  them  by  title. 
Titles  tended  to  stick  in  his  throat  and  he  avoided  them  by  talking  little, 
and  addressing  each  in  such  a  manner  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to 
identity.  Jim  did  whatever  was  necessary  to  get  the  party  off,  and  he 
seemed  rather  expert  at  doing  things,  but  no  one  could  long  maintain  the 
feeling  that  he  was  in  any  sense  a  servant.  Jim  least  of  all.  So  far  as  he 
felt,  there  were  five  men  going  into  the  forest  and  he  was  one  of  them. 
They  all  looked  pretty  much  alike  to  Jim.  Of  course,  Jim  never  analyzed 
his  feelings  and  attitudes.  The  real  fact  is  that  he  did  not  know  the  differ- 
ences among  his  companions.  The  military  medals  of  the  general,  the 
money  background  of  Mr.  Claybrook,  the  scholarship  of  Professor  Fair- 
childs  had  little  significance  for  Jim,  and  much  talk  about  them  seemed 
positively  silly.  Jim  could  do  inimitable  satires  of  persons  who  differed 
from  him,  and  among  those  of  his  own  kind  he  would  mimic  them,  and  his 
mimicry  would  nearly  always  end  up  with  the  quite  serious  query:  "What 
good  is  all  that  stuff  here?"  Don't  you  see  that  Jim  was  a  little  narrow; 
he  felt  that  whatever  did  not  exist  in  his  world,  the  frontier,  did  not  exist 
for  him  anywhere,  and  moreover  he  doubted  its  right  to  exist.  That  was 
the  basis  of  his  intolerance.  The  important  point  for  us  is  that  here  was  a 
party  of  five  men  going  into  the  forest,  and  that  he  was  one  of  them.  Their 
distinctions  in  their  respective  fields  meant  little  to  him.  He  would  in  the 
end  measure  them  by  his  own  standards  and  each  would  determine  his 
own  stature  each  day  in  the  field.  For  him  and  all  his  fellows  nothing  had 
disintegrated  faster  than  civilization's  stamp  of  human  inequalities.  And 
so  the  five  men  set  off  into  the  forest  for  a  two-year  experiment  with  the 
frontier.  «  I ' 

In  this  purely  fanciful  example  I  trust  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  give  the 
destination  of  the  party  or  their  geographic  itinerary.  We  are  interested 
in  the  disintegrative  process  of  the  frontier  as  it  worked  itself  out  on  the 
members  of  this  party,  stripping  them  of  the  habiliments  of  civilization, 
reshuffling  them  as  to  rank,  and  bringing  them  back  as  different  from  their 
original  character  as  they  were  from  their  original  appearance.  We  present 
three  scenes  placed  at  suitable  intervals.  «  12 

Scene  I.  Time,  the  first  day.  The  men  have  taken  the  trail,  entering  a  dark 
and  magnificent  forest  which  is  as  yet  untouched  by  civilized  hands.  The  way 


justify  the  second  of  these  paragraphs  being  much  longer  than  the  first? 

«  12  (G)  Why  is  it  proper  for  the  author  to  "trust  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  give 
the  destination  of  the  party  or  their  geographic  itinerary"?  (H)  Point  out  the  instances 
of  repetition,  and  discuss  possible  reasons  for  them. 

26       PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


leads  west.  The  forest  is  full  of  wild  game.  Each  man  carries  a  gun  and  a  knife, 
and  whatever  else  he  may  have  desired.  It  was  Jim  who  insisted  that  the  minister 
should  carry  a  gun,  even  though  the  minister  insisted  he  could  never  shoot  it. 
For  our  purpose  we  are  compelled  to  let  the  whole  party  walk,  but  the  story 
would  be  the  same  if  they  were  mounted,  but  more  complicated;  we  would  have 
to  dismount  them  somewhere,  and  we  might  as  well  do  it  now.  The  general 
leads  out,  and  why  not?  It  has  long  been  his  business  to  lead  expeditions.  He 
has  a  map  of  the  country  and  a  compass  which  tells  him  that  he  is  headed  west. 
He  looks  rather  swank  in  his  new  uniform,  and  the  sun,  falling  through  the  trees, 
flashes  its  rays  on  his  medals.  Next  comes  Charles  J.  Claybrook,  who  has  never 
ranked  third  in  any  society.  He  thinks  of  the  money  in  his  belt,  and  wonders 
if  he  has  brought  enough.  He  never  felt  better  in  his  life.  Professor  Fairchilds 
is  third,  and  not  too  happy  about  the  prospect.  He  makes  sure  that  his  note- 
books are  in  place,  and  wonders  if  he  can  find  the  right  kind  of  food  for  his 
stomach.  Henderson  Fowler  and  Jim  Brown  bring  up  the  rear.  The  minister 
is  thinking  of  the  report  he  will  write,  and  finds  something  of  a  thrill  in  having 
possession  of  a  fine  rifle  which  at  the  last  moment  Jim  thrust  into  his  hands.  All 
four  men  carry  baggage,  Jim  Brown  less  than  any.  In  no  way  does  he  seem  to 
stand  out  in  this  forest,  but  rather  to  be  a  part  of  it.  «  1 3 

It  is  not  long  before  they  come  to  a  place  over  which  they  cannot  follow  the 
compass.  There  are  suggestions  as  to  what  alternative  to  take.  It  is  not  until  a 
decision  is  reached  that  Jim  Brown  suggests  probable  difficulties  on  the  route 
proposed  and  mentions  another.  He  can  give  no  very  clear  reason  for  his  opinion, 
but  says  something  about  the  "lay  of  the  land"  which  means  little  to  his  well- 
trained  companions.  Jim  is  overruled  and  the  party  sets  off,  only  to  meet  an 
obstacle  they  cannot  surmount.  They  turn  back  and  try  Jim's  route,  which  they 
find  feasible.  We  will  pass  over  the  events  of  the  day,  with  its  more  and  more 
frequent  rests.  Jim  Brown  doesn't  seem  to  need  so  much  rest,  and  goes  off 
prowling  around  the  bivouacs  to  examine  things  that  interest  him,  trails,  tracks 
streams,  and  trees.  Jim  sees  many  things  which  the  others  cannot  see  at  all. 
He  is  an  experienced  translator  of  the  silent  language  of  nature,  though  he  knows 
no  word  save  his  own  language  and  a  little  Indian,  both  sign  and  spoken.  «  14 

Camp  is  struck  very  early  this  day  and  for  most  necessary  reasons  numbering 
exactly  four.  Everybody  except  Jim  Brown  is  exhausted,  and  the  general  has 
a  blister  on  his  heel.  Under  these  circumstances  it  falls  to  Jim  Brown  to  make 
the  fire  and  prepare  the  meal.  He  knew  early  that  there  would  be  an  early 
camp,  and  had  shot  a  turkey  which  he  saw  on  a  glade  where  the  others  saw 
nothing.  This  night  you  would  have  thought  Jim  was  a  servant  because  he  did 
nearly  everything,  with  some  help  from  Henderson  Fowler,  whose  recuperative 
powers  seemed  to  be  considerable.  Each  man  had  brought  some  food,  but  Jim 
said  they  had  better  go  heavy  on  turkey  and  save  as  much  of  their  store  as  pos- 
sible. Appetites  were  excellent,  and  Mr.  Claybrook  mentioned  that  he  had  never 
tasted  better  fowl  at  the  King's  Inn.  Professor  Fairchilds  forgot  his  stomach  and 
took  a  second  helping.  The  general  rubbed  his  feet,  put  a  little  tallow  on  his 
blistered  heel,  and  all  went  to  bed,  feet  to  the  fire.  The  stars  and  the  forest 
looked  down  on  four  sleeping  men.  Jim  Brown  was  listening  to  the  sweet  noises 
of  the  night  and  thinking  of  what  he  was  in  for.  We  may  omit  a  description  of 
stiff  joints  and  sore  muscles  on  the  next  morning.  The  ground  in  this  forest  made 
a  hard  bed  for  civilized  men.  It  may  be  mentioned  that  when  they  got  into  their 

JIM   BROWN  KNOWS  THE   WAY        27 


clothes,  they  lacked  the  fresh  and  natty  appearance  they  presented  the  morning 
before.  Jim  Brown's  appearance  had  changed  less  than  any.  The  forest  had 
gone  to  work  on  their  clothes,  and  this  brings  us  to  the  second  scene.  «  15 

Scene  II.  Time,  six  weeks  later.  Place,  one  hundred  miles  in  the  forest.  A  camp 
stands  under  some  great  trees  by  a  bubbling  spring.  A  fire  is  going  and  over  it 
meat  is  cooking  on  a  spit.  A  rifle  may  be  seen  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  the  man's 
eyes  fall  on  it  often  as  he  works.  He  is  a  strange-looking  creature.  He  wears 
tattered  shoes  through  which  his  toes  may  be  seen.  You  can  tell  that  the  soles 
are  gone  because  of  the  respect  he  has  for  live  coals  that  may  have  fallen  from 
the  fire.  He  puts  his  feet  down  very  carefully;  they  may  be  tender,  but  more  likely 
they  are  sore.  All  of  his  trousers  are  gone  up  to  his  knees,  and  his  shirt  is  equally 
tattered.  His  skin  is  brown  as  a  coffee  berry,  for  the  Reverend  Henderson 
Fowler  tans  easily.  There  is  strength  in  his  muscles  and  the  buoyancy  of  health 
in  his  movements.  He  has  learned  much  in  six  weeks.  «  16 

Another  figure,  equally  ragged  and  unkempt,  comes  up  from  the  spring  bring- 
ing water  in  a  wild  gourd  which  has  been  hollowed  out  for  that  very  purpose. 
He  is  none  other  than  financier  Charles  J.  Clay  brook  himself,  who  has  learned 
to  be  quite  handy  around  the  camps.  He  is  slimmer,  harder,  and  there  is  a  new 
light  in  his  eye.  His  muscles  do  not  cry  out  now  against  use.  He  still  has  his 
money  belt  with  a  lot  of  money  in  it  around  his  waist,  but  you  would  never  guess 
it.  He  wears  little  else,  and  what  he  does  wear  will  obviously  not  be  with  him 
long.  The  two  begin  to  talk.  «  1 7 

"They  ought  to  be  coming  in  soon,"  says  Claybrook,  setting  the  gourd  down 
and,  with  two  sticks  for  tongs,  dumping  some  hot  rocks  into  it  to  heat  the 
water.  «  18 

"Yes,  any  time  now.  I  want  this  venison  done  because  they  will  be  hungry.  Do 
you  think  they  will  get  any  more  deer?"  «  19 

"Sure,  he  will  find  the  deer  if  anybody  can.  He  never  fails,  i  don't  see  how 
he  does  it."  «  20 

"Do  you  think  he  can  do  it?"  «  2 1 

"You  mean  the  clothes?  Well,  if  he  can't  we  are  in  a  hell  of  a  shape  in  these 
rags.  We'll  all  be  naked  as  Indians  in  ten  more  days,  and  barefooted,  too.  See 
that—"  and  the  financier  extended  his  foot  and  wiggled  all  his  toes.  «  22 

"He  says  we  ought  to  stay  in  this  camp  at  least  ten  days,  until  we  can  get  a  new 
outfit.  I  hope  the  weather  stays  clear  because  you  can't  work  hides  in  wet 
weather."  «  23 

Just  then  two  men  appear  coming  through  the  forest.  They  are  the  profes- 
sor and  the  general,  each  carrying  the  end  of  a  stout  stick  from  which  hangs  a 
deer  suspended  by  thongs  around  its  feet.  They  are  talking  and  laughing  as 
they  come.  The  general's  uniform  is  all  gone  except  some  fragments,  and  there 
is  not  a  sign  of  a  medal.  The  scholar  is  in  no  better  shape  as  to  clothes,  but  the 
physical  change  in  him  is  quite  noticeable.  All  the  pallor  has  left  him,  his  shoul- 
ders have  become  almost  erect,  his  complexion  quite  ruddy,  and  it  is  often  men- 
tioned by  the  others  that  he  seems  to  have  the  stomach  of  an  ostrich.  They 
place  the  deer  on  the  ground  and  go  to  work  with  hunting  knives  removing  the 
hide.  Their  conversation  is  beyond  earshot.  «  24 

Now  another  figure  emerges  from  the  forest,  carrying  three  rifles,  his  own  and 
those  of  the  other  two  men.  Jim  Brown's  clothes  are  in  bad  condition,  but  are 

28        PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


perceptibly  better  than  the  garments  of  his  companions.  He  walks  with  the 
swinging  easy  gait  of  an  Indian.  «  25 

Jim  Brown  approaches  the  two  men  who  are  skinning  the  deer  and  watches 
for  a  moment.  "Here,"  he  says,  "let  me  show  you/'  and  he  takes  the  knife  and 
bends  over  the  animal.  "Be  careful  to  see  that  you  separate  the  hide  clean  from 
the  meat  so  that  we'll  have  no  trouble  in  tanning."  He  then  goes  to  the  fire 
where  the  venison  is  roasting.  "How  are  the  ashes  coming?"  he  asks.  «  26 

"Oh,  fine,"  says  the  preacher.  "See,  we  have  quite  a  pile.  I  have  saved  them 
all,  and  have  burnt  only  oak  wood  as  you  said."  «  27 

"Well,  we  can  start  tanning  tomorrow.  I  think  we  have  enough  brains  and 
ashes  to  do  the  job."  «  28 

And  so  the  task  of  frontier  clothes-making  gets  under  way.  Brains  and  ashes 
are  applied  to  deerskins  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  them  soft  and  pliable.  Needles 
are  improvised  from  bone  and  thongs  are  used  as  thread.  We  will  now  leave  the 
men  to  their  labor.  «  29 

On  the  last  day  they  make  their  departure  early.  We  see  them  from  a  distance, 
moving  single  file  across  an  opening  in  the  forest.  At  that  distance  you  can  hardly 
tell  one  from  the  other  because  they  are  all  dressed  alike,  in  skins.  The  first  step 
in  disintegration  has  been  completed;  the  frontier  has  destroyed  the  clothes  of 
civilization.  Yes,  there  is  another  change,  which  we  had  not  at  first  noticed. 
Jim  Brown  is  in  the  lead,  followed  by  Henderson  Fowler.  General  Folwell,  who 
is  having  some  trouble  with  his  moccasins,  brings  up  the  rear.  Men  are  taking 
their  places  on  the  frontier  in  an  order  different  from  that  prescribed  and  sup- 
ported by  civilization.  «  30 

Scene  III.  Time,  a  month  later.  Place,  hostile  Indian  territory,  farther  west. 
For  clays  now  the  party  has  been  in  hostile  country  where  the  Indians  are  on  the 
warpath.  Ours  is  not  a  war  party,  but  it  has  no  choice.  It  must  either  fight  or 
perish.  Henderson  Fowler  had  changed  his  mind  about  shooting  a  gun.  It  was 
necessary  for  him  to  learn  in  order  that  he  might  do  his  part  in  providing  food. 
His  good  eyesight  and  steady  nervous  system  have  made  him  a  crack  shot.  When 
he  thinks  about  it,  he  still  resolves  that  he  will  never  use  the  gun  against  a  human 
being,  even  an  Indian.  «  3 1 

As  we  come  upon  them,  the  party  is  being  attacked.  Indians  seem  to  be  all 
around  them.  The  general  is  lying  behind  a  log,  a  sort  of  frontier  foxhole.  His 
gun  is  near  to  his  shoulder  as  he  watches  a  clump  of  trees  for  movement.  The 
professor's  slim  form  is  protected  by  a  giant  beechnut  tree,  and  his  buckskin 
suit  blends  well  with  the  bark.  The  banker  is  of  course  well  protected,  watch- 
ing a  long  opening,  hoping  that  he  will  get  a  shot.  He  has  forgotten  all  about  the 
money  in  his  belt.  That  leaves  Henderson  Fowler  and  Jim  Brown,  who  are  near 
together.  At  this  moment  things  begin  to  happen  very  fast  in  their  sector.  Two 
Indians  jump  right  out  of  the  forest  in  their  faces.  Jim  Brown  brings  the  leader 
down,  and  that  leaves  him  with  an  empty  gun.  The  other  Indian  keeps  coming, 
is  almost  upon  him  as  Jim  reaches  for  the  only  other  weapon  available,  his  knife. 
He  wishes  for  Fowler's  gun,  but  just  then  the  preacher's  gun  cracks  and  down 
goes  the  Sixth  Commandment.  The  preacher  remembers  later  that  on  this 
memorable  occasion  he  felt  a  strange  sense  of  exaltation,  one  he  had  never  known 
before.  He  was  a  little  ashamed  when  he  thought  of  what  he  had  done,  when 
he  viewed  it  through  his  civilized  eyes;  but  he  did  not  think  of  things  that  way 

JIM    BROWN    KNOWS    PHK   WAY        29 


very  often  now.  After  this  episode  he  is  one  of  the  best  Indian  fighters  in  the  out- 
fit. In  the  new  theology  of  the  forest,  the  Sixth  Commandment  does  not  apply 
to  Indians.  «  32 

We  need  not  follow  the  party  farther  except  to  say  that  all  got  back 
safely.  The  frontier  had  done  more  to  them  than  wear  out  their  clothes. 
It  had  worked  them  over  inside.  We  saw  how  it  happened  to  Henderson 
Fowler.  The  professor  had  lost  his  indigestion,  the  banker  and  the  general 
had  lost  their  habit  of  giving  orders  and  depending  on  others;  all  had 
gained  physical  strength  and  a  large  measure  of  self-reliance.  They  had 
approached  Jim  Brown's  standards,  and  would  have  by  popular  election 
chosen  him  as  the  leader  simply  because  he  knew  how  to  lead  in  that  land. 
Each  of  the  four  had  seen  room  for  expanding  his  own  field  of  action, 
whether  military,  financial,  scholarly,  or  religious,  but  none  had  been  able 
to  do  much  about  it.  That  part  is  another  story.  As  Mr.  Claybrook  removed 
his  buckskin  suit  and  got  into  civilized  clothes,  he  unbuckled  his  money 
belt,  remarking  that  this  had  been  the  most  economical  trip  he  had  ever 
made.  All  the  money  he  had  started  with  was  in  the  belt.  There  was  not 
a  medal  or  button  in  the  whole  outfit.  Whatever  went  into  the  forest,  there 
returned— just  five  men.  «  33 

If  the  reader  can  grant  the  existence  of  Jim  Brown  as  an  example  of  what 
the  frontier  produced,  then  I  ask  him  to  imagine  thousands  just  like  him. 
From  long  before  the  American  Revolution  down  to  the  end  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  the  United  States  was  full  of  his  type  and  more  and  more 
of  them  were  growing  up  all  the  time  on  the  western  fringe.  Even  those 
in  the  interior  were  old  Jim  Browns  who  had  lived  the  life  and  thought 
the  thoughts  a  generation  earlier.  They  still  maintained  their  old  attitude, 
and  in  many  places  their  descendants  maintain  it  today.  «  34 

It  should  be  easy  to  see  how  natural  political  democracy  came  to  this  type. 
These  men  had  already  adopted  everything  pertaining  to  democracy  save 
political  practice.  They  were  living  democracy  in  the  truest  sense  of  the 
word,  and  had  been  ever  since  John  Smith  in  Virginia,  a  plain  and  egotisti- 
cal common  man,  told  a  perishing  colony  that  all  who  would  eat  must  work 
and  made  it  stick  by  a  generous  application  of  cold  water.  It  was  the  Jim 
Brown  type  who  fought  at  King's  Mountain,  who  elected  Andrew  Jackson 
President,  and  then  wrecked  the  White  House  by  climbing  over  the  furni- 
ture after  the  whiskey  to  celebrate  the  victory.  The  American  army  was 

«  13-32  (i)  What  is  the  need,  in  terms  of  Webb's  thought,  of  each  of  his  three 
scenes?  Why  not  only  one  scene?  Two? 

«  33    (j)  Relate  this  paragraph  to  the  three-scene  drama  just  unfolded. 

«  34  and  «  35  (K)  How  in  these  paragraphs  does  the  author  indicate  the  wide  appli- 
cation of  his  fanciful  narrative?  Why  two  paragraphs? 

30        PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


(a  Jim  Brown  army  where— up  to  and  through  the  Civil  War —many  company 
officers  were  elected  by  the  men  and  in  some  instances  the  regimental  offi- 
cers as  well.  In  a  Jim  Brown  army  there  wasn't  a  man  who  did  not  feel 
fully  competent  to  elect  a  general.  The  European  creed  of  "I  know  my 
place"  was  replaced  by  the  frontier  creed,  "I  am  as  good  as  any  man."  And 
the  frontier  man  almost  believed  it.  «  35 


THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (L)  An  analogical  explanation  often  may  be  reduced  to  a 
"proportion"  (comparable  to  a:b::c:d).  Thus  the  second  sentence  of  the  passage  by 
Hugo  (p.  12)  might  be  stated,  "The  road  from  Nivelles:  the  battlefield: :the  left  stroke 
of  capital  A:  the  whole  capital  letter  A."  State  the  main  idea  of  the  whole  passage  in  a 
"proportion'  by  filling  in  the  dashes  in  "the  influence  of  Jim  Brown:  his  compan- 
ions::  : ."  (M)  Webb  purports  to  be  explaining  or  clarifying.  Would 

you  say>  however,  that  it  is  more  than  that?  Is  there  any  evidence  that  he  is  arguing 
on  one  side  of  a  controversial  question?  If  so,  what  is  the  question  and  which  side  is 
he  taking?  Justify  your  answer  by  citing  details  in  the  passage. 


TED  SHANE  Fare  warning:  roadside  indigestion 


ANALYSIS.  In  this  and  the  following  two  selections,  the  author  examines  his  subject 
(a)  to  distinguish  its  component  varjs  and  (b)  to  show  the  relationships  of  tbfisf! 
parts  to  one  another  and  to  the  subject  as  a  whoh.  Technically,  such  a  process  of 
IbgTVtll  division  is  called  analysis 

When  an  author  wishes  to  explain  one  idea,  one  process,  or  one  object,  he  may 
partition  it— to  consider  its  parts.  In  explaining  a  typical  chair,  for  instance,  he 
may  write  about  the  back,  then  the  seat,  then  the  arms,  and  finally  the  legs.  Such 
a  treatment  is  completely  logical  when  all  the  parts  are  considered  and  when  those 
parts  are  mutually  exclusive.  This  procedure  is  called  ''partitioiL" 

When,  by  contrast,  an  author  wishes  to  explain  a  group  of  similar  objects  or 
ideas,  he  may  classify  them  or  report  on  a  classification  of  them.  If  he  is  completely 
logical,  he  divides  the  group  into  subgroups  according  to  some  consistent  principle. 
Thus  John  Stuart  Mill  divided  opinions  into  the  following  categories:  (a)  those 
which  are  true,  (b)  those  which  are  false,  (c)  those  which  are  partly  true  and 
partly  false.  His  method  of  classification  was  according  to  one  principle— truth  or 
falsity.  This  principle  satisfied  other  demands  of  logic:  it  was  complete,  and  at  the 
same  time  no  overlapping  was  possible.  This  second  type  of  analysis  is  called 
"classification." 

A*  times ^writers  of  analyses  follow  less  rigorous  procedures  than  those  just 
described;  that  is,  they  use  informal  analysis.  The  completely  logical  analysis  is 
to  such  informal  analysis  as  a  dictionary  definition  of  a  word  is  to  a  less  formal 
explanation  of  its  meaning.  Such  analysis  does  not  attempt  exhaustive  partition 

FARE   WARNING:    ROADSIDE   INDIGESTION        31 


of  classification;  instead,  it  attempts  to  stress  the  most  important  aspects.  It 
should,  however,  be  logical  and  complete  in  its  own  terms. 

The  task  of  the  careful  reader  of  an  analysis,  therefore,  is  to  see  in  as  much 
detail  as  possible  exactly  how  the  author  arrives  at  and  develops  the  divisions 
of  his  discussion. 

The  following  is  from  an  article  on  eating  places  along  the  nations  highways. 
The  author  is  analyzing  the  crimes  against  good  eating  committed  by  roadside 


IT  HAS  occurred  to  me  that  death  on  the  highway  has  a  living  counterpart: 
Roadside  Indigestion.  Disappointing  meals  dominate  the  pleasure 
trips  of  millions  of  motorists,  and  the  memory  of  bad  cooking,  instead  of 
magic  scenery,  remains.  «  I 

Our  national  highways  have  become  ulcer  traps  lined  with  every  con- 
ceivable kind  of  roadside  restaurant—  999  of  every  1000  of  which  serve  the 
same  highly  priced,  badly  mauled  food.  At  one  of  them,  for  example,  we 
dine  sumptuously  on  a  "Genuine  Southern  Cooked  Meal"  which  indicates 
that  the  South  is  still  trying  to  win  the  War  Between  the  States  by  poisoning 
the  North.  We  are  served  a  plastic-model  chicken  fried  in  old  crankcase 
drippings,  glazed  (with  shellac)  sweet  potatoes,  peas  that  can  be  shot  from 
guns,  and  a  gooey  slab  indentified  on  the  menu  as  pecan  pie—  the  carton 
from  the  bakery  evidently  serving  as  both  container  and  crust.  «  2 

Actually  Americans  are  among  the  best  cooks  in  the  world.  The  average 
family  has  delicious,  well-cooked  meals.  But  the  "chef"  in  the  wayside 
Ptomaine  Ptavern  is  something  else  again.  He  has  neither  ability  nor  a 
cooking  code  of  honor.  «  3 

Take  his  vegetable  soup—  if  you  dare.  From  coast  to  coast  it  has  a  stand- 
ard flavor—  Old  Vegetableized  Tapwater.  Monday's  vegetable  soup  be- 
comes Wednesday's  Yankee  bean,  then  Friday's  chowder.  What  other  dish 
can  make  this  claim?  «  4 

Or  take  potatoes.  They  are  generally  boiled  to  death,  then  left  to  stand 
on  a  steam  table  till  they  become  water-logged;  if  French  fried  they  are 
carefully  put  aside  until  they  become  properly  soggy.  And  they  are  usually 
served  cold.  «  5 


Reprinted  from  The  Readers  Digest,  August  1953,  by  permission  of  the  author  and 
publisher. 

«  1-3  (A)  How  many  times  is  the  same  idea  stated  in  these  paragraphs?  (B)  In 
what  different  ways  is  the  idea  stated?  (c)  What  do  these  varied  repetitions  indicate 
to  the  reader  about  the  relevance  of  the  idea  to  the  selection? 

«  2  (  D  )  What  justification  can  be  offered  for  the  ordering  of  the  .sentences  in  para- 
graph 2? 

« 4-6    (E)  By  what  words  are  these  paragraphs  related  to  (a)  previous  ones,  (b)  one 

32         PATTERNS    OF    EXPLANATION 


Or  take  pies.  Today  they  are  assembly-line  baked,  which  assures  them 
that  locked-in  mediocrity.  Bright-red  soft  blobs  glued  together  with  bright- 
red  goo  and  bound  in  brown  wrapping  paper  constitute  cherry  pie.  The 
pippins  in  the  apple  pie  are  can-grown;  the  crust  is  in  the  proprietor  who 
dares  serve  it.  «  6 

Possibly  the  most  serious  single  menace  to  national  digestion  is  the  Golden 
Fried  madness.  From  Miami  to  Spokane  everything  is  being  Golden  Fried, 
including,  of  all  royal  delights,  steak!  I  have  seen  thick  steaks  tossed  cruelly 
into  vats  of  boiling  oil.  Humans  were  never  improved  by  being  boiled  in 
oil,  so  why  steak?  «  7 

Now  it's  perfectly  possible  to  fry  certain  foods  and  have  them  emerge 
edible,  tasty  and  light  on  the  molar.  All  that's  needed  is  fresh  deep  fat 
heated  to  the  right  temperature,  delicately  mixed  dipping  batters  and 
split-second  timing.  But  have  you  ever  contemplated  a  platter  of  soggy, 
long-time-no-sea,  French  fried  question  marks  posing  as  Golden  Fried 
shrimp?  Or  an  aged  chicken  leg,  dipped  into  plaster  of  Paris  and  ground 
mica,  and  plunged  into  a  caldron  of  scalding  fat,  to  emerge  as  a  chunk  of 
armor  plate,  which  brings  joy  to  the  dentist  and  the  bicarb  dispensers?  .  .  .  «  8 

There  are  still  places  where  cooking  is  a  great  art,  and  where  a  juke  box 
is  not  compulsory  equipment  to  drown  out  the  sounds  of  stomach  disorders. 
But  these  are  isolated  oases  in  the  vast  desert  of  culinary  incompetence 
along  our  highways.  .  .  .  «  9 


another?  (F)  Why  is  the  order  of  these  three  paragraphs  preferable  to  other  possible 
orders? 

«7  and  «8  (G)  These  paragraphs  discuss  steak,  shrimp,  and  chicken  leg.  How 
do  these  items  get  grouped  together?  (H)  How  do  the  opening  wotds  of  paragraph  7 
account  for  its  being  placed  at  this  point? 

«  9    ( i )  What  idea  is  repeated  here?  Why? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (j)  Point  out  humorous  devices  used  in  this  selection,  and 
compare  them  with  those  in  Twain s  "Recipe  for  New  England  Pie"  page  6,  which 
has  a  rather  similar  theme.  Why  is  a  humorous  tone  better  here  than  one  of  serious 
indignation?  (K)  Has  the  author  analyzed  roadside  food  according  to  any  single  prin- 
ciple? If  so,  indicate  what  the  principle  is.  If  not,  suggest  a  single  principle  which 
might  have  been  used.  (L)  Is  the  consideration  exhaustive?  Why  or  why  not?  (M)  Find 
a  single  sentence  which  summarizes  the  thought  of  the  passage.  Are  there  any  digres- 
sions? (N)  Prepare  and  present  a  similar  discussion  of  television  or  radio  programs. 


FARE  WARNING:   ROADSIDE  INDIGESTION      33 


LLOYD    MORRIS 


Why  The  Reader's  Digest  is  popular 


ANALYSIS.  Lloyd  Morris,  the  author  of  the  selection  which  follows,  was  long  an 
outstanding  student  of  American  history  and  an  authority  on  social,  economic,  and 
cultural  life  in  the  United  States.  Here  he  discusses  The  Reader's  Digest  as  a  reg- 
ister of  "the  mental  and  spiritual  climate  in  which  many  Americans  are  living." 
What,  he  proceeds  to  ask,  does  an  analysis  of  The  Reader's  Digest,  one  of  Amer- 
ica's most  popular  magazines,  show  about  that  climate?  He  finds  two  curiously 
divergent  attitudes,  one  mental,  the  other  spiritual.  Later  he  relates  this  "appar- 
ent inconsistency'  to  aspects  of  American  life.  The  selection  is  an  interesting 
example  of  informal  analysis. 

A  TEH  TWENTY  years  of  publication,  Wallace  made  two  comments  on  his 
magazine  [The  Readers  Digest].  It  was,  he  said,  dedicated  to  the  ef- 
fort "to  promote  a  Better  America,  with  capital  letters,  with  a  fuller  life  for 
all,  and  with  a  place  for  the  United  States  of  increasing  influence  and  respect 
in  world  affairs."  By  preference,  it  treated  subjects  which  "come  within  the 
range  of  interests,  experience,  and  conversation  of  the  average  person."  In 
the  light  of  its  wide  appeal,  these  statements  made  the  Digest  seem  an  ap- 
proximately accurate  register  of  the  mental  and  spiritual  climate  in  which 
many  Americans  were  living.  «  I 

One  odd  conclusion  about  that  climate  was  likely  to  occur  to  any  attentive 
student  of  the  magazine.  It  suggested  that  the  average  American,  although 
mentally  at  home  in  his  fast-moving  environment,  was  spiritualy  adrift  in  it. 
His  mind  lived  happily  in  the  present,  but  his  heart  apparently  yearned  for 
the  past.  Why  else  should  the  Digest,  most  resolutely  "inspirational"  of  all 
major  periodicals,  likewise  be  the  most  nostalgic  in  its  general  tone?  Its 
"success  stories,"  dealing  with  the  technique  of  getting  ahead  in  the  realm  of 
practical  affairs,  offered  stimulating  models  for  emulation.  Genially,  per- 
suasively, these  miniature  biographies  of  the  victorious  asserted  the  continu- 
ing validity  of  traditional  virtues.  Ambition,  self-reliance,  enterprise,  thrift, 
and  hard  work  were  shown  to  issue  in  material  prosperity  and  happiness. 
If  this  held  true,  need  any  American  fail,  or  be  discontented?  The  Digest 
seldom  conceded  that  any  ground  for  unhappiness  existed.  Yet  its  articles 
dealing  with  what  may  be  called  "the  art  of  living"  often  produced  a  melan- 
choly impression.  From  them  one  inferred  that,  however  armed  with  the 


«  I  (A)  In  your  own  words,  restate  each  of  the  two  comments  made  by  Publisher 
Wallace  on  The  Reader's  Digest. 

«  2  (B)  In  paragraph  2  what  is  the  relationship  between  sentences  2,  3,  and  4?  How 
has  the  relationship  been  made  clear?  (c)  To  which— the  average  Americans  mind  or  his 

34       PATTERNS  OF  EXPLANATION 


traditional  virtues,  many  Americans  were,  in  fact,  neither  conspicuously 
prosperous,  nor  consciously  happy.  « 2 

For  the  Digest  expounded  the  philosophy  of  the  stiff  upper  lip.  It  coun- 
seled the  discovery  of  the  materials  of  happiness  in  resources  too  often 
neglected:  writing  letters,  listening  to  the  sound  of  breakfast  eggs  frying  on 
the  stove,  making  new  acquaintances,  cultivating  some  hobby  costing  noth- 
ing. Most  of  all,  it  emphasized  the  spiritual  rewards  of  material  poverty.  It 
affirmed  that  the  happiest  people  were  mostly  poverty  stricken.  It  extolled 
comparative  poverty  as  a  way  of  escape  from  the  laminated  multiplicities 
of  modern  American  life.  It  declared  that  genuine  values  in  living  are  not 
based  on  superficial  things,  on  printed  paper  money  or  overstuffed  upholstery 
or  underslung  sedans,  but  on  something  deeper,  vital,  spiritual.  The  Digest^ 
did  not  neglect  the  gospel  of  material  success,  so  easily  achieved/lhit  it  also 
argued,  and  forcefully,  that  spiritual  success  is  the  high  compensation  for 
material  failure.  «  3 

Did  this  apparent  inconsistency  have  its  source  in  the  circumstances  of 
average  American  life?  Every  American  craved  the  satisfactions  of  a  well- 
gadgetted  existence,  and  praised  the  merits  of  a  simple  one  while  trying  to 
avoid  it.  He  wanted  to  believe  that  the  highroad  to  wealth  was  still  open  to 
all.  But  the  assumption  was  one  which  his  environment  and  experience  made 
increasingly  dubious.  Did  he  not  need  to  be  assured  that,  remaining  poor, 
he  should  not  feel  humiliated;  that,  lacking  the  printed  paper  money,  he 
could  be  certain  of  the  deeper  spiritual  gold?  A  wide  gulf  stretched  between 
the  standards  of  the  society  in  which  he  lived,  and  his  personal  chances  of 
approximating  them.  What  wonder,  then,  if  his  heart  rebelled  against  its 
"laminated  multiplicities'?  «  4 

Certainly  the  "Better  America"  projected  by  the  Digest,  where  there  would 
be  "a  fuller  life  for  all,"  bore  little  resemblance  to  the  actual  America  of  the 
nineteen-forties:  largely  urban,  highly  industrialized,  with  an  economy 
dominated  by  massive  concentrations  of  capital.  It  looked  very  much  more 
like  the  America  affectionately  remembered  by  those  who  were  middle-aged: 
a  land  of  prosperous  small  towns,  kindly  neighbors,  independent  economic 
units,  and  unlimited  opportunity  for  the  industrious— where  the  daily  life  of 


heart— are  ( a )  the  "success"  stories,  (b)  the  "art  of  living"  articles,  related?  How  has  the 
author  indicated  the  relationships? 

«  3  (D)  How,  precisely,  is  the  thought  of  paragraph  3  related  to  that  of  paragraph  2? 
(E)  Why  is  the  philosophy  expounded  here  that  of  "the  stiff  upper  lip"?  What  two 
embodiments  of  that  philosophy  are  considered? 

«  4  (  F)  How  does  Morris  believe  that  each  element  of  the  "apparent  inconsistency"  is 
related  to  American  life?  (G)  What  are  the  divisions  of  this  paragraph?  Why  is  their 
ordering  helpful  to  the  reader  in  following  the  thought? 

WHY  "  THE  READER'S  DIGFST  "  is  POPULAR      35 


the  average  American  had  justified  his  faith  that  "a  man's  best  assets  are  his 
health,  a  stout  heart,  confidence  in  his  own  integrity/'  Could  that  America  be 
recovered,  its  vanished  way  of  life  reinstated?  The  Digest,  in  making  nos- 
talgia a  vision,  and  memory  a  hope,  probably  spoke  for  the  discontented 
hearts  of  a  large  proportion  of  its  readers.  Whatever  their  economic  situa- 
tion, they  could  take  courage  from  its  confident  optimism,  consolation  from 
its  creed  of  fortitude.  And  they  could  agree  that  "most  of  us  can  at  best  own 
only  a  small  piece  of  earth,  but  the  vast  skies  are  ours  for  a  glance."  «  5 


«  5  (  H  )  What  does  the  author  hold  to  be  characteristic  of  modern  America?  Of  older 
America?  What  details  are  antithetical?  How  is  each  America  related  to  articles  in  the 
magazine? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (i)  What,  in  summary,  would  be  Morris'  explanation  of  the 
popularity  of  the  Digest?  (j)  Do  you  agree  or  disagree  with  Morris'  characterization  of 
the  articles  in  the  Digest?  With  his  analysis  of  the  reasons  for  the  appeal  of  the  magazine? 
(K)  Employing  a  similar  technique,  discuss  the  articles  and  the  appeal  of  some  other  very 
popular  magazine  such  as  Life  or  The  Saturday  Evening  Post. 


CHESTER  R.  LONGWELL 
ADOLPH  KNOPF 

RICHARD  F.  FLINT  Detrital  sediments 


ANALYSIS.  This  selection  represents  the  kind  of  reading  common  in  college  study. 
Like  "The  Survey  Q3R  Method  of  Study"  (p.  #),  it  requires  a  somewhat  different 
approach  from  that  needed  for,  say,  the  Steinbeck  passage  on  page  7.  Writers 
of  textbooks  try  to  present  their  ideas  as  clearly  a$  possible.  But  they  often  have 
to  compress  many  details  into  a  relatively  short  space.  So,  though  the  readers 
chief  task  is,  as  usual,  to  spot  key  ideas  and  to  understand  their  relation,  he  must 
read  slowly  enough  to  grasp  the  significance  of  the  individual  detail,  however 
compressed  it  may  be. 

THE  DETRITAL  sediments  are  classified,  chiefly  according  to  the  size  of  the 
constituent  particles,  into  gravel,  sand,  silt,  and  mud.  «  I 
Gravel  is  a  coarse  sediment  consisting  mainly  of  fragments  2  millimeters  or 
more  in  diameter;  commonly  more  or  less  sand  is  admixed.   Rounded  frag- 


Reprinted  by  permission  from  A  Textbook  of  Geology  by  Longwell,  Knopf  and  Flint, 
published  by  John  Wiley  &  Sons,  Inc. 

«  I  (A)  What  is  meant  by  "detrital"?  (B)  What  do  you  expect  this  piece  to  discuss 
and  in  what  order? 

«  2    (c)  What  words  in  the  first  sentence  of  paragraph  2  connect  it  with  paragraph  1? 

36       PATTERNS   OF    EXPLANATION 


ments  ranging  in  diameter  from  2  to  64  millimeters  are  known  as  pebbles; 
those  from  64  to  256  millimeters,  as  cobbles;  and  those  larger  than  256 
millimeters  (10  inches),  as  boulders.  The  size  ranges  are  essentially  arbi- 
trary, but  are  necessary  for  accuracy  in  description.  «  2 

The  pebbles  and  coarser  detritus  in  gravels  are  more  or  less  round.  At  its 
source  the  detritus  consists  of  irregular,  angular  pieces  of  rock  bounded  by 
joints  or  fracture  surfaces,  but  as  the  result  of  impact  and  abrasion  during 
transport  the  fragments  lose  their  edges  and  corners.  The  farther  they  travel 
the  more  rounded  they  become.  Perfectly  homogeneous  rock  fragments 
become  spheroidal  or  spherical.  Fragments  having  planes  of  weakness,  such 
as  cleavage  or  foliation,  become  ovoids  or  flat  discs.  Angular  and  sub- 
angular  fragments  in  gravels  indicate,  therefore,  that  they  have  not  traveled 
far  from  where  the  parent  rocks  occur  in  place.  «  3 

During  their  transit  downstream  the  pebbles  of  the  softer  and  less  coherent 
rocks  are  the  first  to  be  reduced  by  abrasion  and  impact  to  the  size  of  sand. 
Consequently,  durable  materials  (such  as  quartz  or  rocks  composed  of 
quartz )  and  coherent,  tough  rocks  predominate  in  gravel  that  is  composed  of 
well-rounded  pebbles.  On  the  other  hand,  gravel  whose  pebbles  have  not 
traveled  far  may  contain  less  durable  minerals  and  rocks,  such  as  feldspar, 
schist,  and  limestone.  Limestone,  in  fact,  occurs  rarely  in  gravels,  because 
it  is  destroyed  not  only  by  abrasion  but  also  by  being  readily  dissolved.  In 
the  gravels  of  arid  regions  limestone  fragments  are  common,  because  of  the 
scantiness  of  the  water  supply.  «  4 

Sand  is  a  detrital  sediment  composed  of  grains  smaller  than  gravel,  gener- 
ally like  granulated  sugar  in  size.  The  range  in  size  of  sand  grains  has  been 
arbitrarily  set  at  2  millimeters  to  \{§  millimeter  in  diameter.  Like  pebbles 
sand  grains  are  more  or  less  rounded.  The  larger  grains  become  rounded 
first;  but  the  smaller  ones,  because  of  the  buffer  action  of  the  water  sur- 
rounding each  grain,  become  rounded  with  difficulty  or  not  at  all,  as  is  well 
shown  by  the  fact  that  all  the  grains  at  the  mouth  of  the  Mississippi  River, 
despite  their  long  transport,  are  angular,  being  below  the  size  at  which 
rounding  by  water  is  effective.  In  general,  river  sands  are  more  angular  than 
lake  or  marine  sands.  Windblown  sands  are  the  most  conspicuously 
rounded,  and  in  the  so-called  millet-seed  sands,  common  in  deserts,  the 


(D)  What  relation  exists  between  "gravel"  and  the  other  three  sediments  mentioned: 
"pebbles"  "cobbles"  and  "boulders"?  (E)  What  type  of  analysis  is  employed  in  para- 
graph 2,  classification  or  partition? 

«  3  and  «  4  (  F  )  Do  paragraphs  3  and  4  deal  with  all  types  of  gravel?  Answer  in  de- 
tail. (G)  How  many  separate  details  are  presented  in  paragraph  3  and  4?  How  do  the 
authors  keep  these  paragraphs  from  becoming  an  excessively  dull  list  of  facts? 

«5    (H)  In  what  way  is  the  size  range  of  sand  particles  more  definite  than  that  of 

DETRITAL   SEDIMENTS        37 


grains  have  become  perfect  spheres  whose  mat  surfaces  resemble  ground 
glass,  owing  to  natural  sandblast  action.  «  5 

Quartz  is  the  commonest  constituent  in  sand,  because  of  its  chemical  in- 
destructibility and  its  hardness;  and  unless  otherwise  specified  "sand"  means 
quartz  sand.  However,  rock  fragments  and  many  minerals  other  than  quartz, 
such  as  feldspar,  occur  in  sands;  and  the  beaches  of  coral  islands  are  in 
places  formed  of  "coral  sand"  made  up  of  broken  bits  of  coral  and  other 
organic  remains.  «  & 

Silt  and  mud  are  sediments  composed  of  the  very  finest-grained  products 
of  erosion.  Site  is  so  fine-grained  that,  unlike  sand,  it  will  cohere  when  wet. 
Mud  and  its  principal  variety,  clay,  consist  of  particles  that  are  still  finer 
than  those  of  silt  size— less  than  0.002  millimeter  in  diameter.  Hand  in  hand 
with  this  decrease  in  grain-size  goes  a  change  in  the  minerals  that  make  up 
the  argillaceous  variety  of  mud  termed  clay.  Quartz  decreases  in  amount 
and  the  finely  flaky  minerals  increase.  The  reason  for  this  is  that  during 
transportation  the  flaky  minerals,  because  of  their  easy  cleavability,  become 
comminuted  to  the  tiniest  flakelets,  and  on  account  of  their  great  tendency 
to  float,  these  flakelets  are  slow  in  settling  to  the  bottom.  They  are  in  fact 
so  minute  that  most  of  them  cannot  be  certainly  identified  even  with  the 
most  powerful  microscope;  consequently,  in  recent  years  the  more  potent 
method  of  identification  by  X-ray  analysis  is  being  used,  and  the  composi- 
tion of  clays  is  thus  being  established.  «  ?  r^ju-virffc  i&w*  tiffk™1  $ 

The  most  characteristic  and  supremely  important  technologic  property  of 
clay  is  its  plasticity,  by  virtue  of  which  it  can  be  molded  when  wet  into  any 
desired  shape,  and  will  retain  this  shape  on  drying,  This  plasticity  is  caused 
by  the  content  of  flaky  minerals  and  by  the  fact  that  these  flakes  are  sur- 
rounded by  films  of  water,  which  act  as  a  lubricant.  «  8 

Clays,  as  the  products  of  the  deposition  of  the  finest  detritus,  have  a  wide 

gravel?  (i)  Why  are  river  sands  generally  more  angular  than  lake  or  marine  sands? 
Windblown  sands? 

«  6  ( j)  What  preceding  sentence  in  this  text  does  the  first  sentence  in  paragraph  6 
amplify? 

«  7  (K)  Does  the  fourth  sentence  in  paragraph  7  mean  that  the  mineral  make-up  of 
clay  is  different  from  that  of  gravel?  Explain  your  answer.  (L)  From  the  facts  given  in 
preceding  paragraphs  and  in  this  paragraph,  explain  why  there  is  little  quartz  in  clay. 

«  8  and  «  9    (  M  )  What  are  the  chief  characteristics  of  clay? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (N)  What  &  the  meaning  of  the  following  words:  foliation, 
argillaceous,  comminuted,  technologic?  (o)  Identify  the  following  and  give  as  many 
characteristics  of  each  as  you  can:  gravel,  pebbles,  cobbles,  boulders,  sand,  silt,  mud,  clay. 
( p )  What  are  the  main  parts  of  this  selection?  Do  the  parts  overlap?  What  is  the  basis 
for  division  of  the  parts?  Explain  the  use  of  the  word  "chiefly"  in  the  first  sentence. 
What  is  the  relation  of  each  part  to  the  topic  as  a  whole?  What  determines  the  order  of 
the  parts?  (Q)  How  is  the  organization  of  this  selection  different  from  the  organizations 

38       PATTERNS   OF   EXPLANATION 


range  of  composition.  The  most  characteristic  components,  the  flaky  minerals 
already  mentioned,  are  mainly  hydrous  silicates  of  aluminum,  but  include 
also  white  mica  and  chlorite.  These  minerals  are  chiefly  products  of  chem- 
ical weathering.  «  9 

of  the  two  preceding  selections?  (  R  )  In  what  obvious  ways  does  the  style  of  this  passage 
differ  from  the  style  of  the  Steinbeck  selection,  page  7?  Can  you  account  for  these 
differences? 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  Animal  chemistry 

FAMILIAR-TO-UNFAMILIAR  ARRANGEMENT.  Skill  of  the  sort  which  made  Holmes  a 
great  teacher  of  anatomy  in  the  Harvard  Medical  School  contributed  to  this  clear 
explanation  of  the  chemical  constituents  of  the  animal  body.  Because  he  was 
writing  for  a  lay  audience  (the  subscribers  to  The  Atlantic  Monthly),  Holmes 
started  with  something  very  familiar  to  readers  comparatively  untrained  in  sci- 
ence—a boiled  egg.  Then,  by  easy  steps,  he  led  them  to  the  understanding  of  a 
hitherto  unfamiliar  fact— 'the  great  fact  of  animal  chemistry."  The  following 
excerpt  is  from  "Talk  Concerning  the  Human  Body  and  Its  Management." 

TAKE  ONE  of  these  boiled  eggs,  which  has  been  ravished  from  a  brilliant 
possible  future,  and  instead  of  sacrificing  it  to  a  common  appetite, 
devote  it  to  the  nobler  hunger  for  knowledge.  You  know  that  the  effect  of 
boiling  has  been  to  harden  it,  and  that  if  a  little  overdone  it  becomes  quite 
firm  in  texture,  the  change  pervading  both  the  white  and  the  yolk.  Careful 
observation  shows  that  this  change  takes  place  at  about  150°  of  Fahrenheit's 
thermometer.— The  substance  which  thus  hardens  or  coagulates  is  called 
albumen.  As  this  forms  the  bulk  of  the  egg,  it  must  be  the  raw  material  of 
the  future  chicken.  There  is  some  oil,  with  a  little  coloring  matter,  and  there 
is  the  earthy  shell,  with  a  thin  skin  lining  it;  but  all  these  are  in  small 
quantity  compared  to  the  albumen.  You  see  then  that  an  egg  contains  sub- 
stances which  may  be  coagulated  into  your  breakfast  by  hot  water,  or  into  a 
chicken  by  the  milder  prolonged  warmth  of  the  mother's  body.  «  i 

«  I  (A)  Compare  for  interest  and  organization,  this  rephrasing  of  paragraph  1:  "As 
every  schoolboy  knows,  a  chicken  comes  from  an  egg.  Let  us,  then,  take  an  eggt  place  it 
in  hot  water,  and  boil  it  a  while.  If  you  boil  the  egg  long  enough,  it  will  become  quite 
firm  in  texture,  since  as  soon  as  the  water  brings  the  egg  to  150°  Fahrenheit,  the  egg 
begins  to  harden.  An  egg,  then,  you  see,  can  be  coagulated  with  hot  water,  or  if  a  hen 
warms  it  with  her  body  it  can  become  a  chicken.  The  material  which  thus  hardens,  I  may 
inform  you  at  this  time,  is  albumen—the  material  which  is  the  bulk  of  the  egg.  In  addition 

ANIMAL    CHEMISTRY        39 


We  can  push  the  analysis  further  without  any  laboratory  other  than  our 
breakfast-room.  «  2 

At  the  larger  end  of  the  egg,  as  you  may  have  noticed  on  breaking  it,  is  a 
small  space  containing  nothing  but  air,  a  mixture  of  oxygen  and  nitrogen, 
as  you  know.  If  you  use  a  silver  spoon  in  eating  an  egg,  it  becomes  dis- 
colored, as  you  may  have  observed,  which  is  one  of  the  familiar  effects  of 
sulphur.  It  is  this  which  gives  a  neglected  egg  its  peculiar  aggressive 
atmospheric  effects.  Heat  the  whole  contents  of  the  shell,  or,  for  con- 
venience, a  small  portion  of  them,  gently  for  a  while,  and  you  will  have 
left  nothing  but  a  thin  scale,  representing  only  a  small  fraction  of  the  original 
weight  of  the  contents  before  drying.  That  which  has  been  driven  oft  is 
water,  as  you  may  easily  see  by  letting  the  steam  condense  on  a  cold  surface. 
But  water,  as  you  may  remember,  consists  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen.  Now 
lay  this  dried  scale  on  the  shovel  and  burn  it  until  it  turns  black.  What  you 
have  on  the  shovel  is  animal  charcoal  or  carbon.  If  you  burn  this  black 
crust  to  ashes,  a  chemist  will,  on  examining  these  ashes,  find  for  you  small 
quantities  of  various  salts,  containing  phosphorus,  chlorine,  potash,  soda, 
magnesia,  in  various  combinations,  and  a  little  iron.  You  can  burn  the  egg- 
shell and  see  for  yourself  that  it  becomes  changed  into  lime,  the  heat  driving 
off  the  carbonic  acid  which  made  it  a  carbonate. 

Oxygen  Nitrogen  Iron  Magnesia 

Hydrogen  Sulphur  Potash  Phosphorus 

Carbon  Lime  Soda  Chlorine 

This  is  the  list  of  simple  elements  to  be  found  in  an  egg.  You  have  detected 
six  of  them  by  your  fireside  chemistry;  the  others  must  be  in  very  small 
quantity,  as  they  are  all  contained  in  the  pinch  of  ashes  which  remains  after 
you  have  burned  all  that  is  combustible  in  your  egg.  «  3 

Now  this  egg  is  going,  or  rather  was  going,  to  become  a  chicken;  that  is, 
an  animal  with  flesh  and  blood  and  bones,  with  a  brain  and  nerves,  with 
eyes  ready  to  see  and  ears  ready  to  hear,  with  organs  all  ready  to  go  to 
work,  and  a  voice  ready  to  be  heard  the  moment  it  is  let  out  of  its  shell.  The 
elements  of  the  egg  have  been  separated  and  recombined,  but  nothing  has 

to  the  albumen,  the  egg  contains  a  relatively  small  amount  of  coloring  matter,  a  thin 
lining,  and  a  shell." 

«  2    (  B  )  What  justification  is  there  for  making  paragraph  2  a  single  sentence? 

«  3  (c)  Is  there  any  logical  reason  for  introducing  the  elements  in  the  order  given  in 
paragraph  3?  If  so,  what  is  it?  (D)  Why  does  Holmes  not  state  that  these  elements  exist 
in  eggs  and  let  it  go  at  that?  Wouldn't  the  readers  of  The  Atlantic  have  taken  his  word? 
What  effect  does  the  experimental  proof  have  upon  your  attitude? 

«4  (E)  Paragraph  4  is  an  expansion  of  what  sentence  in  paragraph  1?  What  is  the 
purpose  of  paragraph  4?  (F)  In  the  last  sentence  of  paragraph  4,  Holmes  says  that  only 

40        PATTERNS   OF    EXPLANATION 


been  added  to  them  except  what  may  have  passed  through  the  shell.  Just 
these  twelve  elements  are  to  be  found  in  the  chicken,  no  more,  no  less.  «  4 

Just  these  same  twelve  elements,  with  the  merest  traces  of  two  or  three 
other  substances,  make  up  the  human  body.  Expende  Hannibalem;  weigh 
the  great  general,  the  great  thinker,  his  frame  also  may  be  resolved  into  a 
breath  of  air,  a  wave  of  water,  a  charred  cinder,  a  fragment  of  lime-salts,  and 
a  few  grains  of  mineral  and  saline  matter  which  the  earth  has  lent  him,  all 
easily  reducible  to  the  material  forms  enumerated  in  this  brief  catalogue.  «  5 

All  these  simple  substances  which  make  up  the  egg,  the  chicken,  the 
human  body,  are  found  in  the  air,  the  water,  or  the  earth.  All  living  things 
borrow  their  whole  bodies  from  inanimate  matter,  directly  or  indirectly. 
But  of  the  simple  substances  found  in  nature,  not  more  than  a  quarter,  or 
something  less  than  that,  are  found  in  the  most  complex  living  body.  The 
forty-five  or  fifty  others  have  no  business  in  our  organization.  Thus  we  must 
have  iron  in  our  blood,  but  we  must  not  have  lead  in  it,  or  we  shall  be  liable 
to  colic  and  palsy.  Gold  and  silver  are  very  well  in  our  pockets,  but  have  no 
place  in  our  system.  Most  of  us  have  seen  one  or  more  unfortunates  whose 
skins  were  permanently  stained  of  a  dark  bluish  tint  in  consequence  of  the 
prolonged  use  of  a  preparation  of  silver  which  has  often  been  prescribed 
for  the  cure  of  epilepsy.  «  & 

This,  then,  is  the  great  fact  of  animal  chemistry;  a  few  simple  substances, 
borrowed  from  the  surrounding  elements,  give  us  the  albumen  and  oil  and 
other  constituents  of  the  egg,  and  arranging  themselves  differently  during 
the  process  of  incubation,  form  all  the  tissues  of  the  animal  body.  «  7 

twelve  elements  are  to  be  found  in  the  chicken.  Has  he  demonstrated  that  no  more 
elements  exist? 

«  5  (G)  What  assumption  about  the  i elation  of  human  bodies  and  eggs  must  be  true 
if  paragraph  5  is  to  follow  from  paragraph  4?  (u)  What  is  the  meaning  of  "Expende 
Hannibalem"?  What  clues  toward  meaning  are  offered  by  the  words  themselves?  What 
clues  are  in  the  context?  Why,  in  terms  of  the  thought,  should  "the  great  thinker''  be 
mentioned  after  "the  great  general"? 

«  6  ( i )  What  is  gained  by  waiting  until  paragraph  6  to  tell  about  the  elements  which 
are  not  found  in  the  human  body? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (j)  What  is  the  great  fact  of  animal  chemistry?  (K)  How  is 
this  fact  reached  from  the  consideration  of  a  boiled  egg?  Give  the  steps.  (  L  )  What  words 
and  phrases  in  this  selection  would  be  unlikely  to  appear  in  a  technical  article  on  the  same 
subject? 


ANIMAL    CHEMISTRY        41 


CHARLES  DICKENS  Travel  on  the  Ohio  River 


CLIMACTIC  ARRANGEMENT.  Two  things  to  be  noted  about  this  passage  are  the 
selection  of  details  and  the  ordering  of  them.  Sometimes  a  writer  of  factual 
prose  wishes  to  use  a  sentence,  a  paragraph,  or  a  group  of  paragraphs  to  convey 
a  single  impression  to  his  readers.  A  good  way  is  to  select  and  present  a  group 
of  details  each  of  which  contributes  to  that  single  impression.  An  author  bent 
on  conveying,  say,  the  devastating  results  of  poverty  sets  down  detail  after  detail 
about  penurious  living  conditions  in  the  slums;  or  a  writer  impressed  by  the 
benefits  of  country  life  records  only  a  number  of  those  details  ivhich  indicate 
why  rural  life  is  joyful.  In  the  following  passage  from  American  Notes,  notice 
how  Dickens  has  chosen  details  which  emphasize  his  impression  of  the  dismal 
and  wretched  dullness  of  travel  along  the  Ohio  River.  Notice  also  how  the  organ- 
ization which  he  uses  lielps  convey  his  impression.  He  adds  to  the  impact  of  his 
"impressionistic  presentation'  by  ordering  his  details  climactically—by  "building 
up,"  so  to  speak,  from  very  dull  and  distressing  aspects  to  even  duller  and  more 
distressing  ones  and  finally  to  abysmally  dull  and  depressing  ones. 

THE  ARRANGEMENTS  of  the  boat  were  like  those  of  'The  Messenger,"  and 
the  passengers  were  of  the  same  order  of  people.  We  fed  at  the  same 
times,  on  the  same  kind  of  viands,  in  the  same  dull  manner,  and  with  the 
same  observances.  The  company  appeared  to  be  oppressed  by  the  same 
tremendous  concealments,  and  had  as  little  capacity  of  enjoyment  or  light- 
heartedness.  I  never  in  my  life  did  see  such  listless,  heavy  dulness  as 
brooded  over  these  meals:  the  very  recollection  of  it  weighs  me  down,  and 
makes  me,  for  the  moment,  wretched.  Reading  and  writing  on  my  knee,  in 
our  little  cabin,  I  really  dreaded  the  coming  of  the  hour  that  summoned 
us  to  table;  and  was  as  glad  to  escape  from  it  again,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
penance  or  a  punishment.  Healthy  cheerfulness  and  good  spirits  forming  a 
part  of  the  banquet,  I  could  soak  my  crusts  in  the  fountain  with  Le  Sage's 
strolling  player,  and  revel  in  their  glad  enjoyment:  but  sitting  down  with  so 
many  fellow-animals  to  ward  off  thirst  and  hunger  as  a  business;  to  empty, 
each  creature,  his  Yahoo's  trough  as  quickly  as  he  can,  arid  then  slink  sullenly 
away;  to  have  these  social  sacraments  stripped  of  everything  but  the  mere 
greedy  satisfaction  of  the  natural  cravings;  goes  so  against  the  grain  with 
me,  that  I  seriously  believe  the  recollection  of  these  funeral  feasts  will  be  a 
waking  nightmare  to  me  all  my  life.  «  i 


«  I  (A)  What  is  the  effect  of  the  repetition  throughout  the  first  three  sentences  of 
"same"?  (  B  )  Why,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  travelers  did  many  things,  does  Dickens  in 
paragraph  1  tell  us  almost  exclusively  about  their  behavior  at  mealtime?  ( c )  What  other 
impressions  besides  that  of  dullness  do  you  get  of  Dickens'  fellow  passengers?  Explain. 

42        PATTERNS    OF   EXPLANATION 


There  was  some  relief  in  this  boat,  too,  which  there  had  not  been  in  the 
other,  for  the  captain  (a  blunt  good-natured  fellow)  had  his  handsome  wife 
with  him,  who  was  disposed  to  be  lively  and  agreeable,  as  were  a  few  other 
lady-passengers  who  had  their  seats  about  us  at  the  same  end  of  the  table. 
But  nothing  could  have  made  head  against  the  depressing  influence  of  the 
general  body.  There  was  a  magnetism  of  dulness  in  them  which  would 
have  beaten  down  the  most  facetious  companion  that  the  earth  ever  knew. 
A  jest  would  have  been  a  crime,  and  a  smile  would  have  faded  into  a  grin- 
ning horror.  Such  deadly  leaden  people;  such  systematic  plodding  weary 
insupportable  heaviness;  such  a  mass  of  animated  indigestion  in  respect  of 
all  that  was  genial,  jovial,  frank,  social,  or  hearty;  never,  sure,  was  brought 
together  elsewhere  since  the  world  began.  «  2 

Nor  was  the  scenery,  as  we  approached  the  junction  of  the  Ohio  and 
Mississippi  rivers,  at  all  inspiriting  in  its  influence.  The  trees  were  stunted 
in  their  growth;  the  banks  were  low  and  flat;  the  settlements  and  log  cabins 
fewer  in  number;  their  inhabitants  more  wan  and  wretched  than  any  we 
had  encountered  yet.  No  songs  of  birds  were  in  the  air,  no  pleasant  scents, 
no  moving  lights  and  shadows  from  swift  passing  clouds.  Hour  after  hour, 
the  changeless  glare  of  the  hot,  unwinking  sky,  shone  upon  the  same  monot- 
onous objects.  Hour  after  hour,  the  river  rolled  along,  as  wearily  and  slowly 
as  the  time  itself.  «  3 

At  length,  upon  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  we  arrived  at  a  spot  so 
much  more  desolate  than  any  we  had  yet  beheld,  that  the  forlornest  places 
we  had  passed,  were,  in  comparison  with  it,  full  of  interest.  At  the  junction 
of  the  two  rivers,  on  ground  so  flat  and  low  and  marshy,  that  at  certain 
seasons  of  the  year  it  is  inundated  to  the  house-tops,  lies  a  breeding-place  of 
fever,  ague,  and  death;  vaunted  in  England  as  a  mine  of  Golden  Hope,  and 
speculated  in,  on  the  faith  of  monstrous  representations,  to  many  people's 
ruin.  A  dismal  swamp  on  which  the  half -built  houses  rot  away:  cleared 
here  and  there  for  the  space  of  a  few  yards;  and  teeming,  then,  with  rank 
unwholesome  vegetation,  in  whose  baleful  shade  the  wretched  wanderers 


(D)  What  does  Dickens  mean  by  "Le  Sage's  strolling  player"  and  the  "Yahoo's  trough"? 

«2  (E)  State  the  idea  of  paragraph  2  in  a  sentence  of  your  own.  How  does  your 
summary  vindicate  ( a )  the  use  of  the  word  "too"  in  the  opening  sentence,  (b)  the  intro- 
duction of  "lively  and  agreeable"  ladies,  in  a  passage  which  is  supposed  to  show  that  the 
company  was  dull?  (F)  Is  there  anything  incongruous  about  the  sentence  beginning 
"There  was  a  magnetism  of  dulness"?  (  G  )  In  the  last  sentence  of  paragraph  2,  justify,  in 
terms  of  the  impression,  (a)  all  the  adjectives,  (b)  the  structure  of  the  sentence. 

«  3    (  H  )  To  what  new  topic  does  the  author  turn  in  paragraph  3? 

«  3  and  «  4  ( i )  How  are  the  details  in  paragraphs  3  and  4  different  from  those  in 
paragraphs  1  and  2?  (j)  How  is  each  of  the  many  descriptive  adjectives  relevant  to  the 
conveying  of  the  author's  impression? 

TRAVEL   ON   THE   OHIO   RIVER        43 


who  are  tempted  hither,  droop,  and  die,  and  lay  their  bones;  the  hateful 
Mississippi  circling  and  eddying  before  it,  and  turning  off  upon  its  southern 
course  a  slimy  monster  hideous  to  behold;  a  hotbed  of  disease,  an  ugly 
sepulchre,  a  grave  uncheered  by  any  gleam  of  promise:  a  place  without 
one  single  quality,  in  earth  or  air  or  water,  to  commend  it:  such  is  this 
dismal  Cairo.  «  4 


«  4  (  K  )  In  what  sense  is  paragraph  4  a  climactic  one?  Indicate  how  each  of  the  follow- 
ing contributes  to  the  thought  and  feeling  of  the  paragraph:  (a)  the  description  of  the 
marsh,  (b)  the  details  about  the  falsity  of  British  advertisements  of  Cairo,  ( c )  the  figures 
of  speech  employed  in  telling  about  the  Mississippi  River. 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (  L  )  What  specific,  factual  details  does  Dickens  give  you  about 
his  journey  on  the  Ohio?  (  M  )  What  seems  to  be  Dickens'  reaction  to  the  people  and  the 
scenery  he  describes:  sympathy,  boredom,  resentment,  disgust,  curiosity?  Explain  your 
answer  by  pointing  out  details  in  the  passage.  (N)  Point  out  and  justify  the  repetition 
of  words  and  phrases  throughout  the  passage.  Make  a  list  of  favorable  or  neutral  adjec- 
tives that  Dickens  uses  in  the  description  of  his  trip.  ( o )  Upon  what  principle  or  prin- 
ciples has  the  material  in  this  passage  been  organized?  Do  you  find  the  arrangement  more 
or  less  formal  than  those  in  preceding  selections?  Explain  your  answer. 


CARL  BECKER  Democracy 


COMPOSITE.  Those  who  write  dictionaries  have  devised  a  simple  but  logical  sys- 
tem of  definition  which  they  employ  whenever  possible.  This  consists  first  of 
placing  the  object  to  be  defined  in  a  class  of  objects,  and  second  of  showing  how 
it  differs  from  all  other  objects  in  that  class.  "Democracy  is  government  by  the 
people."  Here,  "democracy"  is  placed  in  the  class  of  governments,  and  differen- 
tiated from  all  other  governments  by  the  phrase  "by  the  people." 

But  dictionary  definitions,  though  helpful,  are  often  not  sufficiently  illuminating. 
For  greater  clarity,  more  extended  definitions  may  be  needed.  Writers  of  ex- 
tended definitions  may  find  it  useful  to  utilize,  in  addition  to  the  logical  system 
of  the  dictionary,  a  collection— a  composite— of  expository  methods  such  as  those 
exemplified  by  previous  selections.  Thus  in  his  three-paragraph  extended  defini- 
tion of  democracy,  Becker  follows  the  principles  of  time  arrangement,  cause-to- 
effect  arrangement,  comparison  and  contrast,  analogy,  analysis,  and  climactic 
arrangement  for  a  well-ordered  clarification.  In  miniature,  Beckers  composite  of 
methods  is  typical  of  most  explanations:  longer  articles  and  chapters,  such  as  those 
in  Part  3  of  this  text,  which  are  a  composite  of  several  methods  of  organization, 
are  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception. 

44       PATTERNS   OP  EXPLANATION 


DEMOCRACY,  like  liberty  or  science  or  progress,  is  a  word  with  which  we 
are  all  so  familiar  that  we  rarely  take  the  trouble  to  ask  what  we 
mean  by  it.  It  is  a  term,  as  the  devotees  of  semantics  say,  which  has  no 
"referent"— there  is  no  precise  or  palpable  thing  or  object  which  we  all 
think  of  when  the  word  is  pronounced.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  a  word  which 
connotes  different  things  to  different  people,  a  kind  of  conceptual  Gladstone 
bag  which,  with  a  little  manipulation,  can  be  made  to  accommodate  almost 
any  collection  of  social  facts  we  may  wish  to  carry  about  in  it.  In  it  we  can 
as  easily  pack  a  dictatorship  as  any  other  form  of  government.  We  have 
only  to  stretch  the  concept  to  include  any  form  of  government  supported 
by  a  majority  of  the  people,  for  whatever  reasons  and  by  whatever  means  of 
expressing  assent,  and  before  we  know  it  the  empire  of  Napoleon,  the  Soviet 
regime  of  Stalin,  and  the  fascist  systems  of  Mussolini  and  Hitler  are  all 
safely  in  the  bag.  But  if  this  is  what  we  mean  by  democracy,  then  virtually 
all  forms  of  government  are  democratic,  since  virtually  all  governments, 
except  in  times  of  revolution,  rest  upon  the  explicit  or  implicit  consent  of  the 
people.  In  order  to  discuss  democracy  intelligently  it  will  be  necessary, 
therefore,  to  define  it,  to  attach  to  the  word  a  sufficiently  precise  meaning  to 
avoid  the  confusion  which  is  not  infrequently  the  chief  result  of  such 
discussions.  «  I 

All  human  institutions,  we  are  told,  have  their  ideal  forms  laid  away  in 
heaven,  and  we  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  the  actual  institutions  conform 
but  indifferently  to  these  ideal  counterparts.  It  would  be  possible  then  to 
define  democracy  either  in  terms  of  the  ideal  or  in  terms  of  the  real  form— to 
define  it  as  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people;  or 
to  define  it  as  government  of  the  people,  by  the  politicians,  for  whatever 
pressure  groups  can  get  their  interests  taken  care  of.  But  as  a  historian  I  am 
naturally  disposed  to  be  satisfied  with  the  meaning  which,  in  the  history  of 
politics,  men  have  commonly  attributed  to  the  word— a  meaning,  needless  to 


From  Modern  Democracy  by  Carl  Becker.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  Yale  Uni- 
versity Press. 

«  I  (  A  )  How  does  Becker  make  plain  in  sentence  1  that  he  is  about  to  define  "democ- 
racy"? What  is  gained  by  mentioning  "liberty,"  "science,"  and  "progress"?  (B)  Does 
sentence  2  elaborate  upon  an  idea  which  is  stated  or  one  that  is  implied  in  sentence  1? 
What  serves  as  transition  between  the  two  sentences?  Why  is  a  dash  used  in  the  second? 
What  is  meant  by  "semantics"  "referent,"  and  "palpable"?  (c)  What  does  the  phrase 
"On  the  contrary"  indicate  about  the  organization  followed  in  the  opening  part  of  the 
paragraph?  Precisely  what  is  the  relationship  between  the  first  three  sentences?  (D)  What 
procedure  of  explaining  is  initiated  with  the  phrase  "a  kind  of  conceptual  Gladstone  bag"? 
How  many  of  the  sentences  following  develop  the  phrase?  How?  (E)  What  procedure 
of  organization  is  indicated  by  the  word  "therefore"  in  the  final  sentence?  Trace  the 
steps  in  this  procedure  here. 

DEMOCRACY        45 


say,  which  derives  partly  from  the  experience  and  partly  from  the  aspirations 
of  mankind.  So  regarded,  the  term  democracy  refers  primarily  to  a  form  of 
government  by  the  many  as  opposed  to  government  by  the  one— government 
by  the  people  as  opposed  to  government  by  a  tyrant,  a  dictator,  or  an 
absolute  monarch.  This  is  the  most  general  meaning  of  the  word  as  men 
have  commonly  understood  it.  «  2 

In  this  antithesis  there  are,  however,  certain  implications,  always  tacitly 
understood,  which  give  a  more  precise  meaning  to  the  term.  Peisistratus,  for 
example,  was  supported  by  a  majority  of  the  people,  but  his  government  was 
never  regarded  as  a  democracy  for  all  that.  Caesar's  power  derived  from  a 
popular  mandate,  conveyed  through  established  republican  forms,  but  that 
did  not  make  his  government  any  the  less  a  dictatorship.  Napoleon  called 
his  government  a  democratic  empire,  but  no  one,  least  of  all  Napoleon  him- 
self, doubted  that  he  had  destroyed  the  last  vestiges  of  the  democratic 
republic.  Since  the  Greeks  first  used  the  term,  the  essential  test  of  demo- 
cratic government  has  always  been  this:  the  source  of  political  authority 
must  be  and  remain  in  the  people  and  not  in  the  ruler.  A  democratic  gov- 
ernment has  always  meant  one  in  which  the  citizens,  or  a  sufficient  number 
of  them  to  represent  more  or  less  effectively  the  common  will,  freely  act 
from  time  to  time,  and  according  to  established  forms,  to  appoint  or  recall 
the  magistrates  and  to  enact  or  revoke  the  laws  by  which  the  community  is 
governed.  This  I  take  to  be  the  meaning  which  history  has  impressed  upon 
the  term  democracy  as  a  form  of  government.  «  3 

«  2  (  F  )  How  many  definitions  of  democracy  do  you  find  in  paragraph  2?  How  does 
the  author's  use  of  analysis  relate  to  his  hitting  upon  and  ordering  these?  How  does  the 
use  of  contrast  enter  into  Becker's  favorite  definition?  Show  how  the  last  of  these  defini- 
tions serves  as  a  climax  for  all  that  precedes  and  a  basis  for  all  that  follows. 

«  3  (  G  )  How  does  time  organization  shape  the  opening  part  of  this  paragraph? 
What  are  the  "certain  implications"  and  where  are  they  stated?  Did  the  governments  of 
Peisistratus,  Caesar,  and  Napoleon  exemplify  these  implications  or  the  opposite? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (H)  Go  back  over  the  selection  and  trace  the  main  steps  by 
which  Becker  takes  you  from  a  definition  which  is  vague  to  a  more  specific  concept.  Show 
how  the  use  of  varied  methods  of  organizing  explanation  aided  him  in  taking  these  steps. 


46 


PATTERNS    OF    EXPLANATION 


TECHNIQUES  OF  ARGUMENT 


AGUMENT  appears  in  many  forms: 
political  talks,  sermons,  editorials, 
some  college  lectures,  documentary 
films,  advertising,  indeed  any  spoken  or 
written  discourse  on  a  controversial 
question.  At  its  best,  argument  is  the 
attempt  of  a  sincere  person  to  have 
others  believe  what  he  thinks  is  true  or 
to  have  others  do  what  he  thinks  is 
good. 

Although  it  has  many  identifying 
characteristics,  argument  is  not  to  be 
sharply  set  off  from  explanation  or  ex- 
position. An  understanding  of  exposi- 
tory techniques  is  essential  for  the  care- 
ful reading  of  most  arguments,  and  a 
knowledge  of  argumentative  techniques 
is  helpful  in  analyzing  many  pieces  of 
exposition.  Whatever  fundamental  dis- 
tinction there  is  between  the  two  types 
lies  in  the  author's  basic  purpose.  If 
this  purpose  is  to  clarify,  the  result  is 
exposition;  if  it  is  to  influence  belief  or 
action,  the  result  is  argument.  As  you 
will  see,  therefore,  what  follows  in  this 
section  relates  intimately  to  the  preced- 
ing discussion  of  exposition. 

There  are  several  elements  present  in 
an  argument  that  you  as  a  careful  reader 
must  watch  out  for.  The  first  is  the 
point  that  is  being  argued,  the  unifying 
idea,  called  also  the  conclusion  or  J2£QP- 
(rsttiofi.  \k  this  unifying  idea  is  designed 
to  make  voubelieve  something^  it  is 
called  a  proposition  of  Jact:  ifjt  js  de- 
do 


^  You  can 

se"  tr  th£  (ftff  efence  in  these  two  examples: 


Proposition  of  fact:  Senator  Widgett 
has  a  splendid  record  as  a  public 
servant. 

Proposition  of  policy:  Vote  at  the 
next  election  for  Senator  Widgett. 

Second  are  the  points  of  disagree- 
ment, or  issues.  The  Specific  issues,  61 
"course,  vary  with  the  argument,  but  or- 
dinarily they  fall  into  such  general  fields 
as  the  political,  the  economic,  the  social, 
the  legal,  the  religious,  the  scientific, 
and  the  military.  For  instance,  the 
proposition  of  fact,  "Senator  Widgett 
has  a  splendid  record  as  a  public  serv- 
ant," might  involve  such  specific  issues 
as  the  following:  "Did  Senator  Widgett 
vote  for  tax  reduction?"  "Did  he  work 
for  slum  clearance?"  "Did  he  support 
the  bill  for  the  increase  of  federal  aid 
to  education?"  When  the  argument  is 
in  favor  of  a  proposition  of  policy,  these 
specific  issues  are  frequently  assembled 
under  broader  issues,  ones  which  are 
so  common  that  they  have  come  to  be 
called  stock  issues.  Here  are  the  most 
common  stock  issues  stated  in  the  form 
of  questions: 

Is  there  a  need  for  a  change? 

Is  the  proposal  workable? 

Do  the  advantages  outweigh  the  dis- 
advantages? 

Is  the  proposal  better  than  other  pro- 
posals? 

As  a  reader,  therefore,  you  are  unlikely 
to  have  a  clear  understanding  of  an  ar- 


TECHNIQUES    OF    ARGUMENT        47 


gument,  especially  an  argument  over 
policy,  until  you  are  aware  of  the  stock 
issues  (e.g.,  is  the  proposal  workable?) 
and  the  specific  issues  (e.g.,  is  the  sale 
of  homecoming  badges  on  the  city 
streets  legal?). 

In  addition  to  a  recognition  of  the 
proposition  and  the  issues,  careful  read- 
ing of  arguments  requires  critical  ex- 
amination of  two  other  elements,  the 
methods  of  reasoning  and  the  emotional 
appeals.  Roughly,  these  compose  the 
logic  and  the  psychology  of  argument. 
Each  of  these  is  dealt  with  in  some  de- 
tail on  the  pages  immediately  1  olio  wing 
in  order  that  you  may  observe  some  of 
the  basic  ways  in  which  people  reason 
and  in  which  they  formulate  iheir  ap- 
peals. The  problems  are  isolated  in 
these  selections  for  the  purpose  of  close 
analysis,  but  in  the  typical  argu- 
ment the  writer  or  speaker  combines  as 
many  ways  of  reasoning  and  as  many 
appeals  to  the  emotion  as  he  thinks  nec- 
essary to  achieve  his  objective. 

It  should  be  noted  in  passing  that 
much  argument  is  really  counter- 
argument, or  refutation.  Indeed  some 
rhetoricians  are  willing  to  say  that 
there  is  no  longer  any  argument  in  the 


first  instance,  that  all  arguments  either 
explicitly  or  by  implication  are  counter- 
arguments. When  you  encounter  ob- 
vious refutation,  watch  for  the  author 
to  do  such  things  as  these:  (1)  show 
that  his  opponent  is  biased  or  unquali- 
fied, (2)  demonstrate  that  his  oppo- 
nent's facts  are  inaccurate,  (3)  show 
that  his  opponent's  authorities  and 
sources  of  information  are  prejudiced 
or  inadequate,  (4)  demonstrate  that 
his  opponent's  reasoning  is  fallacious, 
(5)  employ  various  psychologically 
eflective  devices,  such  as  reducing  the 
opponent's  argument  to  absurdity  or 
reducing  it  to  two  alternatives  neither 
of  which  is  acceptable. 

At  first  the  reading  of  arguments  may 
seem  like  a  slow  and  arduous  process. 
Actually  this  need  not  be  so.  After  some 
practice  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  read  argument  as  easily  as 
you  read  exposition,  provided  you  read 
with  a  purpose.  That  purpose  is  to  dis- 
cover the  writer's  main  proposition,  his 
major  issues,  his  lines  of  reasoning,  and 
his  emotional  appeals.  Only  by  so  doing 
will  you  increase  your  speed  and  your 
ability  for  critical  comprehension  of  the 
selection. 


48 


TECHNIQUES   OF    ARGUMENT 


The  logic  of  argument 

CAREY  MCWILLIAMS  The  marginal  man 

ARGUMENT  BASED  ON  DETAILS.  An  argument  based  on  details  is  one  in  which  the 
writer  reaches  his  conclusion  or  proposition  only  after  a  careful  consideration  of 
the  relevant  circumstances.  In  its  pure  form  this  is  inductive  reasoning  (reasoning 
from  particulars  to  generalizations)  and  is  inevitabhj  in  support  of  a  proposition 
of  fact.  Indeed,  there  is  no  difference  between  this  kind  of  argument  and  ex- 
position except  that  the  question  being  considered  is  more  obviously  contro- 
versial In  reading  such  arguments  you  should  be  careful  to  distinguish  between 
the  method  of  reasoning  and  the  order  of  presentation.  An  author  may  state 
his  proposition  first  even  though  from  the  standpoint  of  logic  it  is  a  conclusion 
to  be  drawn  only  after  a  study  of  the  facts. 

"The  Marginal  Man"  printed  below,  is  an  argument  based  on  details.  It  is  an 
excerpt  taken  from  the  beginning  of  Chapter  VI  of  Carey  McWilliams'  book 
entitled  A  Mask  for  Privilege.  The  author  served  for  four  years  as  Commissioner 
of  Immigration  and  Housing  in  California,  where  he  had  the  opportunity  to 
study  minority -group  problems. 

THE  FORMS  of  discrimination  traced  in  the  preceding  chapter  are  essen- 
tially reflections  of  a  basic  reality— the  anomalous  position  that  Jews 
occupy  in  the  American  economy.  In  itself  this  position  constitutes  the  best 
evidence  of  a  strong  underlying  pattern  of  anti-Semitism  in  the  United 
States.  Similarly  the  best  proof  of  the  mythical  character  of  the  anti-Semitic 
ideology  is  to  be  found  in  an  examination  of  the  position  which  Jews  occupy 
in  our  economy.  For  the  notion  that  Jews  dominate  or  control  the  American 
economy  is  one  of  the  greatest  myths  of  our  time.  «  I 

The  quickest  way  to  define  the  position  that  Jews  occupy  in  the  American 
economy  is  to  mark  off  the  fields  in  which  Jewish  participation  is  nonexistent 
or  of  negligible  importance.  This  of  course  constitutes  a  reversal  of  the  anti- 
Semite's  technique,  for  he  always  starts  by  defining  the  areas  in  which  Jews 

From  A  Mask  for  Privilege  by  Carey  McWilliams.  Copyright  1947,  1948  by  Carey 
McWilliams.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

«  I  (A)  What  is  the  author  doing  in  the  first  two  sentences?  (B)  Of  what  importance 
is  the  third  sentence  to  the  selection  as  a  whole? 

«  2  (c)  What  is  to  be  said  for  the  authors  technique  of  defining  the  Jewish  question? 
Against  it?  (D)  Are  you  willing  to  accept  a  Fortune  survey  as  a  reliable  authority?  Give 
specific  reasons  based  on  your  study  of  the  magazine.  Does  your  answer  to  this  have  any 
bearing  on  whether  you  are  willing  to  accept  McWilliams'  argument?  (  E  )  What  is  to  be 

THE    MARGINAL    MAN        49 


play  a  prominent  part.  A  brief  examination  of  the  Fortune  survey  (Jews  in 
America,  1936)  will  indicate,  graphically  enough,  those  sectors  of  the 
economy  in  which  Jewish  participation  is  of  negligible  importance.  «  2 

Contrary  to  the  ancient  anti-Semitic  myth,  Jews  are  a  minor  influence  in 
banking  and  finance.  Of  the  420  listed  directors  of  the  19  members  of  the 
New  York  Clearing  House  in  1933,  only  33  were  Jews.  "There  are  practically 
no  Jewish  employees  of  any  kind,"  reads  the  Fortune  survey,  "in  the  largest 
commercial  banks— and  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  many  of  their  customers 
are  Jews."  While  a  few  Jewish  firms,  such  as  Kuhn,  Loeb  &  Company, 
J.  &  W.  Seligman  &  Company,  and  Speyer  &  Company,  have  a  well-estab- 
lished reputation  in  the  investment  banking  field,  Jewish  influence  in  invest- 
ment banking  in  the  United  States  is  wholly  insignificant.  Neither  in 
commercial  nor  in  investment  banking  are  Jews  an  important  factor.  If  the 
national  rather  than  the  New  York  scene  were  examined  in  detail,  it  could 
be  demonstrated  that  Jewish  influence  in  American  banking  is  even  less 
significant  than  the  Fortune  survey  indicates.  For  the  exclusion  of  Jews 
from  the  boards  of  local  banks,  outside  New  York,  is  a  fact  that  can  be 
readily  verified  by  the  most  cursory  investigation.  In  related  fields  of 
finance,  such  as  insurance,  the  Jewish  influence  is  virtually  nonexistent. 
"The  absence  of  Jews  in  the  insurance  business,"  to  quote  from  the  survey, 
"is  noteworthy."  Generally  speaking,  Jews  participate  in  the  insurance  busi- 
ness almost  exclusively  as  salesmen  catering  to  a  preponderantly  Jewish 
clientele.  Nor  do  Jews  figure,  in  any  significant  manner,  in  the  various  stock 
exchanges  across  the  country.  «  3 

If  the  Jewish  participation  in  banking  and  finance  is  negligible,  it  is  vir- 
tually nonexistent  in  heavy  industry.  There  is  not  a  single  sector  of  the 
heavy  industry  front  in  which  their  influence  amounts  to  dominance  or 
control  or  in  which  it  can  even  be  regarded  as  significant.  A  minor  exception 
might  be  noted  in  the  scrap-iron  and  steel  business,  an  outgrowth  of  the 
junk  business,  which  has  been  a  direct  contribution  of  Jewish  immigrants  to 
the  American  economy.  The  scrap-iron  business,  it  should  be  emphasized,  is 
wholly  peripheral  to  heavy  industry  in  general.  Similarly  the  waste-products 
industry,  including  nonferrous  scrap  metal,  paper,  cotton  rags,  wool  rag, 
and  rubber,  is  largely  Jewish  controlled.  But,  here  again,  control  of  waste 
products  is  a  symbol  of  exclusion  rather  than  a  badge  of  influence.  «  4 

The  following  significant  industries  are  all  "equally  non-Jewish,"  according 

said  for  and  against  this  use  of  1936  facts  in  a  1948  book?  Can  you  find  more  recent  sur- 
veys or  discussions  that  bear  out  or  change  the  facts  given  here? 

«  3  (  F  )  What  good  expository  techniques  are  followed  in  this  paragraph?  (  G  )  Point 
out  statistical  proof,  citation  of  authority,  and  generalization. 

*  4    (  H  )  Does  the  author  strengthen  or  weaken  his  case  by  mentioning  the  exceptions? 

50       TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


to  the  Fortune  survey;  namely,  coal,  auto,  rubber,  chemical,  shipping,  trans- 
portation, shipbuilding,  petroleum,  aviation,  and  railroading.  The  important 
private  utility  field,  including  light  and  power,  telephone  and  telegraph,  is 
most  emphatically  non-Jewish;  and  the  same  can  be  said  of  lumber,  agri- 
culture, mining,  dairy  farming,  food  processing,  and  the  manufacture  of 
heavy  machinery.  So  far  as  heavy  industry  is  concerned,  one  can  best 
summarize  the  findings  of  the  Fortune  survey  by  saying  that  Jews  are  the 
ragpickers  of  American  industry,  the  collectors  of  waste,  the  processors  of 
scrap  iron.  «  5 

Jewish  participation  in  the  "light  industries"  field  is  largely  restricted  to 
the  distribution  end.  In  the  manufacture  of  wool,  the  Jewish  influence  is 
slight  (from  5  to  10  per  cent  of  production);  somewhat  higher  in  silk,  it  is 
only  5  per  cent  in  cotton.  In  the  distribution  of  wool,  silk,  and  cotton 
products,  however,  Jews  do  play  a  significant  role.  Their  participation  in 
the  important  meat-packing  industry  is  limited,  as  one  might  expect,  to  the 
production  of  the  kosher  meat  pack.  In  a  few  industries,  such  as  the  manu- 
facture of  furniture,  they  are  an  important  factor.  But  in  most  of  the  light 
industries,  their  numerical  significance  is  often  greater  than  the  volume  of 
production  which  they  actually  control.  In  the  manufacture  of  boots  and 
shoes,  for  example,  they  are  a  40  per  cent  minority  in  numbers  but  control 
only  29  per  cent  of  the  volume  of  production.  In  the  entire  light  industries 
field,  the  principal  exception  to  the  generally  non-Jewish  pattern  of  control 
is  to  be  found  in  the  clothing  industry,  which,  like  the  scrap  business,  might 
properly  be  regarded  as  a  Jewish  contribution  to  American  industry.  «  6 

While  Jews  play  an  important  role  in  the  buying  of  tobacco  and  control 
some  of  the  large  cigar  manufacturing  concerns,  their  participation  in  the 
mass  production  of  cigarettes,  which  is  emphatically  big  business,  is  negli- 
gible. Controlling  about  half  the  large  distilling  concerns,  Jews  fall  far 
short  of  outright  control  of  the  liquor  industry.  In  the  general  merchandizing 
field,  the  important  fact  to  be  noted  is  that,  with  the  exception  of  apparel 
goods,  Jews  have  been  rigidly  excluded  from  the  various  chain-store  enter- 
prises. Jewish  participation  is  virtually  nonexistent  both  in  the  drugstore 
chains  and  in  the  food  distributing  chains.  Woolworth  and  Kress,  for 
example,  are  95  per  cent  non-Jewish.  In  the  mail-order  business,  Mont- 
gomery-Ward and  Sears,  Roebuck  are  both  non-Jewish,  although  it  was 
Julius  Rosenwald  who  built  the  latter  company  into  the  great  institution 

«  5    (i)  Do  you  think  the  last  sentence  is  a  legitimate  inference? 

«  6  (j)  What  are  "light  industries"?  (K)  What  precisely  in  this  context  is  meant  by 
such  expressions  as  "significant  role"  "important  factor,"  "Jewish  contribution  to  Ameri- 
can industry"?  (  L  )  How;  might  an  anti-Semite  present  the  percentages  on  boot  and  shoe 
manufacture?  What  implication  would  he  try  to  leave? 

THE   MARGINAL   MAN        51 


it  is  today.  While  some  of  the  department  stores  in  New  York  and  in  the 
East  are  controlled  by  Jews,  their  influence  in  this  field  diminishes  as  one 
moves  west.  «  7 

Again  contrary  to  popular  belief,  Jewish  participation  in  publishing  is  not 
significant.  In  the  magazine  field,  the  New  Yorker,  the  American  Mercury, 
and  Esquire  are  about  the  only  magazines  that  are  controlled  by  Jews. 
The  measure  of  Jewish  influence  in  this  field  might,  therefore,  be  estimated 
by  comparing  the  circulation  of  these  publications  with  the  circulation  of 
such  magazines  as  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  Collier's,  the  Woman's  Home 
Companion,  Good  Housekeeping,  Look,  and  Time,  Life,  and  Fortune. 
Jewish  participation  in  the  advertising  field  is  about  1  to  3  per  cent  of  the 
total.  However,  they  are  a  fairly  important  factor  in  the  book  publishing 
business  and  in  the  job-and-trade  printing  industry  in  the  larger  cjties;  and, 
in  two  new  industries,  radio  and  motion  pictures,  their  influence's  signif- 
icant. "The  whole  picture  of  industry,  business,  and  amusements,"  concludes 
the  Fortune  survey,  "may  be  summed  up  by  repeating  that  while  there  are 
certain  industries  which  Jews  dominate  and  certain  industries  in  which 
Jewish  participation  is  considerable,  there  are  also  vast  industrial  fields, 
generally  reckoned  as  the  most  typical  of  our  civilization,  in  which  they 
play  a  part  so  inconsiderable  as  not  to  count  in  the  total  picture/'  «  8 


«7  (M)  Does  the  second  sentence,  as  stated,  strengthen  your  confidence  in  the 
author's  objectivity?  (N)  Wliy  is  the  material  of  the  second  half  of  the  paragraph  more 
likely  to  be  convincing  than  that  in  the  first  half? 

«8  (o)  What  do  the  Fortune  cditojs  mean  by  "most  typical  of  our  civilization"? 
Do  you  agree? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (p)  What  is  the  main  proposition?  (Q)  What  specific  issues 
are  suggested  by  the  various  paragraphs?  Formulate  them  in  questions. 


THOMAS  JEFFERSON  The  Declaration  of  Independence 

ARGUMENT  BASED  ON  A  GENERAL  PRINCIPLE.  In  the  preceding  selection,  the  author, 
concerned  with  proving  the  truth  of  a  generalization  about  which  his  audience 
may  have  some  doubts,  gives  many  particular  cases  to  substantiate  the  generaliza- 
tion. In  this  and  the  following  two  selections,  each  author,  concerned  with  justify- 
ing a  particular  case,  tries  to  prove  that  the  particularization  is  one  instance  of  a 
generalization  with  which  the  audience  agrees.  In  the  previous  selection,  the  au- 
thor reasoned  from  particulars  to  generals;  in  the  following  selections,  the  authors 
reason  from  generals  to  particidars.  The  previous  type  of  argument  is  called  in- 
duction; the  type  of  argument  used  in  the  three  following  selections  is  called 

52        TECHNIQUES    OF    ARGUMENT 


deduction.  Rarely  is  either  type  found  in  isolation,  and  in  the  next  three  selections 
you  will  find  that  some  of  the  generalizations  are  reached  inductively  even  though 
the  overall  argument  is  deductive.  One  useful  tip  to  remember  is  that  whenever 
an  author  appeals  for  action,  he  is  reasoning  deductively. 

The  Declaration  of  Independence  gives  us  an  opportunity  to  see  a  deductive 
argument  set  forth  in  formal  fashion.  After  the  introductory  remarks,  the  line  of 
reasoning  goes  like  this: 

(1)  Any  form  of  government  which  proves  destructive  of  the  people's  unalien- 
able  rights  should  be  thrown  off. 

(2)  The  government  of  the  King  of  Great  Britain  has  proved  destructive  of  the 
colonists'  unalienable  rights. 

(3)  The  government  of  the  King  of  Great  Britain  should  be  thrown  off. 

In  a  three-sentence  simplification  like  this  of  a  deductive  argument,  the  first 
statement  is  called  the  major  premise;  the  second,  the  minor  premise;  and  the 
third,  the  conclusion.  A  premise  is  an  assumption;  the  simplification  itself  is  called 
a  syllogism.  Notice  that  in  the  Declaration  the  minor  premise  has  been  reached 
inductively. 

WHEN  IN  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes  necessary  for  one 
people  to  dissolve  the  political  bands  which  have  connected  them 
with  another,  and  to  assume  among  the  powers  of  the  earth,  the  separate 
and  equal  station  to  which  the  Laws  of  Nature  and  of  Nature's  God  entitle 
them,  a  decent  respect  to  the  opinions  of  mankind  requires  that  they  should 
declare  the  causes  which  impel  them  to  the  separation.  «  I 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident,  that  all  men  are  created  equal, 
that  they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain  unalienable  Rights, 
that  among  these  are  Life,  Liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  Happiness.  That  to 
secure  these  rights,  Governments  are  instituted  among  Men,  deriving  their 
just  powers  from  the  consent  of  the  governed.  That  whenever  any  Form  of 
Government  becomes  destructive  of  these  ends,  it  is  the  Right  of  the  People 
to  alter  or  to  abolish  it,  and  to  institute  new  Government,  laying  its  founda- 
tion on  such  principles  and  organizing  its  powers  in  such  form,  as  to  them 
shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  Safety  and  Happiness.  Prudence,  in- 
deed, will  dictate  that  Governments  long  established  should  not  be  changed 
for  light  and  transient  causes;  and  accordingly  all  experience  hath  shown, 
that  mankind  are  more  disposed  to  suffer,  while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to 
right  themselves  by  abolishing  the  forms  to  which  they  are  accustomed. 
But  when  a  long  train  of  abuses  and  usurpations,  pursuing  invariably  the 


«  I  (  A  )  What  must  have  been  the  reaction  of  most  men  to  the  ideas  set  forth  in  this 
paragraph?  What  does  your  answer  prove  about  the  strategic  value  of  beginning  with 
such  a  paragraph? 

«  2    (  B  )  What  is  a  "self-evident"  truth?   ( c )  What  contemporary  interpretations  are 

THE  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE    53 


same  Object  evinces  a  design  to  reduce  them  under  absolute  Despotism, 
it  is  their  right,  it  is  their  duty,  to  throw  off  such  Government,  and  to  provide 
new  Guards  for  their  future  security.— Such  has  been  the  patient  sufferance 
of  these  Colonies;  and  such  is  now  the  necessity  which  constrains  them  to 
alter  their  former  Systems  of  Government.  The  history  of  the  present  King 
of  Great  Britain  is  a  history  of  repeated  injuries  and  usurpations,  all  having 
in  direct  object  the  establishment  of  an  absolute  Tyranny  over  these  States. 
To  prove  this,  let  Facts  be  submitted  to  a  candid  world.  «  2 

He  has  refused  his  Assent  to  Laws,  the  most  wholesome  and  necessary  for 
the  public  good.  «  3 

He  has  forbidden  his  Governors  to  pass  Laws  of  immediate  and  pressing 
importance,  unless  suspended  in  their  operation  till  his  Assent  should  be 
obtained;  and  when  so  suspended,  he  has  utterly  neglected  to  attend  to 
them.  «4 

He  has  refused  to  pass  other  Laws  for  the  accommodation  of  large  dis- 
tricts of  people,  unless  those  people  would  relinquish  the  right  of  Repre- 
sentation in  the  Legislature,  a  right  inestimable  to  them  and  formidable  to 
tyrants  only.  «  5 

He  has  called  together  legislative  bodies  at  places  unusual,  uncomfortable, 
and  distant  from  the  depository  of  their  public  Records,  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  fatiguing  them  into  compliance  with  his  measures.  «  6 

He  has  dissolved  Representative  Houses  repeatedly,  for  opposing  with 
manly  firmness  his  invasions  on  the  rights  of  the  people.  «  7 

He  has  refused  for  a  long  time,  after  such  dissolutions,  to  cause  others  to 
be  elected;  whereby  the  Legislative  powers,  incapable  of  Annihilation,  have 
returned  to  the  People  at  large  for  their  exercise;  the  State  remaining  in  the 
meantime  exposed  to  all  the  dangers  of  invasion  from  without,  and  con- 
vulsions within.  «  8 

He  has  endeavored  to  prevent  the  population  of  these  States;  tor  that 
purpose  obstructing  the  Laws  of  Naturalization  of  Foreigners;  refusing  to 
pass  others  to  encourage  their  migration  hither,  and  raising  the  conditions 
of  new  Appropriations  of  Lands.  «  9 

He  has  obstructed  the  Administration  of  Justice,  by  refusing  his  Assent  to 
Laws  for  establishing  Judiciary  powers.  «  10 

He  has  made  Judges  dependent  on  his  Will  alone,  for  the  tenure  of  their 
offices,  and  the  amount  and  payment  of  their  salaries.  «  1 1 

there  of  the  phrase  "all  men  are  created  equal"?  (D)  Show  how  the  paragraph  moves 
from  more  general  to  more  specific  standards.  (E)  What  is  the  antecedent  for  "this"  in 
the  last  sentence  of  paragraph  2? 

«  3-3 1  (  F  )  What  premise  of  the  argument  do  these  assertions  support?  Why  are  com- 
parable assertions  not  given  in  support  of  the  other  premise? 

54       TECHNIQUES  OF  ARGUMENT 


He  has  erected  a  multitude  of  New  Offices,  and  sent  hither  swarms  of 
Officers  to  harass  our  people,  and  eat  out  their  substance.  «  12 

He  has  kept  among  us,  in  times  of  peace,  Standing  Armies  without  the 
Consent  of  our  legislatures.  «  1 3 

He  has  affected  to  render  the  Military  independent  of  and  superior  to  the 
Civil  power.  «  14 

He  has  combined  with  others  to  subject  us  to  a  jurisdiction  foreign  to  our 
constitution,  and  unacknowledged  by  our  laws;  giving  his  Assent  to  their 
Acts  of  pretended  Legislation:  «  15 

For  quartering  large  bodies  of  armed  troops  among  us:  «  16 

For  protecting  them,  by  a  mock  Trial,  from  punishment  for  any  Murders 
which  they  should  commit  on  the  Inhabitants  of  these  States:  «  l? 

For  cutting  off  our  Trade  with  all  parts  of  the  world:  «  18 

For  imposing  taxes  on  us  without  our  Consent:  «  19 

For  depriving  us  in  many  cases,  of  the  benefits  of  Trial  by  Jury:  «  20 

For  transporting  us  beyond  Seas  to  be  tried  for  pretended  offenses:  «  21 

For  abolishing  the  free  System  of  English  Laws  in  a  neighbouring  Prov- 
ince, establishing  therein  an  Arbitrary  government,  and  enlarging  its  Bound- 
aries so  as  to  render  it  at  once  an  example  and  fit  instrument  for  introducing 
the  same  absolute  rule  into  these  Colonies:  «  22 

For  taking  away  our  Charters,  abolishing  our  most  valuable  Laws,  and 
altering  fundamentally  the  Forms  of  our  Governments:  «  23 

For  suspending  our  own  Legislature,  and  declaring  themselves  invested 
with  power  to  legislate  for  us  in  all  cases  whatsoever.  «  24 

He  has  abdicated  Government  here,  by  declaring  us  out  of  his  Protection 
and  waging  War  against  us.  «  25 

He  has  plundered  our  seas,  ravaged  our  Coasts,  burnt  our  towns,  and 
destroyed  the  lives  of  our  people.  «  26 

He  is  at  this  time  transporting  large  Armies  of  foreign  Mercenaries  to 
compleat  the  works  of  death,  desolation  and  tyranny,  already  begun  with 
circumstances  of  Cruelty  &  Perfidy  scarcely  paralleled  in  the  most  barbarous 
ages,  and  totally  unworthy  the  Head  of  a  civilized  nation.  «  27 

He  has  constrained  our  fellow  Citizens  taken  Captive  on  the  high  Seas  to 
bear  Arms  against  their  Country,  to  become  the  executioners  of  their  friends 
and  Brethren,  or  to  fall  themselves  by  their  Hands.  «  28 

He  has  excited  domestic  insurrections  amongst  us,  and  has  endeavored  to 
bring  on  the  inhabitants  of  our  frontiers,  the  merciless  Indian  Savages, 
whose  known  rule  of  warfare,  is  an  undistinguished  destruction  of  all  ages, 
sexes  and  conditions.  «  29 


«  1 6    (  G  )  W}iat  do  all  the  items  introduced  by  "for"  depend  upon  syntactically? 

THE  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE   55 


In  every  stage  of  these  Oppressions  we  have  Petitioned  for  Redress  in  the 
most  humble  terms:  Our  repeated  Petitions  have  been  answered  only  by 
repeated  injury.  A  Prince,  whose  character  is  thus  marked  by  every  act 
which  may  define  a  Tyrant,  is  unfit  to  be  the  ruler  of  a  free  people.  «  30 

Nor  have  we  been  wanting  in  attention  to  our  British  brethren.  We  have 
warned  them  from  time  to  time  of  attempts  by  their  legislature  to  extend  an 
unwarrantable  jurisdiction  over  us.  We  have  reminded  them  of  the  circum- 
stances of  our  emigration  and  settlement  here.  We  have  appealed  to  their 
native  justice  and  magnanimity,  and  we  have  conjured  them  by  the  ties  of 
our  common  kindred  to  disavow  these  usurpations  which  would  inevitably 
interrupt  our  connections  and  correspondence.  They  too  have  been  deaf 
to  the  voice  of  justice  and  of  consanguinity.  We  must,  therefore,  acquiesce 
in  the  necessity,  which  denounces  our  Separation,  and  hold  them,  as  we  hold 
the  rest  of  mankind,  Enemies  in  War,  in  Peace  Friends.  «  31 

We,  therefore,  the  Representatives  of  the  United  States  of  America,  in 
General  Congress,  Assembled,  appealing  to  the  Supreme  Judge  of  the  world 
for  the  rectitude  of  our  intentions,  do,  in  the  Name,  and  by  authority  of  the 
good  People  of  these  Colonies,  solemnly  publish  and  declare,  That  these 
United  Colonies  are,  and  of  Right  ought  to  be  Free  and  Independent  States; 
that  they  are  Absolved  from  all  Allegiance  to  the  British  Crown,  and  that  all 
political  connection  between  them  and  the  State  of  Great  Britain,  is  and 
ought  to  be  totally  dissolved;  and  that  as  Free  and  Independent  States,  they 
have  full  Power  to  levy  War,  conclude  Peace,  contract  Alliances,  establish 
Commerce,  and  to  do  all  other  Acts  and  Things  which  Independent  States 
may  of  right  do.  And  for  the  support  of  this  Declaration,  with  a  firm  reliance 
on  the  protection  of  divine  Providence,  we  mutually  pledge  to  each  other 
our  Lives,  our  Fortunes  and  our  sacred  Honor.  «  32 


«  31     (H)  Can  you  see  any  logic  to  the  order  of  the  assertions  in  paragraphs  3-31? 

«  32    (i)  What  is  the  function  of  this  paragraph? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (j)  What  specific  issues  are  raised?  (K)  History  is  sometimes 
defined  as  a  record  of  past  events.  What  parts  of  the  Declaration  contain  such  a  record? 
How  does  the  Declaration  differ  in  purpose  from  a  record  of  past  events?  (L)  What  is 
the  explanation  for  the  assertion  made  in  the  introduction  to  this  selection  that  whenever 
an  author  appeals  for  action  he  is  reasoning  deductively? 


56        TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


CHARLES  s.  JOHNSON  We're  losing  our  moral  courage 


ARGUMENT  BASED  ON  A  GENERAL  PRINCIPLE.  Seldom  do  deductive  arguments  ap- 
pear in  so  formal  an  arrangement  as  they  do  in  the  Declaration.  Modern  authors 
present  them  much  more  informally,  so  informally  indeed  that  H  is  only  on  rare 
occasions  that  both  premises  are  made  explicit.  To  recapture  the  author's  line  of 
reasoning,  you  as  the  careful  reader  must  work  back  from  the  conclusion  (which 
in  any  good  argument  will  be  clear)  to  the  assumptions  upon  which  it  is  based. 
Only  by  so  doing  can  you  discover  whether  the  conclusion  is  a  valid  one. 

The  following  is  a  short  opening  talk  made  by  Dr.  Charles  S.  Johnson,  presi- 
dent of  Fisk  University,  at  a  session  of  Town  Meeting  of  the  Air  when  the  question 
for  discussion  was  "Are  We  Losing  Our  Moral  Courage?"  Formalized,  the  argu- 
ment runs  somewhat  in  this  fashion: 
Any  nation  that  allows  to  become  dominant  in  its  national  life  the  excited  search 

for  political  heretics  [and  that  has  all  the  other  characteristics  mentioned  by  Dr. 

Johnson]  is  tosing  its  moral  courage. 
We  are  allowing  to  become  dominant  the  excited  search  for  political  heretics 

[etc.]. 
We  are  losing  our  moral  courage. 

Strongly  implied  is  the  following  argument  based  on  the  preceding  one: 
Any  nation  that  loses  its  moral  courage  will  he  a  weak  and  defeated  nation. 
We  are  losing  our  moral  courage. 
We  will  be  a  weak  and  defeated  nation. 

Notice  how  much  more  informal  these  arguments  become  in  the  actual  presenter 
tion. 

THANK  YOU,  Mr.  Chairman,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  The  subject  is  put  as 
a  question  rather  than  a  fact,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  the  question  itself 
and  the  circumstances  giving  rise  to  it  are  today  a  matter  of  grave  national 
concern.  Moral  courage  is  not  to  be  confused  with  a  display  of  power,  or 
with  reactions  of  fear,  or  the  mere  utterances  of  slogans  and  shibboleths. 
It  is  a  positive  quality,  a  willingness  to  defend  those  fundamental  moral 
principles  which  one  understands  and  believes.  This  quality  has  been  asso- 
ciated with  our  development  as  a  nation,  and  it  has  made  for  a  strength  that 
enables  us  to  say  and  to  know  that  nothing  in  all  history  has  succeeded  like 
America.  «  1 

Our   great  strength   and   phenomenal   growth   in   America   have   been 
founded  on  our  faith  in  the  future  and  in  the  capacity  of  the  individual  to 


America's  Town  Meeting  of  the  Air,  produced  by  The  Town  Hall,  Inc.  over  the  ABC 
Radio  Network. 

«  I     (  A  )  Why  is  it  desirable  to  define  "moral  courage"  in  this  paragraph? 

WE'RE  LOSING  OUR  MORAL  COURAGE     57 


solve  his  problems  and  thereby  create  a  better  world.  This  has  been  the 
steady  theme  of  our  history.  «  2 

But  for  whatever  reason,  less  is  heard  today  of  our  faith  in  the  capacity 
of  man  and  his  moral  strength,  and  more  of  the  impersonal  forces  over 
which  we  have  little  or  no  control— forces  pointing  to  the  destruction  of  our 
security.  Where  there  is  any  feeling  akin  to  helplessness,  more  moral  cour- 
age is  needed.  There  is  undoubtedly  need  for  national  caution  in  this 
period  of  anxiety,  but  we  display  irrational  fear,  loss  of  nerve  and  the  denial 
of  fundamental  principles  in  American  culture,  when  we  allow  to  become 
dominant  in  our  national  life  the  excited  search  for  political  heretics,  the 
indiscriminate  demands  for  loyalty  oaths,  and  activities  that  tend  to  stifle 
spontaneity  and  courage  for  adventure  which  have  been  providing  impetus 
to  the  advancement  of  knowledge.  «  3 

We  are  in  danger  of  defeating  ourselves  when  we  place  a  censorship 
over  the  free  play  of  intelligence  upon  issues,  or  foster  the  urge  and  tendency 
to  turn  the  spirit  of  free  inquiry  into  indoctrination  and  restraint  of  criticism. 
We  are  in  danger  when  we  tolerate  without  protest  sweeping  attacks  upon 
education.  We  know  that  moral  bans  in  human  relationships,  in  the  end, 
transcend  purely  secular  codes  and  customs.  But  knowing  these  things 
there  is  still  indecision,  and  indecision  is  certainly  not  moral  courage.  From 
the  time  of  our  own  national  independence  there  has  been  sympathy  and 
aid  for  the  peoples  who  fought  for  their  freedom  and  independence.  «  4 

The  basic  theme  of  our  democratic  convictions  has  been  human  rights. 
In  character  and  temperament,  we  are  opposed  to  gross  acts  of  inhumanity, 
but  in  these  times  we  are  not  yet  prepared  to  oppose  genocide,  we  hesitate 
about  a  covenant  on  human  rights.  We  find  it  more  feasible  to  desert  the 
principle  of  native  self-rule  in  Indo-China  and  French  North  Africa,  to 
ignore  the  raging  Gehenna  in  South  Africa,  the  areas  in  the  world  most 
vulnerable  to  the  spread  of  communism.  Southeast  Asia  and  Africa  are  as 
yet  getting  comparatively  little  of  the  force  of  our  moral  courage  and 
help.  «  5 

On  the  domestic  scene  we  are  lagging  in  moral  courage  so  long  as  fear 
or  apathy  or  indifference  dictates  silence  on  the  unfulfilled  rights  of  our 
children  to  education,  our  economically  depressed  to  adequate  health  care, 
our  workers  to  security  when  their  bodies  are  worn  out,  and  that  they  have 
these  values  without  regard  to  the  exigencies  of  political  parties.  One  of 
the  strongest  forces  in  the  world  today  is  the  new  and  universal  respect  for 

«  2    (  B  )  What  is  the  function  of  this  paragraph? 

«3  (c)  What  is  at  present  taking  the  place  of  moral  courage?  (r>)  What  are  three 
signs  of  our  loss  of  moral  courage? 

«  4-7    (E)  What  are  additional  signs  of  our  loss  of  moral  courage? 

58       TECHNIQUES   OP  ARGUMENT 


the  worth  and  dignity  of  every  human  personality.  It's  the  core  of  the 
philosophy  of  human  rights,  of  which  civil  rights  is  the  domestic  counter- 
part. There  is  a  lack  of  moral  courage,  if  believing  this  as  Americans,  the 
gap  between  the  principle  of  equality  and  the  reality  of  inequality  is  allowed 
to  continue.  «  6 

There  have  been  great  improvements  in  relations  with  the  racial  and 
religious  minorities  in  recent  years.  No  one  who  observes  and  honors  the 
virtues  of  our  national  life  can  deny  this.  But  these  changes  are  not  yet 
keeping  pace  with  the  compulsions  of  this  present  day.  The  most  danger- 
ous handicap  to  the  extension  of  our  basic  democratic  philosophy  to  the 
other  peoples  of  the  world  is  the  denial  of  its  validity  by  those  who  oppose 
the  extension  of  civil  rights  at  home.  «  7 

If  we  as  a  nation  believe  in  our  own  doctrine  of  human  rights,  whether  in- 
volving race  or  class,  sex  or  religion,  we  will,  under  the  full  light  of  our  new 
national  self -awareness,  give  them  living  reality  now.  The  late  Peter  Mar- 
shall leading  a  prayer  before  the  United  States  Senate  petitioned,  "Help  us 
O,  Lord,  when  we  want  to  do  what  is  right  but  do  not  know  how  to  do  it; 
but  help  us  most,  O,  Lord,  when  we  know  very  well  what  to  do  but  do  not 
want  to  do  it."  «  8 


«  8    (  F  )  What  is  achieved  by  ending  the  argument  with  the  prayer  of  Peter  Marshall? 


THE    PHILADELPHIA    BULLETIN 

In  Philadelphia  nearly  everybody 
reads  The  Bulletin 


ARGUMENT  BASED  ON  A  GENERAL  PRINCIPLE.  Implicit  in  almost  any  piece  of  adver- 
tising is  an  argument  proceeding  from  a  general  principle.  As  in  the  preceding 
talk,  the  elements  of  the  argument,  except  for  the  conclusion,  are  likely  to  be 
not  too  obvious.  An  excellent  test  of  your  ability  to  read  arguments,  therefore, 
is  to  see  whether  or  not  you  can  spot  the  premises  upon  which  an  advertise- 
ment  is  based.  The  famous  slogan  "99  and  44/100  per  cent  pure"  for  example, 
is  clearly  grounded  on  the  major  premise  that  any  product  which  is  pure  is  desirable 
and,  hence,  worth  buying. 

In  the  following  advertisement,  no  statement  appears  except  the  minor  premise 
of  an  argument  that  runs  something  like  this: 
Any  paper  in  Philadelphia  which  nearly  everybody  reads  is  a  paper  I  should  buy 

and  is  one  in  which  1  should  advertise. 

IN   FHrTT.AT>KT.FHIA   ...        59 


The  Bulletin  is  a  Philadelphia  paper  which  nearly  everybody  reads. 

The  Bulletin  is  a  paper  I  should  buy  and  is  one  in  which  I  should  advertise. 

The  cartoon,  of  course,  is  to  attract  attention  and  emphasize  the  fact  that  almost 
everyone  reads  the  Bulletin,  even  under  the  most  extraordinary  conditions. 


Reprinted  by  special  permission  of  The  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

60        TECHNIQUES    OF   ARGUMENT 


NORMAN  COUSINS  Survival  is  yet  possible 


ARGUMENT  BASED  ON  CAUSAL  RELATIONS.  Essentially,  an  argument  based  on  causal 
relations  is  deductive,  for  it  is  built,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  on  a  series  of 
assumptions,  the  most  general  of  which  are  that  every  event  has  its  causes,  and 
that  given  the  same  causes  it  is  highly  probable  that  you  will  get  the  same 
event.  The  patterns  in  which  such  arguments  appear  are  innumerable.  They 
vary  from  a  simple  citation  of  one  cause  for  one  effect  to  a  complex  analysis  in 
which  not  only  many  causes  are  adduced  for  many  effects  but  the  effects  them- 
selves become  causes  for  other  effects.  In  the  following  excerpt  notice  how  your 
understanding  of  the  passage  is  dependent  upon  your  ability  to  follow  its  causal 
reasoning. 

IT  is  A  CURIOUS  phenomenon  of  nature  that  only  two  species  practice  the 
art  of  war— men  and  ants,  both  of  which,  significantly,  maintain  complex 
social  organizations.  This  does  not  mean  that  only  men  and  ants  engage  in 
the  murder  of  their  own  kind.  Many  animals  of  the  same  species  kill  each 
other,  but  only  men  and  ants  have  practiced  the  science  of  organized  de- 
struction, employing  their  massed  numbers  in  violent  combat  and  relying  on 
strategy  and  tactics  to  meet  developing  situations  or  to  capitalize  on  the 
weaknesses  in  the  strategy  and  tactics  of  the  other  side.  The  longest  con- 
tinuous war  ever  fought  between  men  lasted  thirty  years.  The  longest  ant 
war  ever  recorded  lasted  six-and-a-half  weeks,  or  whatever  the  correspond- 
ing units  would  be  in  ant  reckoning.  «  I 

While  all  entomologists  are  agreed  that  war  is  instinctive  with  ants,  it  is 
encouraging  to  note  that  not  all  anthropologists  and  biologists  are  agreed 
that  war  is  instinctive  with  men.  Those  who  lean  on  experience,  of  course, 
find  everything  in  man's  history  to  indicate  that  war  is  locked  up  within  his 
nature.  But  a  broader  and  more  generous,  certainly  more  philosophical,  view 
is  held  by  those  scientists  who  claim  that  the  evidence  of  a  war  instinct  in 
men  is  incomplete  and  misleading,  sfnd  that  man  does  have  within  him  the 
power  of  abolishing  war.  Julian  Huxley,  the  English  biologist,  draws  a  sharp 
distinction  between  human  nature  and  the  expression  of  human  nature. 
Thus  war  is  not  a  reflection  but  an  expression  of  man's  nature.  Moreover, 
the  expression  may  change,  as  the  factors  which  lead  to  war  may  change. 
"In  man,  as  in  ants,  war  in  any  serious  sense  is  bound  up  with  the  existence 


From  the  book  Modern  Man  Is  Obsolete,  an  expansion  of  an  editorial  in  The  Saturday 
Review  of  Literature.  Copyright  1945  by  Norman  Cousins.  Reprinted  by  permission  of 
the  Viking  Press,  Inc.,  New  York. 

«  I    (A)  What  is  gained  by  introducing  this  comparison?  Give  at  least  two  answers. 

SURVIVAL   IS   YET  POSSIBLE        61 


of  accumulations  of  property  to  fight  about.  ...  As  for  human  nature,  it 
contains  no  specific  war  instinct,  as  does  the  nature  of  harvester  ants.  There 
is  in  man's  makeup  a  general  aggressive  tendency,  but  this,  like  all  other 
human  urges,  is  not  a  specific  and  unvarying  instinct;  it  can  be  molded  into 
the  most  varied  forms."  «  2 

But  even  if  this  gives  us  a  reassuring  answer  to  the  question—is  war  inev- 
itable because  of  man's  nature?— it  still  leaves  unanswered  the  question  con- 
cerning the  causes  leading  up  to  war.  The  expression  of  man's  nature  will 
continue  to  be  warlike  if  the  same  conditions  are  continued  that  have 
provoked  warlike  expressions  in  him  in  the  past.  And  since  man's  survival 
on  earth  is  now  absolutely  dependent  on  his  ability  to  avoid  a  new  war,  he 
is  faced  with  the  so-far  insoluble  problem  of  eliminating  those  causes.  «  3 

In  the  most  primitive  sense,  war  in  man  is  an  expression  of  his  extreme 
competitive  impulses.  Like  everything  else  in  nature,  he  has  had  to  fight  for 
existence;  but  the  battle  against  other  animals,  once  won,  gave  way  in  his 
evolution  to  battle  against  his  own  kind.  Darwin  called  it  natural  selection; 
Spencer  called  it  the  survival  of  the  fittest;  and  its  most  overstretched  inter- 
pretation is  to  be  found  in  Mein  Kampf,  with  its  naked  glorification  of  brute 
force  and  the  complete  worship  of  might  makes  right.  In  the  political  and 
national  sense,  it  has  been  the  attempt  of  the  "have-nots"  to  take  from  the 
"haves,"  or  the  attempt  of  the  "haves"  to  add  further  to  their  lot  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  "have-nots."  Not  always  was  property  at  stake;  comparative 
advantages  were  measured  in  terms  of  power,  and  in  terms  of  tribal  or  na- 
tional superiority.  The  good  luck  of  one  nation  became  the  hard  luck  of 
another.  The  good  fortune  of  the  Western  powers  in  obtaining  "concessions" 
in  China  at  the  turn  of  the  century  was  the  ill  fortune  of  the  Chinese.  The 
power  that  Germany  stripped  from  Austria,  Czechoslovakia,  Poland,  and 
France  at  the  beginning  of  World  War  II  she  added  to  her  own,  «  4 

What  does  it  matter,  then,  if  war  is  not  in  the  nature  of  man  so  long  as  man 
continues  through  the  expression  of  his  nature  to  be  a  viciously  competitive 
animal?  The  effect  is  the  same,  and  therefore  the  result  must  be  as  conclu- 
sive—war being  the  effect,  and  complete  obliteration  of  the  human  species 
being  the  ultimate  result*  «  5 

«  2  (B)  What  causal  relation  does  the  author  reject?  On  what  grounds  does  he  reject 
it?  (c)  What  cause  for  war  does  Huxley  discover?  How  does  Cousins  use  this  cause 
in  his  own  argument? 

«  3  (D)  Given  the  present  cause-effect  relation,  does  the  author  think  it  better  to 
remove  the  causes  or  treat  the  effects? 

«  4  (E)  What  does  this  paragraph  do  for  our  understanding  of  the  cause-effect  relation 
previously  established? 

«  5  (F)  What  common  element  is  found  in  the  cause-effect  relation  previously  rejected 
and  the  one  accepted? 

62       TBCHNVQfUBB  OF  ARO9MKNT 


If  this  reasoning  is  correct,  then  modern  man  is  obsolete,  a  self-made 
anachronism  becoming  more  incongruous  by  the  minute.  He  has  exalted 
change  in  everything  but  himself.  He  has  leaped  centuries  ahead  in  invent- 
ing a  new  world  to  live  in,  but  he  knows  little  or  nothing  about  his  own  part 
in  that  world.  He  has  surrounded  and  confounded  himself  with  gaps- 
gaps  between  revolutionary  technology  and  evolutionary  man,  between  cos- 
mic gadgets  and  human  wisdom,  between  intellect  and  conscience.  The 
struggle  between  science  and  morals  that  Henry  Thomas  Buckle  foresaw  a 
century  ago  has  been  all  but  won  by  science.  «  6 

Given  ample  time,  man  might  be  expected  eventually  to  span  those  gaps 
normally;  but  by  his  own  hand,  he  is  destroying  even  time.  Decision  and 
execution  in  the  modern  world  are  becoming  virtually  synchronous.  Thus> 
whatever  gaps  man  has  to  span  he  will  have  to  span  immediately.  «  7 

This  involves  both  biology  and  will.  If  he  lacks  the  actual  and  potential 
biological  equipment  to  build  those  bridges,  then  the  birth  certificate  of  the 
atomic  age  is  in  reality  a  memento  mori.  But  even  if  he  possesses  the  neces- 
sary biological  equipment,  he  must  still  make  the  decision  which  says  that  he 
is  to  apply  himself  to  the  challenge.  Capability  without  decision  is  inaction 
and  inconsequence.  «  8 

Man  is  left,  then,  with  a  crisis  in  decision.  The  main  test  before  him  in- 
volves his  will  to  change  rather  than  his  ability  to  change.  That  he  is  capable 
of  change  is  certain.  For  there  is  no  more  mutable  or  adaptable  animal  in 
the  world.  We  have  seen  him  migrate  from  one  extreme  clime  to  another. 
We  have  seen  him  step  out  of  backward  societies  and  join  advanced  groups 
within  the  space  of  a  single  generation.  This  is  not  to  imply  that  the  changes, 
were  necessarily  always  for  the  better;  only  that  change  was  and  is  possible. 
But  change  requires  stimulus;  and  mankind  today  need  look  no  further  for 
stimulus  than  its  own  desire  to  stay  alive.  The  critical  power  of  change,  says 
Spengler,  is  directly  linked  to  the  survival  drive.  Once  the  instinct  for  sur- 
vival is  stimulated,  the  basic  condition  for  change  can  be  met.  «  9 

That  is  why  the  power  of  total  destruction  as  potentially  represented  by 
modern  science  must  be  dramatized  and  kept  in  the  forefront  of  public 
opinion.  The  full  dimensions  of  the  peril  must  be  seen  and  recognized.  Only 

«6  (G)  Summarize  the  causes  that  in  Cousins'  opinion  are  responsible  for  modern 
man's  obsolescence. 

«  7  (H)  What  are  the  causes  for  the  lack  of  time?  How  does  the  lack  of  time,  being 
first  an  effect,  become  a  cause? 

«  8    (i)  If  desired  effects  are  to  be  achieved,  what  wul  the  causes  have  to  be? 

«9  (j)  What  cause  or  causes  can  produce  change  in  man  through  the  exercise  of 
his  will? 

«  10    (x)  What  sentence  here  is  the  proposition  for  the  entire  selection? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,    (i.)  Is  the  main  proposition  one  of  fact  or  policy?  (M)  What 

SURVIVAL  18  YET  POtOBLB      03 


then  will  man  realize  that  the  first  order  of  business  is  the  question  of  con- 
tinued existence.  Only  then  will  he  be  prepared  to  make  the  decisions  neces- 
sary to  assure  that  survival.  «  '0 


are  the  specific  issues  involved?  What  general  issues?  (  N  )  Outline  the  chain  of  reasoning 
by  which  the  author  reaches  his  main  proposition.  In  doing  so,  try  working  back  from 
the  proposition,  (o)  Do  you  see  any  weaknesses  in  Mr.  Cousins'  argument? 


SYLVIA  WRIGHT  Propagandizing  American  art 

ARGUMENT  BY  ANALOGY:  THE  LITERAL  ANALOGY.  Reasoning  hy  analogy  is  one  of 
the  most  common  methods  of  winning  belief  or  action.  In  practice  it  takes  two 
forms:  the  literal  analogy  and  the  figurative. 

The  literal  analogy  is  sometimes  called  the  logical  analogy,  at  other  times  simply 
argument  by  comparison.  Seen  in  its  broadest  aspect  this  method  is  deductive 
since  back  of  it  is  the  general  assumption  that  two  things  alike  in  many  important 
aspects  are  alike  in  some  other  aspect.  For  example,  since  both  Cleveland  and 
Chicago  are  large,  industrial,  Midwestern,  lakeside  cities,  and  since  Cleveland  has 
found  it  useful  to  have  a  central  railroad  terminal,  it  might  be  argued  tliat  Chicago 
would  find  it  useful  also.  Confronting  anyone  reading  such  an  argument  would 
be  the  special  task  of  determining  whether  the  comparison  is  a  valid  one.  Possibly 
some  important  element  may  tend  to  invalidate  the  whole  argument— like  the 
fact  that  the  trunk  lines  terminate  in  Chicago  rather  than  going  right  through 
as  they  do  in  Cleveland. 

The  following  selection  is  taken  from  an  article  which  appears  in  its  complete 
form  on  pages  241-246.  In  the  article  the  author  is  arguing  that  any  attempt  to 
"sell"  American  culture  simply  through  statistics  is  bound  to  fail  since  culture 
is  not  susceptible  of  explanation  by  statistics.  In  the  selection  given  here  the 
author  shows  rather  amusingly  what  might  happen  if  site  were  writing  proj)- 
aganda  about  French  instead  of  American  culture.  The  author  hopes  that  with 
her  you  will  conclude  that  since  French  propaganda  in  order  to  be  effective 
would  deal  with  specific  artistic  works,  American  propaganda  in  order  to  be  effec- 
tive should  deal  with  specific  artistic  works.  After  studying  the  selection  care- 
fully, turn  to  the  complete  article  to  see  how  this  analogy  fits  into  the  total  con- 
text. 

DURING  THE  WAR,  when  writers  in  the  Office  of  War  Information  had 
to  explain  the  difficulties  of  supplying  our  armies,  they  used  the  fol- 
lowing statistic:   "It  takes  one  ton  of  equipment  to  land  an  American 


Reprinted  from  The  Reporter,  November  25,  1952,  by  permission  of  the  author. 

64        TECHNIQUES    OF    ARGUMENT 


soldier  in  the  European  battle  zone,  and  seven  tons  a  month  to  keep  him 
fighting."  «  i 

This  compact  and  handy  fact  soon  came  so  trippingly  from  various  type- 
writers that  one  editor  used  to  comment  somberly,  "Here  comes  old  one- 
ton-seven-tons  again/'  Old  one-ton-seven-tons  was  one  of  many,  including 
"One-third  of  America's  manpower  is  woman  power"  (war  production)  and 
"From  Guadalcanal  to  Tokyo  is  six  times  the  distance  from  Paris  to  Ber- 
lin." «2 

In  recent  months  I  have  been  working  for  the  State  Department  as  an  edi- 
tor of  a  booklet  called  The  Arts  in  the  United  States,  for  distribution  overseas 
under  the  information  program.  Again  I  tapped  a  mine  of  neat,  self-con- 
tained facts  that  come  easily  to  the  typewriter—this  time  not  about  war  but 
about  American  culture.  In  the  field  of  music,  for  example:  "Since  1936, 
there  has  been  an  enormous  increase  in  the  number  of  summer  music 
schools  and  music  festivals  in  the  United  States."  (I  am  ashamed  to  say 
that  the  word  "burgeon"  often  creeps  in.)  "During  twenty  years  at  the 
Eastman  School  Festival  of  American  Music,  900  orchestral  works  by  more 
than  400  American  composers  have  been  played."  «  3 

The  elemental  and  classic  quote  in  this  galaxy  was  used  by  Frederick 
Lewis  Allen  in  an  article  called  "The  Spirit  of  the  Times"  l  in  the  July  issue 
of  Harpers:  "In  1900  there  were  only  a  handful  of  symphony  orchestras  in 
the  country;  by  May  1951  there  were  659  'symphonic  groups'— including  52 
professional,  343  community,  231  college,  and  a  scattering  of  miscellaneous 
amateur  groups.  Fifteen  hundred  American  cities  and  towns  now  support 
annual  series  of  concerts."  «  4 

I  could  give  you  similar  meaningful  facts  about  American  literature, 
painting,  and  the  other  arts.  «  5 

If  you  write  propaganda  you  need  facts  like  these,  and  it  can't  be  helped 
if  they  become  cliches.  It  can't  be  helped  either  if  things  are  always  enter- 
ing the  main  stream  of  American  culture  or  some  American  art  form  is 
always  coming  of  age.  American  literature  has  come  of  age  at  least  four 


1  See  page  356  in  this  book. 

«  2  (  A  )  How  do  you  know  by  the  end  of  the  second  paragraph  that  the  author  is 
against  an  overuse  of  statistics? 

«  3  (  B  )  What  reason  do  you  get  in  this  paragraph  for  her  disliking  the  use  of  statistics 
in  the  booklet  The  Arts  in  the  United  States?  ( c )  Why  should  she  be  ashamed  that  the 
word  "burgeon"  is  frequently  used? 

«4  (D)  What  reason  can  you  see  for  calling  Frederick  Lewis  Aliens  statement  an 
"elemental  and  classic  quote"? 

«  5    (E)  What  is  the  meaning  of  "meaningful"? 

«  6  (F)  What  else  does  the  author  have  against  facts  as  used  to  advertise  American 
culture? 

PROPAGANDIZING   AMERICAN   ART       65 


separate  times— which  reminds  me  again  of  the  old  OWI,  where  there  were 
four  different  turning  points  for  the  Second  World  War.  «  6 

In  putting  together  a  booklet  on  the  arts  in  the  United  States,  the  Divi- 
sion of  Publications  of  the  State  Department  was  moved  by  the  worthy 
ambition  of  correcting  some  false  impressions  and  convincing  the  outside 
world  that  we  are  a  cultured  people— traditional  European  belief,  the  wails 
of  our  avant-garde,  and  the  general  appearance  of  things  to  the  contrary 
notwithstanding.  What  more  natural  than  to  describe  an  increasing  inter- 
est in  the  arts  all  over  the  country,  the  huge  new  audience  for  classic  ballet, 
the  new  audience  for  artistic  films,  and  even,  on  the  basis  of  Gian-Carlo 
Menotti's  television  opera  "Amahl  and  the  Night  Visitors,"  to  hold  out  hope 
for  television  as  the  source  of  a  huge  new  audience  for  opera?  «  7 

This  is  the  "659-symphonic-groups"  approach  to  American  culture.  I 
think  it's  just,  it's  dignified,  it's  worthy,  and  I  don't  like  it.  «  8 

At  one  point  when  my  colleagues  and  I  despaired  of  producing  a  book- 
let that  would  be  anything  but  boring  in  the  face  of  this  approach,  we  de- 
cided to  be  Frenchmen  producing  a  propaganda  booklet  on  the  arts  in 
France.  It  was  a  breeze.  Outside  pressure  prevented  us  from  arriving  at  a 
complete  table  of  contents,  but  it  contained  something  like  the  following: 
at  least  one  article  on  the  philosophy  of  fashion;  a  hitherto  unpublished  and 
startling  set  of  limericks  from  recently  unearthed  notebooks  of  a  late  great 
French  savant;  a  lyrically  written  article  called  "The  Morality  of  Evil," 
on  the  beauty  of  early  morning  in  the  red-light  district  of  Paris  (this  was 
composed  by  a  new  fifteen-year-old  writer  in  the  jail  where  he  was  serv- 
ing a  term  for  peddling  dope  and  was  illustrated  by  Brassai  or  Cartier-Bres- 
son  photographs ) ;  somewhere  in  the  book  there  was,  of  course,  a  full-page 
photograph  of  Jean  Cocteau's  hands;  the  lead  article,  by  Sartre  and  entitled 
"L'Etre,  ce  nest  pas  moi"  announced  that  Sartre  had  ceased  to  exist  and 
was  therefore  repudiating  existentialism.  «  9 

You  see  what  I  mean.  There  were  no  statistics,  nothing  about  how  the 
population  loved  art,  nothing  about  little  orchestras  sawing  away  in  remote 

«  7  (  G  )  Explain  the  meaning  of  the  transitional  phrase  "What  more  natural  than  to 
describe" 

«8  (H)  Summarize  the  author's  position  on  the  American  effort  to  show  Europeans 
that  we  are  a  cultured  people. 

«9  (i)  What  are  the  chief  differences  between  the  American  propaganda  and  the 
imaginary  French  propaganda? 

«  10    (j)  What  is  the  function  of  this  last  paragraph? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (K)  What  is  the  main  proposition  of  this  selection?  (L)  What 
does  the  analogy  add  to  the  argument?  (  M  )  Do  you  think  it  a  fair  analogy?  (  N  )  Would 
the  argument  have  been  more  effective  had  the  author  compared  actual  French  or  English 
or  Italian  propaganda  with  American?  (o)  If  you  were  interested  in  refuting  the  argu- 

66       TECHNIQUES  OF  ARGUMENT 


ddpartements.  The  French  booklet  took  for  granted  that  France  had  culture 
and  dealt  with  specific  products— the  work  of  artists.  «  '0 

ment,  how  would  you  go  about  it?  (P)  After  reading  the  entire  essay  on  pp.  241-246,  do 
you  think  that  the  author  strengthened  or  weakened  her  case  by  using  this  analogy? 
Explain  your  answer. 


MILLER  The  importance  of  advertising 


ARGUMENT  BY  ANALOGY:   THE  FIGURATIVE  ANALOGY.     This  kind  of  analogy  is 

called  an  informative  analogy  since  its  purpose  is  usually  to  win  belief  or  action 
by  reducing  a  complicated  subject  to  a  relatively  simple  and  presumably  more 
understandable  metaphor.  Often  these  metaphors  are  no  longer  than  a  phrase, 
a  sentence,  or  a  paragraph.  Occasionally,  however,  they  take  over  the  whole  bur- 
den of  the  argument  and  become  allegories  such  as  Bunyans  Pilgrim's  Progress 
and  Swift's  A  Modest  Proposal.  The  following  is  a  short  talk  made  by  Miss 
Nadine  Miller,  former  vice-president  of  C.  E.  Hooper,  Inc.,  the  company  that 
puts  out  the  Hooper  ratings,  which  indicate  the  size  of  radio  and  TV  audiences. 
The  talk  was  one  of  the  opening  set  speeches  on  Town  Meeting  of  the  Air  when 
the  subject  was  "Is  Advertising  Responsible  for  Our  High  Standard  of  Living?" 
In  what  follows  you  can  see  how  a  complicated  situation  is  characteristically 
reduced  to  a  very  simple  one.  What  results  is  not  logical  proof  but  something 
more  understandable  and  possibly  more  appealing  to  the  emotions  than  the  proof 
itself.  In  such  results  lie  the  effectiveness—  and  the  deceptiveness—of  figurative 
analogies. 

FRIENDS,  our  topic  this  evening  is:  "Is  Advertising  Responsible  for  Our 
High  Standard  of  Living?"  The  Answer  is  yes,  as  advertising  has  been 
and  is  the  most  important  single  factor  contributing  to  a  high  standard 
of  living  we  enjoy  here  in  the  United  States—a  standard  so  high  that  what 
are  considered  luxuries  in  other  countries  are  accepted  as  everyday  essen- 
tials here.  Nowhere  else  in  the  world  do  people  enjoy  the  wide  selection  of 
merchandise,  the  convenience  of  buying,  the  high  quality,  the  low  prices, 
and  the  ability  by  the  whole  general  public  to  buy,  that  we  do  in  the  United 
States.   What  has  been  advertising's  part  in  bringing  this  about?  «  I 
Well,  to  paraphrase  a  popular  song,  If  Tda  Known  You  Were  Corning, 

America's  Town  Meeting  of  the  Air,  produced  by  The  Town  Hall,  Inc.  over  the  ABC 
Radio  Network. 

«  I     (  A  )  What  is  the  function  of  the  first  paragraph? 


THE  IMPORTANCE  OP   ADVERTISING 


67 


Tda  Baked  a  Cake,  I  knew  you  were  coming,  so  I  will  bake  you  a  cake. 
Now  any  good  cook  recognizes  that  certain  ingredients  are  necessary  to  bake 
a  cake;  that  they  must  be  carefully  measured  and  mixed;  and  that  each 
has  a  particular  function  such  as  vanilla  for  flavoring,  sugar  for  sweetening. 
All  good  cooks  also  know  that,  while  they  may  bake  an  eggless  or  a  sugar- 
less cake,  or  such,  there  is  one  ingredient  that  is  essential,  and  that  is  baking 
powder,  or  a  leavening  agent.  Without  that,  the  cake  would  not  rise.  Just 
so  with  advertising.  It  has  served  as  the  leavening  agent  in  our  free,  com- 
petitive enterprise  system.  «  2 

As  with  the  cake,  we  can  have  the  finest  production  facilities  in  the  world, 
the  best  possible  means  of  transportation  for  the  results  of  our  production, 
but  unless  advertising  has  created  consumer  desire  and  acceptance,  caus- 
ing the  products  to  be  sold,  our  entire  economic  system  would  be  just  as 
flat  and  worthless  as  a  cake  without  the  leavening  agent.  Unfortunately, 
there  are  those  who  for  one  reason  or  another,  and  most  of  the  reasons  are 
selfish,  would  like  to  see  just  this  happen,  would  like  to  see  our  way  of 
life  changed.  They  are  fully  cognizant  of  the  essential  place  that  advertising 
has  in  maintaining  our  free  enterprise  system  and  the  part  it  can  play  in 
the  future  progress  of  our  country's  economy.  « 3 

They  realize  if  through  the  spreading  of  misinformation  concerning  adver- 
tising they  can  hamper,  restrict  or  stop  advertising,  they  could  make  a 
shambles  of  this  nation  faster  than  an  atom  bomb.  So  that  we  won't  be 
misinformed,  let's  take  the  next  minute  to  examine  what  have  been  adver- 
tising's constructive  values  to  human  good.  If  we  could  whisk  ourselves 
into  space  so  as  to  get  a  good  perspective  of  man's  progress,  we  would 
see  during  the  first  thousand  years  or  so  man  conquering  man,  man  con- 
quering the  stubborn  land  and  pushing  out  into  new  land,  but  the  one 
thing  that  would  stand  out  would  be  how  little  change  there  was  from  age 
to  age.  Designs  and  backgrounds  merged,  but  the  basic  life  pattern  of  no 
progress,  no  comforts,  and  little  culture  remained  from  century  to  cen- 
tury. «4 

Then  in  the  space  of  a  heartbeat  as  time  is  reckoned,  the  world  is  changed. 
Cities,  highways  spring  into  being.  People  by  the  millions  live  in  magic 
homes,  homes  where  night  can  be  turned  into  day,  where  the  coronation 
of  a  queen  half  a  world  away  can  be  brought  right  into  our  living  rooms, 


«  2  (  B  )  In  the  comparison  what  corresponds  to  the  cake?  'What  might  correspond 
to  the  flavoring  and  sweetening?  What  corresponds  to  the  leavening  agent?  (c)  Why  do 
you  suppose  the  comparison  is  made  explicit  only  in  the  instance  of  the  leavening  agent? 

«3  (D)  Who  are  those  that  would  restrict  or  destroy  advertising?  Why  do  you 
suppose  the  author  is  not  more  specific  about  their  identity?  (  E  )  How  is  the  author  de- 
fining "our  way  of  life"? 

68       TECHNIQUES  OF   ARGUMENT 


homes  where  good  health,  education,  and  comforts  are  regarded  as  neces- 
sities, not  luxuries.  Scientists  and  inventors  have  given  us  the  basic  treas- 
ures, one  by  one,  but  it  was  a  concept  which  began  to  develop  in  this 
country  at  the  turn  of  the  century  that  has  set  our  progress  apart  from  all 
others.  «  5 

It  was  the  concept  that  people  are  customers,  customers  whose  wants  are 
almost  infinite  if  one  develops  and  makes  and  sells  things  that  people 
would  like  to  have  at  prices  they  can  afford  to  pay.  World  progress  began 
when  it  was  realized  that  consumer  demand  and  acceptance  are  just  as 
essential  as  the  capacity  to  produce.  We  see  production,  distribution,  neces- 
sary yes,  but  the  introduction  of  these  treasures  to  millions  of  people,  their 
availability  at  a  cost  within  reach  of  the  average  man;  their  very  existence 
in  your  home  and  mine,  are  primarily  due  to  advertising— the  leavening 
agent  for  raising  the  standard  of  living.  «  6 


«  4-6  (  F  )  Here  the  writer  shifts  to  a  literal  analogy:  what-used-to-be  in  comparison 
with  what-now-is.  State  the  analogy  in  your  own  words.  Do  you  think  it  an  accurate  one? 

«  6    ( c )  What  value  is  there  in  returning  to  the  phrase  "leavening  agent"? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (  H  )  Do  you  think  the  figurative  analogy  is  apt  or  far-fetched? 
Support  your  answer,  (i)  In  what  specific  ways  is  the  argument  more  effective  because 
of  the  analogy?  less  effective?  (j)  Define  "proof"  and  show  why  an  analogy  is  not  proof 


MONROE    E.    DEUTSCH 


The  foes  of  the  humanities 


ARGUMENT  BY  AUTHORITY.  This  is  a  type  of  argument  that  you  encounter  daily. 
In  advertising  it  appears  as  testimonials,  in  law  courts  as  testimony  by  witnesses 
and  as  citations  from  previous  judgments,  in  general  argumentative  discourse  as 
quotations  from  authorities  presumed  to  be  qualified  and  unprejudiced.  The 
selection  given  here  was  an  address  by  Dr.  Deutsch  at  a  dinner  session  of  the 
Western  College  Association.  In  an  age  oriented  strongly  toward  science,  Dr. 
Deutsch's  defense  of  the  humanities  would  not  normally  be  as  popular  as  it  once 
might  have  been.  Notice  how  he  strengthens  his  position  by  citing  the  opinions 
of  a  wide  variety  of  authorities. 

To  BE  perfectly  frank,  I  am  not  wholly  clear  as  to  a  definition  of  the 
humanities  or  what  fields  of  study  are  included  under  that  term. 
Webster  defines  it:  "The  branches  of  polite  learning  regarded  as  primarily 

This  speech  by  Monroe  E.   Deutsch   is   reprinted   from   Representative  American 
Speeches:  1952-1953,  ed.  A.  Craig  Baird,  H.  W.  Wilson  Company. 

THE   FOES  OF  THE  HUMANITIES       69 


conducive  to  culture;  especially,  the  ancient  classics  and  belles-lettres;  some- 
times secular,  as  distinguished  from  theological  learning."  This  definition 
does  not  seem  very  helpful.  I  really  don't  know  what  branches  of  learn- 
ing are  "polite"  nor  "regarded  as  primarily  conducive  to  culture."  «  I 

Perhaps  the  words  of  Terence  may  be  sufficiently  broad  to  take  in  every- 
thing that  should  be  covered:  "Homo  sum:  humani  nihil  a  me  alienum  puto. 
(I  am  a  man:  I  think  naught  that  is  human  [humanum]  alien  to  me.")  In 
short,  what  is  concerned  with  human  beings  may  be  regarded  as  falling 
under  the  humanities  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the  term.  Excluded  are  the 
subjects  that  deal  with  matter  as  opposed  to  man.  Physics  and  chemistry 
and  engineering  are  examples  of  fields  outside  of  the  humanities.  «  2 

Accordingly  the  social  sciences  may  be  classed  in  the  humanities.  Cer- 
tainly, history  deals  with  man  and  his  achievements.  But  political  science, 
concerned  with  mankind  in  its  ways  of  governing  itself,  is  also  to  be  in- 
cluded. And  so  too  is  economics  which  deals  with  the  manner  by  which 
mankind  makes  and  earns  a  living.  «  3 

And  yet  I  wonder  whether  the  latter  fields  are  not  concerned  especially 
with  mankind  externally  rather  than  with  the  spirit  of  man.  «  4 

In  the  humanities  I  should  certainly  count  music  and  art.  For  they  are 
the  work  of  humans  and  have  no  meaning  save  in  their  effect  on  humans. 
And  while  the  noblest  examples  of  each  assuredly  deserve  to  be  placed 
beside  the  masterpieces  of  literature,  we  shall  agree,  I  think,  that  works  of 
letters  can  reach  more  of  mankind  and  their  messages  are  clearer;  besides 
each  of  us  can  choose  those  that  have  meaning  for  him,  and  we  do  not 
need  the  external  aid  of  works  of  art  in  galleries  or  music  performed  by 
musicians.  «  5 

The  core  of  the  humanities  is  in  my  judgment  literature— whether  in  our 
own  tongue  or  a  foreign  one.  It  is  literature  which  teaches  us  how  to  live. 
Nor  should  I  hesitate  to  include  philosophy  and  history  too;  you  recall  that 
Clio  is  one  of  the  muses.  «  6 

Think  of  all  that  these  fields  cover— the  works  of  philosophy  and  of  fic- 
tion, the  tragedies  and  the  comedies,  the  orations,  the  epics,  the  lyrics,  the 
histories.  What  a  glorious  phalanx  they  form  and  how  they  raise  us  above 
the  mundane  and  make  us  see  life  as  something  infinitely  greater  than  the 
tasks  which  furnish  us  our  daily  breadl  «  7 

They  teach  us  not  what  the  physical  world  about  us  is  but  what  we  our- 
selves are  and  what  we  may  be.  They  are  the  best  teachers,  the  best  guides, 
in  the  life  we  live  during  these  few  decades  of  ours.  «  8 

«  I  and  «  2  (  A  )  What  is  gained  by  referring  to  Webster  in  defining  the  humanities? 
by  referring  to  Terence? 

«  3-7  (B)  What  does  the  speaker  finally  decide  the  term  humanities  covers? 

70       TECHNIQUES  OF   ARGUMENT 


They  not  only  raise  us  to  higher  spiritual  levels  but  help  us  in  our  rela- 
tions with  our  fellows  and  in  the  pursuit  of  our  own  lives.  They  are  for  living 
far  more  important  than  a  knowledge  of  the  physical  sciences,  far  more  im- 
portant than  information  concerning  the  machinery  of  government  or  the 
laws  of  economics.  Do  not  mistake  me;  for  a  well-rounded  life  these  things 
too  are  necessary.  We  live  in  a  physical  universe,  we  are  citizens  of  a  state, 
and  food  and  shelter  depend  upon  economic  conditions.  «  9 

Walter  Lippmann  said  some  twelve  years  ago  in  an  address  wisely  de- 
livered before  the  American  Association  for  the  Advancement  of  Science: 

Modern  education,  however,  is  based  on  a  denial  that  it  is  necessary,  or  useful, 
or  desirable  for  the  schools  and  colleges  to  continue  to  transmit  from  generation 
to  generation  the  religious  and  classical  culture  of  the  Western  world.  ...  It 
abandons  and  neglects  as  no  longer  necessary  the  study  of  the  whole  classical 
heritage  of  the  great  works  of  great  men.  .  .  .  The  emancipated  democracies 
have  renounced  the  idea  that  the  purpose  of  education  is  to  transmit  the  Western 
culture.  Thus,  there  is  a  cultural  vacuum,  and  the  cultural  vacuum  was  bound 
to  produce,  in  fact  it  has  produced,  progressive  disorder.  For  the  more  men 
have  become  separated  from  the  spiritual  heritage  which  binds  them  together, 
the  more  has  education  become  egoist,  careerist,  specialist  and  asocial.  «  10 

And  these  teachers  of  ours  are  of  all  nationalities,  of  all  periods,  of  all 
languages.  They  include  Plato  and  Thucydides,  Virgil  and  Horace,  Goethe 
and  Schiller,  Moliere  and  Montaigne,  Dante  and  Cervantes,  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  Emerson  and  Whitman.  They  make  us  realize  the  oneness  of 
humanity  and  how  alike  in  essentials  life  is,  whether  or  not  we  possess 
automobiles,  radio,  telephones  and  television.  One  of  the  great  merits  of 
the  humanities  is  that  they  show  the  real  unity  of  mankind.  When  we  deal 
with  the  thoughts  of  great  writers,  whatever  the  language  in  which  they 
are  written,  we  feel  nothing  alien  in  them;  what  they  say  is  all  that  matters, 
and  there  is  nothing  foreign  there  save  the  language  in  which  it  is  expressed. 
I  know  no  better  method  of  creating  international  understanding—yes,  and 
admiration— than  through  a  thoughtful  study  of  the  writings  of  the  great 
figures  of  all  lands.  «  1 1 

What  then  has  happened  to  the  humanities  in  our  time  and  our  land? 
Why  is  it  that  letters  are  pushed  aside?  First  and  foremost  responsible  is 
the  attitude  of  society  to  the  whole  business  of  education.  It  is  assumed  now- 
adays that  young  people  go  to  college  primarily  to  learn  a  profession,  to  fit 
themselves  to  become  lawyers,  physicians,  dentists,  architects,  engineers, 
and  the  like.  In  short,  the  implied  question  always  is:  "Does  this  course 


«  10    (c)  What  generalization  of  the  author's  does  the  quotation  from  Walter  Lipp- 
mann support?  Why  mention  the  audience  to  which  Lippmann  spoke? 

THE  FOES  OF  THE  HUMANITIES       71 


help  me  to  become  an  architect?"  These  professional  curricula  now  have 
an  underpinning  of  preprofessional  courses.  Yet  the  years  preceding  entry 
into  law  school  or  medical  school  were  assumed  to  be  periods  for  the  educa- 
tion of  human  beings,  not  merely  lawyers  or  physicians.  The  preprofessional 
courses  and  the  emphasis  on  measuring  all  courses  in  the  curriculum  from 
the  standpoint  of  their  utility  in  the  particular  profession— these  are  enemy 
number  one,  the  first  foe  of  the  humanities.  «  12 

But  it  is  not  only  the  strictly  professional  curricula  that  are  enemies  of 
the  humanities.  The  entire  system  which  over-emphasizes  a  major  subject  in 
the  junior  and  senior  years,  and  sets  aside  so  much  of  the  two  preceding 
years  to  preparation  for  the  major,  is  equally  dangerous.  A  prospective 
geologist  is  as  shackled  in  his  program  as  a  prospective  physician.  Here,  too, 
courses  are  weighed  on  the  basis  of  their  utility  to  the  geologist.  The  effort 
is  made  to  turn  out  a  specialist  at  the  time  the  bachelor's  degree  is  conferred 
instead  of  looking  forward  to  graduate  study  as  the  proper  period  for  a  high 
degree  of  specialization.  «  1 3 

Of  course,  behind  these  two  foes  stands  society  which  has  all  too  often 
forgotten  why  universities  and  colleges  exist,  what  they  were  intended  to 
be,  and  thinks  of  them  only  as  furnishing  tools  whereby  a  living  may  be 
earned.  «  14 

In  the  recent  work  They  Went  to  College,  divers  opinions  as  to  the  value 
of  college  and  the  value  of  different  types  of  programs  are  expressed. 
One  letter  reads:  "It  is  regrettable  that  culture  is  inedible."  The  term  in- 
deed that  these  graduates  use  is  "culture,"  and  there  is  in  many  cases  behind 
it  a  sneer,  as  in  this  letter: 

Culture  courses  are  no  longer  needed  to  occupy  a  parlor  or  drawing  room  chair. 
Conversations  over  the  tables  of  night  clubs,  beer  gardens,  baseball  games,  and 
trolley  car  seats  do  not  smack  of  French,  Gothic  architecture,  or  why  the  Greek 
oratory  was  superior  to  our  own.  «  1 5 

In  discussing  such  a  point  of  view,  Professor  Fred  B.  Millett  in  his  work 
The  Rebirth  of  Liberal  Education  says: 

The  normal  extraverted  American  characteristically  finds  his  values  in  things, 
not  in  ideas  or  attitudes,  or  in  the  possession  of  immaterial  goods.  Despite  his 
good  nature  and  his  generosity,  despite  his  ready  response  to  human  suffering, 
he  finds  the  most  defensible  human  goal  in  the  successful  life,  rather  than  the 
good  life,  and  for  him  the  most  incontestable  measure  of  success  is  the  possession 
of  things.  «  1 6 

«  15    (D)  What  is  They  Went  to  College?  To  what  end  is  it  being  quoted? 
«  16    (E)  Does  the  quotation  from  The  Rebirth  of  Liberal  Education  support  or  refute 
the  one  from  They  Went  to  College? 

72        TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


Years  ago  Bliss  Perry  delivered  an  address  at  the  University  of  California 
on  poetry.  After  its  conclusion  President  Benjamin  Ide  Wheeler  assembled 
a  little  group  in  the  library  of  his  home.  Among  others  present  was 
D.  O.  Mills,  banker  and  regent.  On  meeting  Professor  Perry  he  "pro- 
nounced with  finality:  'Mr.  Perry,  Poetry  is  a  fine  thing,  but  Business  is  the 
thing/"  «  17 

Another  foe  of  the  humanities  is  assuredly  the  lack  of  reading—especially 
of  books  by  our  people.  Newspapers— at  least  the  headlines— are  commonly 
read,  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  comics  and  the  sport  pages  are 
the  sections  of  the  papers  most  quickly  perused.  Magazines— save  perhaps 
for  those  abundantly  supplied  with  pictures  or  dealing  with  movie  stars- 
fall  behind  newspapers  in  popularity.  And  books  recede  still  further.  And 
in  this  case  it  is  fiction— I  should  say  current  fiction— that  far  exceeds  the 
reading  of  nonfiction.  Even  fiction  of  a  few  years  ago  is  far  less  often  taken 
out  of  libraries.  Everyone  wants  to  be  up-to-date,  even  if  that  means  reading 
trash.  Advertising  beats  the  drum  for  it,  and  I  sometimes  suspect  that  occa- 
sionally book  reviewers  are  strongly  influenced  by  the  advertising  pages. 
Plato  and  Goethe  and  Milton— and  even  Emerson— do  not  compete  for 
popular  favor  with  Forever  Amber  and  similar  so-called  pieces  of  litera- 
ture. «  is 

Yet  another  of  the  foes  of  the  humanities  is  the  belief  that  a  requirement 
in  English  in  school  or  college  is  intended  merely  or  at  least  primarily  for 
the  purpose  of  teaching  the  student  to  write  acceptable  English,  to  learn 
how  to  paragraph,  how  to  spell,  how  to  avoid  the  obvious  errors  in  writing. 
How  often  the  reading  and  study  of  literature  is  either  neglected  or  at  least 
pushed  into  a  subordinate  position!  Do  not  misunderstand  me— we  should 
of  course  learn  how  to  write  good  English.  I  wonder  whether  absorption 
in  great  literature  is  not  itself  one  of  the  best  teachers.  «  19 

Are  there,  however,  not  other  foes  aside  from  the  external  ones  of  which 
I  have  spoken?  «  20 

First  of  all,  since  our  departments  are  always  departments  of  language 
and  literature,  we  tend  to  busy  ourselves  (I  dare  to  say)  too  much  with 
language,  too  little  with  literature.  For  example,  instead  of  discussing  the 
ideas  with  which  the  masters  of  letters  deal,  we  tend  to  deal  with  transla- 
tion. And  if  a  student,  by  use  of  a  dictionary  gives  the  equivalent  of  the 
words  the  author  has  used,  he  wins  an  "A"  and  the  class  moves  on  to 
the  next  sentence.  When  you  think  of  the  pains  which  the  author  took  to 
choose  precisely  the  right  words  with  the  right  shading,  the  student's 


«  17    (F)  How  is  the  quotation  from  D.  O.  Mills  related  to  the  two  preceding  quota- 
tions? Taken  together,  what  is  the  function  of  the  three  quotations? 


THE   FOES   OF   THE  HUMANITIES       73 


translation  is  to  his  wording  as  a  child's  drawing  is  to  that  of  a  master 
artist  «2i 

A  book  is  a  repository  of  ideas,  not  merely  a  collection  of  words,  to  be 
discussed  as  words.  If  the  latter  were  the  case,  would  we  be  doing  any- 
thing much  more  valuable  than  arranging  beads  by  their  color  or  their 
size?  A  great  work  is  the  result  of  the  agony  of  a  great  mind;  there  are  as 
truly  labor  pains  as  when  a  child  enters  the  world.  Think  of  Virgil  and  the 
time  he  took  to  write  a  page,  to  choose  the  right  word,  the  one  that  most 
accurately  depicted  the  idea  struggling  for  expression.  And  how  casually 
the  word  is  chosen  in  an  alien  tongue  to  translate  what  he  took  such  pains 
to  select!  «22 

We  must  go  beyond  the  words  he  uses  to  the  ideas.  In  short,  it  is  our 
duty  to  deal  with  literature  as  the  expression  of  ideas,  not  as  an  assemblage 
of  foreign  words.  When  I  say  this,  I  say  nothing  at  all  new.  Thus,  John 
Milton  in  treating  of  education  said: 

Seeing  every  nation  affords  not  experience  and  tradition  enough  for  all  kinds 
of  learning,  therefore  we  are  chiefly  taught  the  languages  of  those  people  who 
have  at  any  time  been  most  industrious  after  wisdom;  so  that  language  is  but  the 
instrument  conveying  to  us  things  useful  to  be  known.  And  though  a  linguist 
should  pride  himself  to  have  all  the  tongues  that  Babel  cleft  the  world  into;  yet 
if  he  have  not  studied  the  solid  things  in  them,  as  well  as  the  words  and  lexicons, 
he  were  nothing  so  much  to  be  esteemed  a  learned  man  as  any  yeoman  or  trades- 
man competently  wise  in  his  mother  dialect  only.  «  23 

Another  foe  is  the  notion  that  information  is  all  important,  is  the  mark 
of  an  intelligent  man  or  woman.  Have  you  observed  this  in  radio  programs? 
The  one  entitled  "Information  Please"  is  a  perfect  illustration.  Listeners 
attend  enthusiastically  when  some  prominent  figure  in  public  life  or  the 
stage,  shows  himself  able  to  answer  a  host  of  factual  questions.  And  yet 
one  may  not  be  able  to  tell  what  flowers  are  mentioned  in  Shakespeare  and 
still  understand  Shakespeare  fully.  Professor  R.  M.  Maclver  of  Columbia 
University  has  a  pertinent  example:  "I  have  a  recollection  of  being  at  a  doc- 
toral examination,  a  Ph.D.  examination,  where  questions  like  this  were 
hurled  at  the  candidate  who  was  thereby  qualifying  to  be  called  a  doctor  of 
philosophy:  'Who  was  the  postmaster  general  at  the  time  of  President 
Coolidge?"'  «24 


«23  (c)  What  proposition  of  the  author's  does  the  quotation  from  Milton  support? 
Why  is  it  useful  to  have  Milton  here  instead  of  a  modern  writer  or  speaker? 

«  24  and  «  25  (H)  Are  Professor  Maclver  and  Woodrow  Wilson  being  referred  to 
here  as  authorities  or  are  their  statements  simply  being  used  as  examples  to  prove  a 
point?  Explain  the  difference. 

74       TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


And  Woodrow  Wilson  "often  related  with  relish  the  answer  he  once 
found  on  an  examination  paper:  'This  question  is  unfair.  It  requires 
thought/"  «25 

Woodrow  Wilson  (to  quote  him  once  more)  said  wisely: 

There  is  no  discipline  in  information.  Some  of  the  best  informed  men  I  ever 
met  could  not  reason  at  all.  You  know  what  you  mean  by  an  extraordinarily 
well-informed  man.  You  mean  a  man  who  always  has  some  fact  at  his  command 
to  trip  you  up;  and  you  will  generally  find  that  all  this  man  can  do  is  to  throw 
little  chunks  of  fact  in  the  way  so  that  you  will  stumble  on  them  and  make  your- 
self ridiculous.  And  if  you  say,  "Very  well,  please  be  kind  enough  to  generalize 
on  this  matter,"  you  will  find  he  cannot  do  it.  Information  is  not  education. 
Information  is  the  raw  material  of  education,  but  it  is  not  education.  «  26 

Abraham  Flexner  in  Universities:  American,  English,  German  says: 

The  world  has  not  lost,  and,  unless  it  is  to  lose  its  savor,  will  never  lose  the 
pure,  appreciative,  humanistic  spirit— the  love  of  beauty,  the  concern  for  ends 
established  by  ideals  that  dare  to  command  rather  than  to  obey.  Now  science, 
while  widening  our  vision,  increasing  our  satisfactions,  and  solving  our  problems, 
brings  with  it  dangers  peculiarly  its  own.  We  can  become  so  infatuated  with 
progress— in  knowledge  and  control— both  of  which  I  have  unstintedly  emphasized 
—that  we  lose  our  perspective,  lose  our  historic  sense,  lose  a  philosophic  outlook, 
lose  sight  of  relative  cultural  values.  «  27 

Now  I  enter  territory  filled  with  ground-mines,  extremely  dangerous. 
Are, not  our  teachers—I  refer  to  teachers  of  the  humanities— all  too  often 
trained  in  what  one  would  call  a  "scientific"  manner?  And  do  they  not 
feel  that  it  is  their  function  to  deal  with  their  subject  matter  "scientifically," 
i.e.,  factually?  Are  not  our  teachers  dragooned  from  first  to  last  to  look  at 
works  of  letters  as  quarries  into  which  to  dig,  rather  than  as  the  expressions 
of  great  minds  on  life  and  ways  of  living  it?  I  realize,  of  course,  that  there 
is  danger  in  the  alternative  presentation;  it  may  perhaps  lead  to  sheer  talk, 
to  a  superficial  knowledge  of  an  author.  However,  a  wise  teacher  should  be 
able  to  avoid  these  pitfalls.  «  28 

If  therefore  we  are  really  convinced  of  the  importance  of  the  humanities, 
that  they  should  not  only  be  a  part  of  education  but  the  very  heart  of  it, 
we  must  combat  its  foes,  external  and  internal.  Indeed,  if  we  were  able 
to  fight  them  successfully,  we  should  make  our  education  more  than  a  road 


«  26  (i)  Is  Wilson  now  being  used  as  an  authority?  If  so,  in  support  of  what  con- 
tention  of  the  author's? 

«  27  ( j)  What  is  the  relation  between  the  Flexner  quotation  and  the  one  from  Wilson 
in  the  preceding  paragraph? 

THE  FOES  OF  THE  HUMANITIES       75 


to  a  particular  profession,  more  than  a  path  to  higher  monetary  returns, 
but  a  route  to  nobler  living.  «  29 

At  the  same  time  I  wonder  if  those  who  have  chosen  to  teach  the  human- 
ities, are  sufficiently  devoted  to  them—if  we  really  believe  in  them  with  all 
our  souls.  How  widely  are  we  accustomed  to  read  in  the  literature  which 
we  are  teaching?  How  extensively  do  we  read  in  other  literature?  We 
cannot  inspire  unless  we  ourselves  are  inspired.  Are  we  perhaps  dispirited 
by  the  lack  of  support  which  we  receive?  Are  we  overwhelmed  by  our 
scientific  colleagues  and  are  tempted  to  imitate  them?  Do  we  regard  fac- 
tual material  concerning  our  literature  as  more  important  than  an  under- 
standing of  the  thoughts  it  conveys?  «  30 

When  all  is  said  and  done,  the  need  is  that  we  secure  as  teachers  those 
who,  in  Cicero's  words,  are  "all  afire  with  these  studies"  (his  studiis  fla- 
grantis).  Assuredly  nothing  can  catch  fire  unless  a  spark  at  least  kindles 
it.  I  know  of  no  automatic  way  of  creating  such  a  spark  in  teachers;  it  is 
a  God-given  gift.  But  in  general  to  inspire  such  a  teacher  requires  that  fire 
shall  have  been  transmitted  from  his  teacher.  Indeed  it  resembles  the  carry- 
ing of  the  Olympic  torch,  each  runner  kindling  the  fire  from  the  torch  of  his 
predecessor  and  bearing  it  on  its  way  to  its  final  goal.  «  3 1 

If  our  people  are  not  led  to  the  humanities  and  taught  their  significance, 
what  will  be  the  effect  on  the  production  of  great  works  of  letters  among 
us?  In  general,  works  of  genius  flourish  when  the  soil  is  receptive.  It  is  no 
accident  that  in  ancient  Greece  such  a  galaxy  of  great  writers  appeared  at 
one  time.  When  a  people  deeply  appreciate  writings  of  distinction,  there 
will  be  a  stimulus  to  their  production.  To  be  sure  a  great  soul  will  speak 
even  in  an  era  of  darkness,  but  an  impetus  to  great  work  in  any  field  rests 
upon  the  attitude  of  society.  It  is  no  accident  that  now  we  live  in  an  age  of 
noteworthy  inventions  and  scientific  discoveries,  but  I  wonder  how  many 
works  of  today  will  endure  in  music,  art  or  letters.  «  32 

In  times  of  sorrow  and  tribulation  where  does  one  turn  for  help?  Not 
to  the  best-sellers  in  the  fiction  of  the  day  but  to  the  majestic  works  of  the 
past.  They  alone  can  enable  one  to  realize  better  what  such  suffering 
means  and  give  one  comfort  in  the  dark  days  in  which  one  is  living.  But 
unless  one  habitually  turns  to  the  great  figures,  he  will  not  find  it  easy  to  open 
those  doors  when  the  need  arises.  We  all  know  that  sorrow  and  pain  will 
overtake  us,  indeed  more  and  more  as  the  years  grow  more  numerous.  This 
means  that  with  each  year,  each  decade  we  need  all  the  more  the  solace  of 
great  literature.  I  do  not  speak  of  the  Bible  since  it  is  filled  with  so  much 
that  helps  at  such  times;  it  should  come  first  whenever  the  clouds  gather. 


«  31    (K)  What  is  added  by  having  Cicero  seem  to  be  in  agreement  with  the  speaker? 

76       TECHNIQUES  OF   ARGUMENT 


But  next  stand  the  great  masters  of  letters.  They  do  not  confine  themselves 
to  trivial  matters  but  give  us  the  thoughts  of  the  world's  noblest  minds  on 
such  crises  as  inevitably  overtake  us.  «  33 

Unless  we  devote  ourselves  to  the  great  works  of  the  past  and  such  great 
works  as  may  perchance  appear  in  our  time,  shall  we  not  cut  ourselves  off 
both  from  those  of  our  generation  and  also  the  majestic  works  which  time 
has  striven  to  preserve  for  us?  We  treasure  the  edifices  of  the  past,  some 
to  be  sure  because  of  their  architectural  beauty,  others  merely  because  of 
historical  associations  and  antiquity.  And  yet  the  works  of  literature  go  back 
into  the  dim  centuries  long  before  such  buildings  were  erected.  These  are 
after  all  but  things  of  brick  and  stone,  often  beautiful  but  at  times  esteemed 
merely  as  relics  of  a  long  past  age.  The  works  of  letters  are  the  distillations 
of  great  minds  and  great  souls;  they  do  not  appear  in  mutilated  form  or  in 
restorations.  They  are  the  very  words  uttered  by  those  long  gone  from 
mortal  life  but  as  living  and  as  true  as  when  the  writer  jotted  them  down. 
It  is  our  duty  to  keep  them  alive  and  not  permit  them  to  take  their  place 
beside  the  mummies  of  Egyptian  kings.  Nothing  is  really  more  alive  than 
they,  if  we  but  see  that  they  are  not  buried  and  forgotten.  «  34 

Unless  we  inculcate  a  love  of  great  works  and  stimulate  our  students  to 
read  them— voluntarily  and  not  as  something  prescribed  in  the  course- 
above  all  read  them  when  school  and  college  are  far  in  the  past— unless,  I 
say,  we  accomplish  this,  we  shall  fail  in  our  greatest  responsibility  and  make 
our  times  the  true  Dark  Ages,  ignorant  of  the  past,  devoted  to  the  temporal 
and  heedless  of  the  eternal.  «  35 

There  is  a  passage  in  Maeterlinck's  Blue  Bird  which  I  love  to  quote.  The 
dead  grandparents  say  in  effect  to  the  children  "We  dead  live  again  when 
you  the  living  think  of  us— and  only  then."  «  36 

So  the  great  figures  of  letters  from  Aeschylus  to  Milton  only  live  when 
we  of  this  generation  read  them  and  think  their  thoughts.  Otherwise 
what  life  have  they?  They  are  truly  dead— sometimes  called  dead  in 
language  but  really  dead  in  that  they  are  completely  ignored  and  for- 
gotten. «37 

We  have  therefore  both  affirmative  and  negative  steps  to  take— to  do 
everything  possible  to  encourage  love  of  great  literature  and  at  the  same 
time  to  fight  against  the  transformation  of  our  educational  institutions  into 
institutions  which  can  only  by  a  stretch  of  terms  be  called  educational— 
which  seek  to  win  popular  favor  by  teaching  or  claiming  to  teach  primarily 
that  which  is  useful,  useful  in  the  narrowest  sense  of  the  term.  <  38 


«  36    (L)  What  is  added  by  having  Maeterlinck  state  the  proposition  instead  of  the 
speaker's  stating  it  in  his  own  words? 


THE   FOES  OF  THE  HUMANITIES       77 


May  we  play  our  part  in  striving  to  convert  our  institutions  into  truly 
educational  centers!  « 39 

Let  us  recall  the  words  of  Kipling  in  his  poem  The  Secret  of  the  Machines. 
He  represents  the  machines  as  boasting: 

We  can  pull  and  haul  and  push  and  lift  and  drive. 
We  can  print  and  plough  and  weave  and  heat  and  light, 
We  can  run  and  jump  and  swim  and  fly  and  dive, 
We  can  see  and  hear  and  count  and  read  and  writel 

But  later  they  are  driven  to  admit: 

Our  touch  can  alter  all  created  things, 

We  are  everything  on  earth—except  the  Gods! 

And  finally  they  go  even  further  and  declare: 

Though  our  smoke  may  hide  the  Heavens  from  your  eyes 

It  will  vanish  and  the  stars  will  shine  again, 

Because,  for  all  our  power  and  weight  and  size, 

We  are  nothing  more  than  children  of  your  brain!  «  40 

So  my  plea  in  simplest  terms  is:  "Let  not  the  smoke  of  the  world  hide  the 
heavens  from  our  eyes."  «  41 


«  40    (M)  What  final  point  does  the  quotation  from  Kipling  support? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (  N  )  What  is  the  main  proposition  of  the  argument?  ( o )  What 
issues  are  suggested?  ( p )  What  is  the  effect  of  citing  all  of  the  authorities  named  in  this 
selection?  (Q)  Is  argument  by  authority  an  inductive  or  deductive  method  of  reasoning? 
Explain  your  answer.  (R)  In  arguing  against  someone  who  uses  this  method  what  would 
you  attempt  to  do? 


THOMAS  PAINE  Nothing  can  be  more  fallacious  . . . 


ARGUMENT  BY  A  COMBINATION  OF  METHODS.  Though  an  argument  may  be  based 
primarily  on  one  of  the  methods  previously  described,  an  argument  of  any  length 
is  seldom  pursued  by  one  method  alone.  Most  authors  find  it  useful  to  employ 
a  variety  of  methods,  and  to  employ  both  argument  and  counter-argument. 

One  of  the  cleverest  men  at  argument  was  Tom  Painet  the  great  propagandist 
for  the  American  cause  during  the  Revolutionary  War.   In  the  following  excerpt 

78       TECHNIQUES  OF  ARGUMENT 


f"om  his  Common  Sense,  a  rousing  essay  written  in  1776  and  probably  the  most 
significant  document  of  the  Revolution  aside  from  the  Declaration  itself,  Paine 
employs  a  variety  of  methods  in  attacking  the  Tories  and  the  Tory  arguments. 

I  HAVE  HEARD  it  asserted  by  some,  that  as  America  has  flourished  under  her 
former  connection  with  Great  Britain,  the  same  connection  is  necessary 
towards  her  future  happiness,  and  will  always  have  the  same  effect.— Nothing 
can  be  more  fallacious  than  this  kind  of  argument.— We  may  as  well  assert 
that  because  a  child  has  thrived  upon  milk,  that  it  is  never  to  have  meat,  or 
that  the  first  twenty  years  of  our  lives  is  to  become  a  precedent  for  the  next 
twenty.  But  even  this  is  admitting  more  than  is  true;  for  I  answer  roundly, 
that  America  would  have  flourished  as  much,  and  probably  much  more,  had 
no  European  power  taken  any  notice  of  her.  The  commerce  by  which  she 
hath  enriched  herself  are  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  will  always  have  a 
market  while  eating  is  the  custom  of  Europe.  «  I 

But  she  has  protected  us,  say  some.  That  she  hath  engrossed  us  is  true, 
and  defended  the  Continent  at  our  expense  as  well  as  her  own,  is  admitted; 
and  she  would  have  defended  Turkey  from  the  same  motive,  viz.  for  the 
sake  of  trade  and  dominion.  «  2 

Alas!  we  have  been  long  led  away  by  ancient  prejudices  and  made  large 
sacrifices  to  superstition.  We  have  boasted  the  protection  of  Great  Britain, 
without  considering,  that  her  motive  was  interest  not  attachment;  and  that 
she  did  not  protect  us  from  our  enemies  on  our  account,  but  from  her  enemies 
on  her  own  account,  from  those  who  had  no  quarrel  with  us  on  any  other 
account,  and  who  will  always  be  our  enemies  on  the  same  account.  Let 
Britain  waive  her  pretensions  to  the  continent,  or  the  continent  throw  off 
the  dependence,  and  we  should  be  at  peace  with  France  and  Spain  were  they 
at  war  with  Britain.  The  miseries  of  Hanover's  last  war  ought  to  warn  us 
against  connections.  « 3 

It  hath  lately  been  asserted  in  Parliament,  that  the  colonies  have  no  rela- 
tion to  each  other  but  through  the  parent  country,  i.e.  that  Pennsylvania 
and  the  Jerseys,  and  so  on  for  the  rest,  are  sister  colonies  by  the  way  of 
England;  this  is  certainly  a  very  roundabout  way  of  proving  relationship, 


«  I  (A)  Paine  begins  by  summarizing  a  Tory  argument.  What  method  of  argu- 
ment had  the  Tories  apparently  been  using?  (B)  What  method  of  argument  does  Paine 
employ  in  the  sentence  beginning  "We  may  as  well  .  .  ."?  (c)  What  kind  of  argument 
does  he  employ  in  the  last  half  of  the  paragraph? 

«  2  (  D  )  What  kind  of  argument  had  the  Tories  probably  used  in  holding  that  Eng- 
land had  protected  the  colonies?  (  E  )  What  method  of  argument  does  Paine  use  in  reply? 

«  3  (F)  What  method  of  argument  is  Paine  employing  here?  (G)  Put  the  argument 
of  this  paragraph  in  your  own  words. 

NOTHING  CAN  BE  MORE  FALLACIOUS  ...       79 


but  it  is  the  nearest  and  only  true  way  of  proving  enmity  (or  enemyship,  if 
I  may  so  call  it).  France  and  Spain  never  were,  nor  perhaps  ever  will  be, 
our  enemies  as  Americans,  but  as  our  being  the  subjects  of  Great  Britain.  «  4 
But  Britain  is  the  parent  country,  say  some.  Then  the  more  shame  upon 
her  conduct.  Even  brutes  do  not  devour  their  young,  nor  savages  make  war 
upon  their  families;  wherefore,  the  assertion,  if  true,  turns  to  her  reproach; 
but  it  happens  not  to  be  true,  or  only  partly  so,  and  the  phrase  parent  or 
mother  country  hath  been  jesuitically  adopted  by  the  King  and  his  parasites, 
with  a  low  papistical  design  of  gaining  an  unfair  bias  on  the  credulous  weak- 
ness of  our  minds.  Europe,  and  not  England,  is  the  parent  country  of  Amer- 
ica. This  new  world  hath  been  the  asylum  for  the  persecuted  lovers  of  civil 
and  religious  liberty  from  every  part  of  Europe.  Hither  have  they  fled,  not 
from  the  tender  embraces  of  the  mother,  but  from  the  cruelty  of  the  monster; 
and  it  is  so  far  true  of  England,  that  the  same  tyranny  which  drove  the  first 
emigrants  from  home,  pursues  their  descendants  still.  «  5 

«  4  (H)  In  a  sense  Paine  refers  to  authorities  when  he  writes,  "It  hath  lately  been 
asserted  in  Parliament.  .  .  ."  Why  is  this  not  a  true  argument  by  authority?  ( i )  What 
method  of  argument  does  Paine  employ  here? 

«  5  ( j)  What  method  of  argument  were  the  Tories  using  in  maintaining  that  Britain 
was  a  parent?  Does  Paine  shift  the  method  or  use  the  same  one?  Explain. 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (L)  List  the  arguments  that  Paine  attributes  to  the  Tories 
and  indicate  in  each  instance  the  method  of  argument  the  Tories  had  apparently  used. 
(M)  Indicate  in  each  instance,  also,  the  reply  that  Paine  makes  and  the  method  of  argu- 
ment he  employs  in  making  it.  (N)  Technically,  is  this  excerpt  an  example  of  argument 
in  the  first  instance  or  refutation?  If  you  think  it  is  the  latter,  show  which  of  the  devices 
listed  on  page  48  Paine  uses,  (o)  If  you  had  been  a  Tory  at  the  time,  how  could  you 
have  dealt  with  Paine's  arguments? 


The  psychology  of  argument 


Knowing  that  readers  or  listeners  are  not  swayed  by  logic  alone,  writers  and 
speakers  usually  supplement  their  logical  arguments  with  appeals  which  they  hope 
will  be  psychologically  effective.  Some  of  these  appeals  to  feeling  are  illustrated  in 
the  remaining  selections  in  Part  One. 

80       TECHNIQUES   OF    ARGUMENT 


JOSEPH  ALSO?  What  is  academic  freedom? 

A  letter  from  an  alumnus 

THE  WRITER  OR  SPEAKER  AND  THE  AUDIENCE.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  successful 
argument  without  some  attempt  on  the  part  of  the  writer  or  speaker  to  establish  a 
friendly  relationship  between  himself  and  his  readers  or  listeners.  To  do  this  he 
must  in  the  first  place  establish  himself  in  their  eyes  as  a  worthy  person.  He  must 
show,  if  possible,  that  he  is  likable,  that  he  is  a  man  of  good  character,  that  he  is  an 
authority  on  the  subject,  and  that  he  is  reasonably  unbiased  in  dealing  with  it.  John 
Quincy  Adams  made  substantially  these  same  points  in  speaking  at  Harvard  in 
1806  when  he  observed  that  there  are  "three  qualities  in  the  character  of  an  orator 
which  may  naturally  and  essentially  affect  the  success  of  his  eloquence."  These  he 
listed  as  "an  honest  heart,  a  sound  understanding,  and  a  disposition  characterized 
by  benevolence,  modesty,  and  confidence." 

In  the  second  place,  a  writer  or  speaker  establishes  a  friendly  relationship  by 
taking  into  account  the  readers'  or  listeners'  basic  desires  for  security  and  happi- 
ness; their  love  of  home,  country,  and  family;  their  quite  human  susceptibility 
to  flattery;  their  high  regard  for  the  simple  virtues  and  their  dislike  of  hypocrisy, 
unfairness,  and  evil;  their  special  affiliations,  beliefs,  and  prejudices.  By  some 
specialists  in  argument,  appeals  to  such  characteristics  in  the  audience  are  called 
"pathetic  proof"  whereas  the  attempts  of  a  writer  or  speaker  to  establish  his  own 
character  and  reputation  are  called  "ethical  proof" 

The  following  selection  is  a  letter  by  Joseph  Alsop  originally  written  to  one  of 
the  fellows  of  the  Harvard  Corporation.  Joseph  Alsop  is  widely  known  as  a  jour- 
nalist whose  columns,  frequently  written  in  collaboration  with  his  brother  Stewart, 
appear  in  many  newspapers  throughout  the  country.  It  is  more  important  in  read- 
ing this  letter,  however,  to  know  that  Joseph  Alsop  is  a  member  of  the  Board  of 
Overseers  of  Harvard  University,  for  it  is  as  a  member  of  this  Board  that  he 
addresses  himself  to  his  reader. 

DEAR  x:  With  your  permission,  I  should  like  to  give  you  my  thoughts 
about  the  investigation  of  Communism  in  the  universities  that  is  cur- 
rently being  conducted  by  the  House  Un-American  Activities  Committee  and 
the  Senate  Internal  Security  Subcommittee.  I  do  so  because  I  have  watched 
these  committees  in  action  for  a  long  time,  and  because  I  believe  this  in- 
vestigation is  in  a  sense  a  test  case  of  whether  Harvard  is  still  Harvard.  «  I 
Let  me  begin  by  saying  that  I  have  been  profoundly  and  actively  anti- 
Copyright,  1953,  by  the  Atlantic  Monthly  Company,  Boston  16,  Massachusetts.   All 
rights  reserved. 

«  I  (A)  What  in  this  paragraph  would  probably  appeal  to  the  reader?  Comment 
particularly  on  "With  your  permission'  and  "whether  Harvard  is  still  Harvard."  ( B )  How 
does  the  author  establish  himself  here  as  an  authority  on  the  subject? 

WHAT  IS  ACADEMIC   FREEDOM?          81 


Communist  all  my  life.  Those  of  us  who  have  always  understood  the 
Communist  Party  and  its  purposes  perhaps  do  not  feel  called  upon  to  protest 
our  hatred  quite  so  hysterically  as  those  on  whom  the  truth  has  dawned 
more  recently.  But  the  feeling  is  as  strong  just  the  same.  Nor  do  I  stop 
at  being  anti-Communist.  I  have  known  only  three  or  four  men  and  women 
who  have  emerged  from  the  experience  of  party  membership  as  well  people. 
With  these  rare  exceptions  ex-Communists  seem  to  me  suspect  and  repellent, 
whether  they  are  professionally  and  loudly  repentant  or  merely  mumbling 
and  regretful.  I  am  sure  that  all  the  other  members  of  the  Harvard  govern- 
ing bodies  feel  just  as  I  do.  «  2 

Unfortunately,  however,  the  question  that  confronts  us  is  not  how  we 
feel  about  Communists  and  ex-Communists.  The  question  is,  rather,  how 
we  feel  about  the  three  great  principles  which  have  run,  like  threads  of 
gold,  through  the  long,  proud  Harvard  story.  These  are  the  necessary 
rules  of  association,  as  it  were,  of  every  free  intellectual  community— of 
every  university  that  still  fulfills  the  university's  function  of  extending  the 
frontiers  of  human  thought  and  human  knowledge.  «  3 

These  rules  are  needful  for  a  simple,  practical  reason.  The  frontiers  of 
thought  and  knowledge  are  rarely  pushed  outwards  without  giving  acute 
pain  to  those  who  are  used  to  the  frontiers  where  they  are.  People  will  al- 
ways acquire  a  vested  interest  in  the  old  boundaries.  They  will  always 
feel,  about  any  great  extension,  as  our  New  England  Federalists  felt  about 
the  westward  course  of  American  empire.  Hence  a  university  cannot 
do  its  vital  job  if  what  is  novel  and  original  and  unconventional  may  be 
punished  as  being  immoral  or  pernicious  or  wickedly  unorthodox.  From 
Roger  Bacon  to  Darwin,  from  Cimabue  to  Picasso,  the  grand  originators 
have  always  been  attacked  as  sinister  subverters  of  the  established  order. 
The  fear  of  such  attack  is  a  dead  hand.  And  any  academic  community  will 
degenerate  into  a  mere  finishing  school  for  mediocrities  unless  the  mem- 
bers of  that  community  feel  free  to  think  new  thoughts  and  say  new 
things.  «4 

Among  the  three  principles  of  academic  freedom,  the  first,  then,  is  simply 
the  freedom  to  make  the  personal  choices,  within  the  limits  of  the  law.  «  5 

Harvard's  governing  bodies  may,  of  course,  refuse  to  appoint  a  man 


«  2  (c)  What  is  the  function  of  this  paragraph?  Why  should  it  come  so  early  in  the 
letter? 

«  3  (D)  How  is  the  reader  taken  into  account  in  the  phrase  "like  threads  of  gold, 
through  the  long,  proud  Harvard  story"?  In  your  opinion,  would  the  author  have  used  the 
same  words  if  he  had  been  writing  to  a  Yale  man?  Explain  your  answer. 

«4  (E)  The  writer  could  have  used  an  analogy  other  than  "a$  our  New  England 
Federalists  felt"  What  reason  can  you  give  for  his  using  this  one? 

82       TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


because  they  do  not  like  the  tendency  of  his  politics  or  even  the  cut  of  his 
coat.  But  if  he  is  once  appointed,  and  if  he  duly  fulfills  his  academic  con- 
tract, a  member  of  our  faculty  is  not  to  be  penalized  for  any  legal  choice 
he  may  make,  however  eccentric  or  controversial,  He  may  become  a  nudist 
or  a  Zoroastrian,  imitate  Origen  or  adopt  the  Pythagorean  rules  of  diet, 
If  called  before  a  Congressional  investigating  committee,  he  may  seek 
the  protection  of  the  Fifth  Amendment,  and  refuse  to  testify  on  grounds  of 
possible  self-incrimination.  However  much  we  disapprove,  we  may  not 
interfere.  «  6 

I  am  aware  that  many  people  nowadays  hold  that  any  man  who  shelters 
behind  the  Fifth  Amendment  must  by  inference  be  criminally  guilty. 
I  myself  believe  that  witnesses  called  before  the  Congressional  investigat- 
ing committees  choose  better  when  they  testify  fully  and  frankly,  letting 
the  chips  fall  where  they  may.  But  I  am  also  quite  certain  that  seeking 
the  Fifth  Amendment's  protection  is  a  permissible  choice,  within  the  limits 
of  the  principle  I  have  laid  down  above.  «  7 

In  the  first  place,  the  procedures  of  these  Congressional  investigating 
committees  are  an  outrage  against  the  spirit  of  the  Constitution,  whether 
or  no  they  remain  within  the  letter  of  the  Congressional  power,  which  I 
doubt.  One  of  them— that  headed  by  Senator  McCarthy— is  in  effect  en- 
gaged in  the  national  dissemination  of  poison  pen  letters.  Another— that 
headed  by  Senator  Jenner— long  cherished  and  flattered  as  its  chief  wit- 
ness a  man  I  myself  have  publicly  accused  as  a  probable  perjurer,  whose 
sworn  testimony  in  the  important  case  of  John  Carter  Vincent  has  just 
been  scornfully  rejected  by  the  present  Secretary  of  State.  Still  another— 
that  headed  by  Representative  Velde— until  lately  employed  in  a  key  posi- 
tion on  its  staff  a  proven  forger  of  evidence,  who  was  only  dismissed  when 
caught,  in  flagrante  delicto,  in  a  second  shameless  fabrication.  «  8 

Before  these  committees,  a  man  may  be  charged  with  "pro-Communism" 
because  he  has  irritated  a  neurotic  subordinate  by  editing  out  a  foolish 
repetition  of  the  phrase  "anti-Communist"  in  a  single  paragraph  of  a 
broadcast.  If  he  seeks  to  answer  the  charge  the  committee  staff  blackmails 
him  with  threats  of  rough  treatment  on  the  stand.  If  he  still  persists,  he  is 
barely  allowed  to  make  his  halting  explanation  before  he  is  overwhelmed 
with  menacing  irrelevancies— "Come  now,  was  it  five  minutes  before  or 


«  4  and  «  6  (  F  )  In  what  way  can  the  use  of  names  and  terms  like  Roger  Bacon,  Dor- 
win,  Cimabue,  Picasso,  Zoroastrian,  Origen,  and  Pythagorean  operate  as  "pathetic  proof? 

«  7  (  G  )  Why  are  the  first  two  sentences  likely  to  make  the  reader  more  confident  in 
the  author  and  hence  more  willing  to  accept  his  third  sentence? 

«  8  (H)  How  does  the  author  attempt  to  establish  his  own  competence  in  this  para- 
graph? 

WHAT   IS   ACADEMIC   FREEDOM?       83 


five  minutes  after?-  You  Ye  under  oath;  was  it  Friday  or  SaturdayP-Won't 
you  admit  that  this  word  'democratic/  which  you  say  you  used,  is  a  prime 
favorite  of  the  Communists?"  And  in  the  end  the  damning  charge  of  pro- 
Communism  remains  on  his  record,  grossly  false  yet  inexpugnable,  to  re- 
turn to  haunt  him  whenever  he  seeks  a  new  job,  or  moves  to  a  new  neighbor- 
hood, or  makes  a  new  friend.  «  9 

The  foregoing  actual  case,  which  I  can  vouch  for  in  detail,  points  all 
too  clearly  to  the  central  fact.  Both  in  procedure  and  in  aim  these  com- 
mittees differ  altogether  from  the  old  House  Un-American  Activities  Com- 
mittee when  Vice-President  Richard  Nixon  was  taking  a  leading  part  in  its 
work.  The  real  aim  of  these  committees  is  not  to  bring  persons  guilty  of 
crime  before  courts  of  law.  It  is  to  make  political  capital  by  incriminating 
their  victims  before  the  court  of  public  opinion— to  use  the  headlines  to 
damage  reputations  beyond  subsequent  repair.  Quite  often,  what  is  in- 
criminating before  these  committees  to  the  extent  of  ruining  men's  lives 
would  be  rejected  with  indignation  by  any  court  in  the  country.  The  process 
is  antilegal  in  its  essence,  and  even  doubtfully  constitutional  in  its  outward 
forms.  In  considering  this  process,  it  is  ridiculously  unrealistic  to  be  guided 
by  pure  legal  theory,  in  the  manner  of  Professor  Zechariah  Chafee,  Jr.,  and 
Professor  Arthur  Sutherland.  «  10 

For  these  reasons,  then,  a  Harvard  faculty  member  called  before  these 
committees  must  be  permitted  to  choose  not  to  testify,  either  as  protest 
against  the  prevailing  procedures,  or  because  he  fears  his  simplest  word  will 
be  ruthlessly  twisted  against  him,  or  because  he  does  not  wish  to  play  the 
part  of  an  informer.  «  1 1 

This  last  motive  is  an  especially  strong  one.  In  the  American  academic 
community,  there  must  be  hundreds  of  unimpeachably  loyal  Americans 
who  briefly  wandered  into  the  Communist  Party  during  the  united  front 
nonsense  of  the  thirties  or  the  period  of  wartime  silliness.  In  all  too  many 
of  our  universities  nowadays,  the  mere  revelation  of  these  people's  former 
folly  will  cost  them  their  posts.  As  I  have  said  already,  I  think  that  in  gen- 
eral the  better  course  is  full  disclosure  and  let  the  chips  fall  where  they  may. 
But  may  not  a  man  balk  at  ruining  the  lives  of  friends  now  loyal,  who  shared 
his  own  past  error?  «  '2 

The  witness  who  gives  up  the  Fifth  Amendment's  protection,  tells  his  own 


«  10  (i)  What  effect  is  the  clause  "which  I  can  vouch  for  in  detail"  likely  to  have 
on  the  reader?  (j)  Why  might  the  reader  be  favorably  impressed,  assuming  that  he  is 
a  conservative,  by  the  distinction  drawn  between  the  McCarthy,  Jenner,  and  Velde  com- 
mittees on  the  one  hand  and  the  Nixon  Committee  on  the  other? 

«  12  (K)  Why  might  the  idea  in  the  next-to-the-last  sentence  make  a  favorable  im- 
pression on  the  reader? 

84       TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


story  fully,  yet  refuses  to  inform  on  his  friends,  will  certainly  be  cited  for 
contempt  of  Congress.  A  jail  term  is  the  price  of  this  seemingly  more  honor- 
able course.  Names  and  more  names  are  what  these  committees  want  at  this 
stage  and  they  will  stop  at  nothing  to  get  them.  This  is  an  essential  part 
of  their  program  for  terrorizing  the  academic  community.  «  13 

I  am  fully  conscious  that  a  man  who  pleads  possible  self-incrimination 
in  order  to  avoid  playing  informer  without  going  to  jail,  is  in  fact  taking 
advantage  of  a  legal  technicality.  But  even  other-worldly  legal  theorists 
like  Professors  Sutherland  and  Chafee  must  admit  that  taking  advantage 
of  legal  technicalities  is  common  practice  among  respectable  citizens.  It 
is  common  practice,  moreover,  in  the  courts  of  law,  where  an  accused 
man  still  enjoys  his  constitutional  privilege  of  being  assumed  innocent  until 
proven  guilty.  Think  it  over.  I  put  it  to  you,  whatever  we  may  think  our- 
selves, Harvard  cannot  say  to  members  of  the  Harvard  faculty,  "Either  you 
turn  informer  or  you  go  to  jail."  «  14 

As  to  the  second  principle  of  academic  freedom,  it  is  unrestricted  freedom 
of  thought.  «  1 5 

Freedom  of  thought  perforce  includes  the  freedom  to  hold  unpopular 
or  pernicious  political  views,  and  even  to  belong  to  plainly  pernicious  po- 
litical parties,  so  long  as  these  parties  are  legal,  as  the  Communist  Party 
still  is.  I  would  not  knowingly  give  a  Communist  a  Harvard  appointment, 
and  I  would  be  very  suspicious  of  ex-Communists.  But  whether  we  like  it 
or  not,  we  cannot  start  disciplining  a  man  for  his  political  ideas  after  we 
have  appointed  him.  The  rule  was  well  laid  down  by  Senator  Taft,  who 
said  he  would  not  dismiss  a  professor  just  because  he  was  a  Communist, 
although  he  would  do  so  if  the  man  had  broken  his  academic  contract  by 
teaching  Communism  on  university  time.  «  16 

If  I  may,  I  shall  illustrate  the  wisdom  of  this  rule  from  my  own  experi- 
ence. Immediately  after  the  war,  the  American  Communist  Party  was  a 
serious  threat.  Infiltration  had  gone  so  far  in  the  labor  movement,  for  in- 
stance, that  the  Wisconsin  CIO  was  actually  Communist-controlled.  The 
Wisconsin  Communists  were  even  able  to  swing  the  labor  vote  from  Sena- 
tor Robert  M.  La  Follette,  Jr.,  to  Senator  Joseph  R.  McCarthy,  thus  giving 
Senator  McCarthy  his  majority  in  the  1946  Republican  primary.  Senator 
McCarthy  was  then  complacent,  defending  his  tainted  victory  with  the  re- 
mark, "Well,  Communists  vote,  don't  they?"  But  at  that  time,  as  my  writ- 

«  14  (L)  How  is  the  author  taking  the  reader's  loyalties  into  account  when  he  says, 
"Whatever  we  may  think  ourselves.  Harvard  cannot  say  to  members  of  the  Harvard 
faculty  .  .  .'? 

«  16  (M)  What  so-called  "ethical  proof9  do  you  find  in  this  paragraph?  (N)  Assum- 
ing the  reader  to  be  a  conservative,  justify  the  sentence  about  Senator  Taft. 

WHAT  IS   ACADEMIC  FREEDOM?       85 


ing  will  show,  I  was  not  complacent  about  the  Communist  threat,  doing  all 
in  my  power  to  expose  and  warn  against  this  infiltration  that  Senator 
McCarthy  benefited  from.  «  1 7 

Nowadays,  while  the  menace  of  the  Soviet  Union  has  grown  very  greatly, 
the  American  Communist  Party  is  an  impotent  wreck.  But  we  are  now 
faced  with  a  new  internal  threat,  from  Senator  McCarthy  and  his  friends 
and  followers  of  the  neo-Fascist  right.  In  my  opinion,  these  people  are  also 
subversives  in  the  literal  sense  for  they  are  seeking  to  subvert  our  most 
honored  American  institutions  under  the  cloak  of  anti-Communism.  If 
Communists  are  to  be  dismissed  from  Harvard  then  it  will  also  be  my  duty 
as  an  overseer  to  demand  the  rooting  out  of  all  McCarthyites  and  McCarthy 
fellow  travelers.  «  18 

It  is  precisely  because  any  kind  of  purge  opens  the  gate  to  all  kinds  of 
purge,  that  freedom  of  thought  necessarily  means  the  freedom  to  think  bad 
thoughts  as  well  as  good.  «  19 

It  is  Harvard's  glory—it  always  has  been  Harvard's  glory— to  stand  for 
unrestricted  free  trade  in  ideas.  I  am  not  impressed  by  the  argument  that 
Harvard  should  change  her  ancient  ways,  in  order  to  give  a  safe  answer 
to  those  who  ask,  "But  are  you  going  to  let  a  Communist  teach  our  boys?" 
Parents  may  choose  from  the  wide  variety  of  finishing  schools  for  medi- 
ocrities if  they  think  their  boys  are  so  softheaded  as  to  be  led  into  Com- 
munism by  an  astronomer  or  theoretical  physicist  mournfully  parroting 
the  dreary  intellectual  stereotypes  of  the  extreme  left.  Harvard  is  not  for 
the  softheads  but  for  those  capable  of  education.  And  to  cut  off  that  free 
trade  in  ideas  which  is  a  vital  element  in  the  highest  education  is  no  safe- 
guard of  those  who  come  to  Harvard  to  be  educated.  It  is  a  sin  against 
them.  «20 

But,  you  may  ask,  what  if  one  of  these  men  called  by  the  Congressional 
inquisitors  has  been  or  is  criminally  guilty?  What  if  we  are  not  dealing 
with  a  mere  party  front-man,  useful  as  window  dressing,  but  with  a  con- 
scious member  of  the  Communist  conspiracy?  I  am  not  such  an  innocent 
as  to  deny  there  may  be  such  cases.  Yet  the  third  great  principle  of  aca- 
demic freedom  is  to  leave  such  determinations  to  the  due  process  of  the 
law,  of  whose  protection  no  American  may  be  rightfully  deprived.  «  2 1 


«  17  (o)  Why  should  the  author  want  to  show  that  he  was  exposing  Communists 
when  Senator  McCarthy  was  pleased  to  have  Communist  support? 

«  18  (P)  What  value  is  there  here  in  the  author's  calling  attention  to  the  fact  that 
he  is  a  Harvard  overseer? 

«  20  (  Q  )  What  in  this  paragraph  might  appeal  especially  to  a  member  of  the  Har- 
vard Corporation? 

«  2 1    (R)  How  does  the  author  further  establish  his  right  to  be  heard? 

86      TECHNIQUES  OF  ARGUMENT 


There  is  no  Harvard  precedent  for  any  other  course.  Dr.  Webster  (as 
I  remember  very  well,  for  he  was  a  relative  of  mine)  murdered  Professor 
Parkman  and  incinerated  the  body  in  the  Harvard  Physics  Laboratory 
furnace.  The  Harvard  President  of  those  days  testified  as  a  character  wit- 
ness at  Dr.  Webster's  trial;  and  the  hangman,  not  the  governing  bodies, 
terminated  Dr.  Webster's  appointment.  I  may  be  old-fashioned,  but  I  still 
think  homicide  is  as  reprehensible  as  Communism;  and  I  am  contented  to 
leave  the  discovery  of  conspirators  to  the  police  and  the  courts.  «  22 

Nor  can  I  forget,  in  this  connection,  the  distinguished  example  set  by 
Secretary  of  State  John  Foster  Dulles  in  the  grave  case  of  Alger  Hiss.  I 
need  hardly  remind  you  that  when  Hiss  was  charged  with  perjury,  and  by 
implication  with  treason,  Secretary  Dulles  and  his  colleagues  on  the  Carnegie 
Institution  Board  refused  to  dismiss  Hiss  from  his  high  post  until  the 
wrongdoer  had  been  fairly  tried.  I  honor  them  for  their  courage  and  right 
thinking.  It  would  be  inexpressibly  shocking  if  the  governing  bodies  of 
Harvard,  which  in  the  past  have  been  courageous,  right-thinking,  and 
worthy  of  honor  should  now  forget  their  traditions  in  favor  of  a  cheap  and 
self-defeating  expediency.  «  23 

Let  me  repeat,  in  these  cases  the  individuals  are  nothing  and  the  prin- 
ciples are  everything.  I  dislike  the  individuals,  I  deplore  their  views,  and 
I  wish  they  held  no  Harvard  appointments.  But  this  is  irrelevant  to  the 
central  issue.  That  issue  is  simple.  Harvard  has  been  asked  to  be  the  judas 
goat,  leading  the  whole  American  academic  community  to  the  slaughter- 
house. Harvard  cannot  be  untrue  to  her  past,  cast  shame  upon  her  pres- 
ent, and  jeopardize  her  future,  by  accepting  this  plausible  but  sinister  invita- 
tion. « 24 

I  am,  most  sincerely  yours,  «  25 

Joseph  Alsop 


«  22  ( s )  Can  you  see  any  reason  for  the  parenthetical  remark?  Does  it  enhance  or 
harm  the  authors  reputation?  (T)  What  further  characteristics  of  the  author  does  the 
last  sentence  indicate? 

«  23    (u)  What  appeal  to  the  reader  lies  in  the  last  sentence? 

«  24  (v)  What  characteristics  of  the  author  are  emphasized  here?  Are  they  char- 
acteristics that  are  useful  to  emphasize  at  the  end  of  the  letter? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (w)  In  what  ways  has  the  author  established  his  character? 
his  competence  to  write  on  this  subject?  his  fairness  and  objectivity?  ( x )  Summarize  the 
characteristics  of  his  reader  to  which  the  author  has  appealed,  (Y)  Tett  what  appeals 
you  would  use  if  you  were  arguing  for  academic  freedom  at  Harvard  (a)  in  a  letter 
home,  (b)  in  a  letter  to  your  Congressman,  (c)  in  a  letter  to  your  home-town  paper, 
and  (d)  in  a  letter  to  Senator  McCarthy. 


WHAT   IS   ACADEMIC    FREEDOM?        87 


CHICAGO  Tribune  EDITORIAL    Churchill  tlUC  tO  form 

MODES  OF  ATTACK:  THE  ATTACK  DIRECT.  Whenever  an  argument  is  directed  against 
some  opposing  force,  human  or  otherwise,  the  writer  or  speaker  may  tactically 
choose  to  storm  the  front  or  to  slip  around  and  attack  from  the  rear.  The  differ- 
ence between  the  two  attacks  is  the  difference  between  the  literal  statement  and 
the  ironic  or  indirect  one. 

In  the  direct  attack,  unlike  the  attack  indirect  (see  headnote,  p.  91),  the  mean- 
ing of  the  words  and  the  author's  real  intent  coincide.  If  he  says  that  he  admires 
all  Congressmen,  he  means  just  that  and  is  not  gently  spoofing  Congress  and  you. 
To  make  the  attack  effective,  the  author  is  likely  to  slant  his  argument  heavily. 
This  means  that  he  is  likely  to  select  details  and  words  that  shift  your  sympathies 
sharply  from  one  side  to  the  other.  If  he  wants  you  to  like  a  Congressman, 
he  calls  him  a  "statesman";  if  he  wants  you  to  dislike  him,  he  calls  him  a 
"politician." 

Few  writers  today  are  so  noted  for  the  use  of  the  direct  attack  as  Robert  M. 
McCormick  and  his  editorial  staff  on  the  Chicago  Tribune.  The  following  editorial 
illustrates  their  technique  and  concerns  two  of  their  favorite  targets,  Winston 
Churchill  and  Franklin  D.  Roosevelt.  It  was  written  shortly  after  Churchill's 
World  War  II  memoirs  began  to  appear  serially  and  when  the  Atlantic  Pact  was 
being  discussed. 


THE  SECOND  SERIES  of  former  Prime  Minister  Winston  Churchill's  war 
memoirs  finds  Churchill  running  true  to  form.  It  starts  off  with  an  insult 
to  the  United  States,  which  bailed  out  Britain's  lost  cause,  and  continues 
with  assertions  that  Britain  practically  won  the  war  all  by  itself.  «  I 

The  "theme  of  the  volume"  is  proclaimed  to  be:  "How  the  British  people 
held  the  fort  alone  till  those  who  hitherto  had  been  half  blind  were  half 
ready."  We  are  the  half  blind  who  finally  became  half  ready,  naturally. 
Who,  either  in  America  or  in  Britain,  had  the  effrontery  in  1939,  when  the 
war  began,  to  say  that  the  war  of  Britain,  France,  and  Poland  against  Ger- 
many was  any  of  America's  business?  Not  Mr.  Churchill.  Not  even  Mr. 
Roosevelt.  «2 


From  the  Chicago  Daily  Tribune,  February  8,  1949.    Reprinted  by  permission  of  the 
Chicago  Daily  Tribune. 

,  «  I    (A)  What  in  the  first  paragraph  indicates  that  this  is  a  direct  attack?  Who  is  being 
attacked? 

«2    (B)  What  is  the  effect  of  the  word  "naturally"?    (c)  Is  anyone  besides  Mr. 
Churchill  in  for  a  shetting? 


88 


TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


Who,  when  the  Roosevelt  administration's  devious  maneuvering  in  secret 
concert  with  Churchill's  government  finally  paid  off  with  the  attack  on  Pearl 
Harbor  in  December,  1941,  believed  that  America  had  any  real  reason  to 
be  concerned  with  the  wars  in  Europe  and  Asia?  The  honest  answer  is 
that  by  then  a  great  many  deluded  Americans  did  so  believe.  Mr.  Roosevelt, 
Mr.  Churchill,  their  agents  and  propagandists  had  been  tirelessly  expound- 
ing that  thesis  for  many  months,  and  the  propaganda  had  had  a  certain  effect, 
but  its  effect  still  was  limited  to  only  a  small  minority  of  the  American  people. 
When  war  became  an  accomplished  fact,  there  was  nothing  for  all  of  the 
rest  to  do  but  acquiesce.  « 3 

In  the  first  instalment  of  his  new  series  Churchill  relates  that  he  permitted 
but  five  days  to  pass  after  becoming  prime  minister,  altho  swamped  by  con- 
cerns about  the  collapsing  British  and  French  front  in  Flanders,  before 
getting  in  touch  with  Roosevelt  by  personal  message.  He  started  out  with 
a  modest  request  for  40  or  50  American  destroyers,  all  available  modern 
American  warplanes,  about  all  the  anti-aircraft  weapons  we  then  had,  a 
considerable  amount  of  American  steel,  and  requests  that  America  indicate 
its  moral  support  of  Britain  by  sending  part  of  the  fleet  to  Irish  ports  and 
part  to  Singapore  "to  keep  the  Japanese  quiet."  «  4 

The  suggestion  for  lend-lease  was  conveyed  in  this  initial  note:  "We  shall 
go  on  paying  dollars  for  as  long  as  we  can,  but  I  should  like  to  feel  reason- 
ably sure  that  when  we  can  pay  no  more  you  will  give  us  the  stuff  all 
the  same."  «  5 

Roosevelt  at  once  provided  the  requested  aircraft,  anti-aircraft  weapons 
and  ammunition,  and  steel.  He  then  felt  that  "authorization  of  congress" 
would  be  required  for  the  destroyer  transfer  and  that  the  "moment  was  not 
opportune."  Four  months  later  he  had  changed  his  mind  about  consulting 
congress  and  regarded  the  time  as  opportune.  He  handed  over  the  destroyers 
by  executive  decree  in  defiance  of  national  and  international  law.  «  6 

There  were  950  of  these  personal  messages  from  Churchill  to  Roosevelt, 
and  800  in  reply.  The  correspondence,  according  to  Churchill,  "played  a 
part  in  my  conduct  of  the  war  not  less,  and  sometimes  even  more,  important 
than  my  duties  as  defense  minister."  Bringing  the  United  States  into  the 
war  was,  of  course,  the  most  important  of  Churchill's  tasks,  for  Britain  didn't 

«  3  (D)  Do  you  find  any  "loaded  words'  (i.e.,  words  meant  to  slant  your  sympathies) 
which  are  calculated  to  turn  your  sympathies  against  Churchill  and  Roosevelt?  (E)  What 
facts  are  given  to  support  the  generalizations  about  agents  and  propagandists? 

«4    (F)  Does  the  writer  make  any  use  of  sarcasm  here?   Explain. 

«  5    ( c )  What  is  gained  by  making  this  sentence  a  paragraph  by  itself? 

«6  (H)  What  characteristics  does  the  writer  impute  to  Roosevelt?  Does  the  wording 
indicate  what  the  writer  wants  you  to  feel  about  these  characteristics? 

CHURCHH.L   TRUE    TO    FORM         89 


have  a  prayer  of  winning  on  its  own.  He  later  admitted  the  strategy  when, 
after  Pearl  Harbor,  he  told  the  house  of  commons  that  "this  is  what  I  have 
dreamed  of,  aimed  at,  and  worked  for,  and  now  it  has  come  to  pass."  «  7 

There  no  longer  can  be  the  slightest  question  that  Roosevelt,  in  his  plot 
to  betray  his  countrymen  into  this  war  which  has  turned  out  so  tragically 
for  America's  lasting  interests,  was  receiving  his  instructions  from  Churchill 
thru  this  correspondence,  and  that  he  gave  the  British  prime  minister  un- 
questioning obedience.  Churchill  had  but  to  command  and  everything  at 
America's  disposal  became  his.  This  campaign  was  accompanied  by  an 
incessant  program  of  psychological  warfare  to  browbeat  the  American  public 
into  acceptance  of  the  thesis  that  Britain  was  fighting  America's  war.  It  is 
a  thesis  which  Churchill  still  maintains  as  his  "theme/'  It  is  a  thesis  that 
will  forever  be  useful  in  whatever  war  Britain  becomes  entangled.  It  is  a 
thesis  which  now  underlies  the  proposed  Atlantic  pact.  «  8 

We  were  hooked  by  an  expert,  and  he  intends  that  we  shall  stay  hooked. 
But  Mr.  Churchill  is  wrong.  Americans  are  not  the  half  blind.  They  have 
been  rendered  the  totally  blind  by  those  who  govern  them  in  Britain's  in- 
terests. So  used  are  they  to  oft  repeated  lies  that  Mr.  Churchill  now  has  but 
to  lead  them  thru  a  routine  in  which  they  are  already  letter  perfect.  «  9 

«7  (i)  Study  this  paragraph  carefully  for  the  technique  involved.  Does  the  writer 
leave  the  impression  that  Churchill  worked  for  the  Japanese  attack  on  Pearl  Harbor? 
Does  he  specifically  state  this?  Explain  your  answer,  (j)  Try  to  discover  what  the  ante- 
cedent is  for  "this"  in  the  Churchill  quotation. 

«  8  (  K  )  What  argumentative  value  is  there  in  an  opening  like  "There  no  longer  can 
be  the  slightest  question  that  .  .  ."?  Why  might  such  an  opening  be  especially  successful 
in  a  newspaper?  Do  you  agree  that  "there  no  longer  can  be  the  slightest  question'? 
Explain  your  answer.  What  value  is  there  in  the  frequent  repetition  of  "It  is  a  the- 
sis .  .  ."?  (L)  Can  you  speculate  as  to  why  the  editor  has  not  mentioned  the  Atlantic 
Pact  sooner?  What  is  the  editorialist's  attitude  concerning  this  pact?  How  consistent 
is  this  attitude? 

«9  (M)  Do  you  find  any  "loaded  words"  in  this  paragraph?  (N)  Show  how  the 
editor  makes  use  of  a  Churchill  metaphor.  Do  you  think  the  metaphor  sound  as  Churchill 
used  it?  As  the  editor  adapts  it? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION,  (o)  What  are  the  primary  objectives  of  the  writer?  (p) 
What  issues  are  suggested?  (Q)  What  means  of  evoking  emotion  does  the  writer  use? 
(R)  What  proportion  of  the  editorial  consists  of  generalizations?  What  proportion  con- 
sists of  factual  evidence  to  back  up  these  generalizations?  ( s )  Do  you  consider  the  argu- 
ment a  just  one  throughout?  Give  reasons  for  your  answer.  (T)  Do  you  find  the  argument 
effective?  Give  reasons  for  your  answer,  (u)  Suggest  how  the  same  attitudes  might  be 
developed  in  an  indirect  attack. 


90        TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


CLARENCE  DAY  The  revolt  of  capital 

MODES  OF  ATTACK:  THE  ATTACK  INDIRECT.  The  indirect  approach  is  the  ironic: 
that  is,  the  words  say  the  opposite  of  the  author's  real  intent.  Irony  derives  from 
the  Greek  word  "eiron,"  used  to  denote  a  type  character  in  classical  comedy.  Such 
a  character  was  a  wise  person  who  assumed  the  role  of  a  simpleton.  By  extension, 
the  term  has  come  to  apply  to  a  discourse  in  which  the  writer,  who  is  really  wise 
and  just,  plays  at  being  stupid  and  sometimes  downright  malicious.  Such  an  attack 
makes  large  demands  upon  the  writers  ingenuity,  for  he  must  say  one  thing  and 
make  the  reader  know  that  he  means  another.  It  makes  demands  of  the  reader,  too. 
Some  readers  make  fools  of  themselves  by  failing  to  recognize  what  the  author  is 
up  to.  In  1729,  when  Jonathan  Swift  suggested  ironically  in  "A  Modest  Proposal" 
that  the  starving  Irish  sell  their  babies  as  choice  meat,  there  was  a  roar  of  pro- 
test. Many  readers  took  him  literally  and  completely  missed  Swift's  real  point, 
his  bitter  attack  on  the  economic  system  which  was  responsible  for  the  starva- 
tion. 

In  "The  Revolt  of  Capital,''  Clarence  Day  upsets  the  whole  history  of  the 
relation  between  capital  and  labor.  As  an  intelligent  reader,  however,  you  al- 
most immediately  realize  that  no  one  intelligent  enough  to  write  this  well  can 
have  so  much  misinformation  as  his  words,  taken  literally,  might  indicate.  Once 
you  make  this  discovery,  reading  becomes  something  of  a  game  in  piecing  together 
what  Day  apparently  says  and  what  he  really  means.  The  ultimate  result  may  be 
that  you  will  remember  his  argument  far  more  clearly  than  if  he  had  stated  it 
directly. 


,  NCE  UPON  A  TIME  all  the  large  corporations  were  controlled  by  labor. 
The  whole  system  was  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  it  is  now.  It  was 
laEor  that  elected  the  directors,  and  the  officers  too.  Capital  had  no  repre- 
sentatives at  all  in  the  management.  «  I 

It  was  a  curious  period.  Think  of  capital  having  no  say,  even  about  its 
own  rates  I  When  a  concern  like  the  United  Great  Steel  Co.  was  in  need  of 
more  capital,  the  labor  man  who  was  at  the  head  of  it,  President  Albert  H. 
Hairy,  went  out  and  hired  what  he  wanted  on  the  best  terms  he  could. 
Sometimes  these  terms  seemed  cruelly  low  to  the  capitalists,  but  whenever 
one  of  them  grumbled  he  was  paid  off  at  once,  and  his  place  was  soon  taken 

Reprinted  from  The  Crow's  Nest  by  Clarence  Day,  by  permission  of  Alfred  A.  Knopf, 
Inc.  Copyright  1921  by  Clarence  Day,  Jr.,  Copyright  1949  by  Katherine  B.  Day. 

«  I  (  A  )  By  what  means  may  you  learn  immediately  that  this  writing  is  not  to  be  inter- 
preted literally? 

THE  REVOLT   OF  CAPITAL        91 


by  another  who  wasn't  so  uppish.  This  made  for  discipline  and  improved 
the  service.  «  2 

Under  this  regime— as  under  most  others— there  was  often  mismanagement. 
Those  in  control  paid  themselves  too  well— as  those  in  control  sometimes  do. 
Failures  and  reorganizations  resulted  from  this,  which  reduced  the  usual 
return  to  the  workers  and  made  them  feel  gloomy;  but  as  these  depressions 
threw  capitalists  out  of  employment,  and  thus  made  capital  cheaper,  they  had 
their  bright  side.  «  3 

The  capitalists,  however,  grumbled  more  and  more.  Even  when  they  were 
well  paid  and  well  treated  they  grumbled.  No  matter  how  much  they  got, 
they  felt  they  weren't  getting  their  dues.  They  knew  that  labor  elected  the 
management;  and  they  knew  human  nature.  Putting  these  two  premises 
together,  they  drew  the  conclusion  that  labor  was  probably  getting  more 
than  its  share,  and  capital  less.  President  Hairy,  of  the  Steel  Co.,  explained 
to  them  this  couldn't  be  true,  because  the  market  for  capital  was  a  free  and 
open  market.  He  quoted  a  great  many  economic  laws  that  proved  it,  and 
all  the  professors  of  economy  said  he  was  right.  But  the  capitalists  wouldn't 
believe  in  these  laws,  because  they  weren't  on  their  side,  nor  would  they 
read  any  of  the  volumes  the  professors  composed.  They  would  read  only  a 
book  that  an  old  German  capitalist  wrote— a  radical  book  which  turned 
economics  all  upside-down  and  said  that  capital  ought  to  start  a  class  war 
and  govern  the  world.  «  4 

Discontent  breeds  agitation.  Agitation  breeds  professional  agitators.  A 
few  unruly  loud-voiced  capitalists  climbed  up  on  soap-boxes  and  began  to 
harangue  their  quiet  comrades,  just  to  stir  up  needless  trouble.  When  ar- 
rested, they  invoked  (as  they  put  it)  the  right  of  free  speech.  The  labor 
men  replied  by  invoking  things  like  law  and  order.  Everybody  became 
morally  indignant  at  something.  The  press  invoked  the  Fathers  of  the 
Republic,  Magna  Charta,  and  Justice.  Excited  and  bewildered  by  this  cross- 
fire, the  police  one  evening  raided  a  Fifth  avenue  club,  where  a  capitalist 
named  M.  R.  Goldman  was  talking  in  an  incendiary  way  to  his  friends.  "All 
honest  law-abiding  capitalists  will  applaud  this  raid,"  said  the  papers.  But 
they  didn't.  They  began  to  feel  persecuted.  And  presently  some  capitalists 
formed  what  they  called  a  union.  «  5 

It  was  only  a  small  union,  that  first  one,  but  it  had  courage.  One  afternoon 
President  Hairy  looked  up  from  his  desk  to  find  four  stout,  red-faced  capital- 

«  2  (  B  )  What  evidences  of  informality  in  style  do  you  have  in  the  early  paragraphs? 
Why  might  this  be  more  appropriate  to  the  ironic  approach  here  than  a  highly  formal 
style? 

«  4  ( c )  What  book  is  suggested  by  the  last  sentence?  How  are  the  real  affairs  reversed? 
(D)  Why  would  such  a  character  as  Day  pretends  to  be  describe  the  book  in  this  way? 

92        TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


ists  pushing  each  other  nervously  into  his  office.  He  asked  them  their 
business.  They  huskily  demanded  that  every  capitalist  on  that  company's 
books  be  paid  at  least  a  half  per  cent  more  for  his  money.  The  president 
refused  to  treat  with  them  except  as  individuals.  They  then  called  a 
strike.  «6 

The  results  of  this  first  strike  were  profoundly  discouraging.  The  leaders 
were  tried  for  conspiracy,  those  who  walked  out  at  their  call  were  black- 
listed, and  the  victorious  labor  men  soon  secured  other  capitalists  in  plenty, 
a  private  carload  being  brought  over  from  Philadelphia  at  night.  The  labor 
leaders  became  so  domineering  in  their  triumph  they  refused  to  engage 
capitalists  who  drank  or  who  talked  of  their  wrongs.  They  began  importing 
cheap  foreign  capital  to  supply  all  new  needs.  But  these  measures  of  oppres- 
sion only  increased  the  class  feeling  of  capitalists  and  taught  them  to  stand 
shoulder  to  shoulder  in  the  fight  for  their  rights.  «  7 

The  years  of  warfare  that  followed  were  as  obstinate  as  any  in  history. 
Little  by  little,  in  spite  of  the  labor  men's  sneers,  the  enormous  power  of 
capital  made  itself  felt.  An  army  of  unemployed  capitalists  marched  upon 
Washington.  The  Brotherhood  of  Railway  Bondholders,  being  indicted  for 
not  buying  enough  new  bonds  to  move  the  mails,  locked  up  every  dollar  they 
possessed  and  defied  the  Government.  The  Industrial  Shareholders  of  the 
World,  a  still  more  rabid  body,  insisted  on  having  an  eight  per  cent  law  for 
their  money.  All  great  cities  were  the  scenes  of  wild  capitalist  riots.  Formerly 
indifferent  citizens  were  alarmed  and  angered  by  seeing  their  quiet  streets 
turned  into  Bedlam  at  night,  with  reckless  old  capitalists  roaring  through 
them  in  taxis,  singing  Yankee  Boodle  or  shouting  "Down  with  labor!"  For 
that  finally  became  the  cry:  labor  must  go.  They  still  meant  to  use  labor, 
somehow,  they  confusedly  admitted,  but  capital  and  not  labor  must  have 
absolute  control  of  all  industries.  «  8 

As  the  irrepressible  conflict  forced  its  way  into  politics.  Congress  made 
statesmanlike  efforts  to  settle  the  problem.  After  earnest  and  thoughtful 
debate  they  enacted  a  measure  which  made  the  first  Monday  in  September 
a  holiday,  called  Capital  Day.  As  this  hoped-for  cure  did  not  accomplish 
much  they  attempted  another,  by  adding  a  Secretary  of  Capital  to  the  Presi- 
dent's cabinet.  Conservative  people  were  horrified.  But  Congress  was  pushed 
even  further.  It  was  persuaded  to  prohibit  employing  the  capital  of  women 
and  children,  and  it  ordered  all  Japanese  capital  out  of  the  country.  On  one 

«5-IO  (E)  The  story  of  what  movement  is  really  being  outlined  here?  How  accurately 
is  the  development  of  this  movement  summarized? 

«  8  (F)  What  is  really  being  referred  to  by  the  Brotherhood  of  Railway  Bondholders? 
The  Industrial  Shareholders  of  the  World?  Yankee  Boodle?  What  is  the  value  of  the 
parallelisms  in  these  titles? 

THE   REVOLT   OF   CAPITAL        93 


point,  however,  Congress  was  obstinate  and  would  not  budge  an  inch.  They 
wouldn't  give  capital  full  control  of  the  railroads  and  mills.  «  9 

The  capitalists  themselves  were  obliged  to  realize,  gradually,  that  this 
could  be  at  best  but  a  beautiful  dream.  It  seemed  there  was  one  great  argu- 
ment against  it:  labor  men  were  a  unit  in  believing  the  scheme  wouldn't 
work.  How  could  scattered  investors,  who  had  not  worked  at  an  industry, 
elect— with  any  intelligence— the  managers  of  it?  Even  liberal  labor  men 
said  that  the  idea  was  preposterous.  «  10 

At  this  moment  a  citizen  of  East  Braintree,  Mass.,  stepped  forward,  and 
advocated  a  compromise.  He  said  in  effect: 

"The  cause  of  our  present  industrial  turmoil  is  this:  The  rulers  that  govern 
our  industries  are  not  rightly  elected.  Our  boards  of  directors  may  be  called 
our  industrial  legislatures;  they  manage  a  most  important  part  of  our  national 
life;  but  they  are  chosen  by  only  one  group  of  persons.  No  others  can  vote. 
If  Congress  were  elected  by  a  class,  as  our  boards  of  directors  are,  this 
country  would  be  constantly  in  a  state  of  revolution  politically,  just  as  it  is 
now  industrially."  That  was  his  argument.  «  1 1 

"Both  those  who  do  the  work  and  those  who  put  in  the  money  should 
rightfully  be  represented  in  these  governing  bodies."  That  was  his  cure.  If 
corporations  would  adopt  this  democratic  organization,  he  said,  two-sided 
discussions  would  take  place  at  their  meetings.  "These  discussions  would 
tend  to  prevent  the  adoption  of  policies  that  now  create  endless  antagonism 
between  labor  and  capital."  And  he  went  on  to  point  out  the  many  other 
natural  advantages.  «  1 2 

This  compromise  was  tried.  At  first  it  naturally  made  labor  angry,  labor 
having  been  in  exclusive  control  for  so  long.  Many  laborers  declined  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  concerns  that  were  run  by  "low  ignorant  speculators," 
as  they  called  them,  "men  who  knew  nothing  of  any  concern's  real  needs." 
Ultimately,  however,  they  yielded  to  the  trend  of  the  times.  Democratic 
instead  of  autocratic  control  brought  about  team-play.  Men  learned  to  work 
together  for  their  common  good.  «  1 3 

Of  course  capitalists  and  laborers  did  not  get  on  any  too  well  together. 
Self-respecting  men  on  each  side  hated  the  other  side's  ways— even  their  ways 
of  dressing  and  talking,  and  amusing  themselves.  The  workers  talked  of  the 
dignity  of  labor  and  called  capital  selfish.  On  the  other  hand,  ardent  young 
capitalists  who  loved  lofty  ideals,  complained  that  the  dignity  of  capital 

«9  (G)  What  is  suggested  by  Capital  Day?  Secretary  of  Capital?  capital  of  women 
and  children?  Japanese  capital?  (H)  Why  is  the  tone  of  the  account  here  typical  of  the 
character  Day  is  pretending  to  be? 

«  M-15  (i)  What  is  Day's  apparent  attitude  toward  the  quoted  phrases  and  passages? 
What  is  his  real  attitude?  (j)  To  what  extent  do  these  paragraphs  suggest  a  compromise 
which  has  actually  come  about?  What  aspects  of  the  compromise  described  by  Day  are  not 
yet  a  reality? 

94        TECHNIQUES    OF    ARGUMENT 


was  not  respected  by  labor,  These  young  men  despised  all  non-capitalists  on 
high  moral  grounds.  They  argued  that  every  such  man  who  went  through 
life  without  laying  aside  any  wealth  for  those  to  come,  must  be  selfish  by 
nature  and  utterly  unsocial  at  heart.  There  always  are  plenty  of  high  moral 
grounds  for  both  sides.  «  14 

But  this  mere  surface  friction  was  hardly  heard  of,  except  in  the  pages  of 
the  radical  capitalist  press.  There  were  no  more  strikes,— that  was  the  main 
thing.  The  public  was  happy.  «  is 

At  least,  they  were  happy  until  the  next  problem  came  along  to  be 
solved.  «  16 


THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (K)  What  is  the  author  really  attacking?  (L)  Show  how  the 
methods  of  logical  reasoning  could  be  the  same  if  this  were  a  direct  attack.  Justify  the 
author's  use  of  the  indirect  attack  in  terms  of  the  article's  emotional  effectiveness.  Con- 
sider its  immediate  effect  on  you  and  the  lasting  quality  of  tliat  effect.  (M)  How  might 
you  bring  this  mock  history  (published  in  1921)  up  to  date? 


FRANKLIN    DELANO    ROOSEVELT     DeillOCraC        IS    HOt 


ARRANGEMENT.  By  the  careful  writer  or  speaker,  ideas  are  not  thrown  about 
helter-skelter  within  the  general  framework  of  the  argument;  they  are  fitted  to- 
gether skillfully  with  an  eye  to  their  effect.  For  example,  they  may  be  paralleled, 
or  contrasted,  or  repeated,  or  assembled  in  some  kind  of  sequence,  or  distributed 
for  the  sake  of  association.  Whatever  arrangement  is  followed,  you  may  be  sure 
that  it  has  its  special  role  in  the  emotional  impact  made  by  the  discourse  as  a 
whole. 

In  the  following  portion  of  his  third  inaugural  address,  delivered  January  20, 
1941,  Roosevelt  is  refuting  the  claims  of  men  who  "believe  that  democracy,  as 
a  form  of  government  and  a  frame  of  life,  is  limited  or  measured  by  a  kind 
of  mystical  and  artificial  fate  .  .  .  that  freedom  is  an  ebbing  tide."  In  preced- 
ing paragraphs,  he  has  pointed  out  that  during  the  past  few  years  America 
has  made  great  progress  and  has  remained  a  democracy.  Now  he  presents 
other  arguments,  and  his  speech  gains  in  impressiveness  because  of  his  use  of 
climactic  sequences.  The  paragraphs  are  short—  probably  for  convenience  in  oral 
reading  or  for  their  appearance  in  newspaper  columns.  Because  the  main  ideas 
are  thus  broken  down  into  many  separate  units,  you  will  need  to  discover  the  main 
divisions  in  thought  in  order  to  distinguish  the  various  uses  of  climax. 

DEMOCRACY  is  not  dying.  «  I 
We  know  it  because  we  have  seen  it  revive  and  grow.  <  2 
We  know  it  cannot  die  because  it  is  built  on  the  unhampered  initiative  of 

DEMOCRACY   IS   NOT   DYING        95 


individual  men  and  women  joined  together  in  a  common  enterprise— an 
enterprise  undertaken  and  carried  through  by  the  free  expression  of  a  free 
majority.  «3 

We  know  it  because  democracy  alone,  of  all  forms  of  government,  enlists 
the  full  force  of  men's  enlightened  will.  «  4 

We  know  it  because  democracy  alone  has  constructed  an  unlimited  civili- 
zation capable  of  infinite  progress  in  the  improvement  of  human  life.  «  5 

We  know  it  because,  if  we  look  below  the  surface,  we  sense  it  still  spread- 
ing on  every  continent;  for  it  is  the  most  humane,  the  most  advanced,  and 
in  the  end  the  most  unconquerable  of  all  forms  of  human  society.  «  6 

A  nation,  like  a  person,  has  a  body— a  body  that  must  be  fed  and  clothed 
and  housed,  invigorated  and  rested,  in  a  manner  that  measures  up  to  the 
objectives  of  our  time.  « 7 

A  nation,  like  a  person,  has  a  mind— a  mind  that  must  be  kept  informed 
and  alert,  that  must  know  itself,  that  understands  the  hopes  and  the  needs 
of  its  neighbors— all  the  other  nations  that  live  within  the  narrowing  circle 
of  the  world.  «  8 

A  nation,  like  a  person,  has  something  deeper,  something  more  permanent, 
something  larger  than  the  sum  of  all  its  parts.  It  is  that  something  which 
matters  most  to  its  future  which  calls  forth  the  most  sacred  guarding  of  its 
present.  «9 

It  is  a  thing  for  which  we  find  it  difficult— even  impossible— to  hit  upon  a 
single,  simple  word.  «  10 

And  yet  we  all  understand  what  it  is— the  spirit— the  faith  of  America.  It 
is  the  product  of  centuries.  It  was  born  in  the  multitudes  of  those  who  came 
from  many  lands— some  of  high  degree,  but  mostly  plain  people— who  sought 
here,  early  and  late,  to  find  freedom  more  freely.  «  1 1 

The  democratic  aspiration  is  no  mere  recent  phase  in  human  history.  It  is 
human  history.  It  permeated  the  ancient  life  of  early  peoples.  It  blazed  anew 
in  the  Middle  Ages.  It  was  written  in  Magna  Carta.  «  12 

«  1-6  (A)  Six  paragraphs  are  included  in  the  first  main  division.  What  is  the  main  idea 
of  this  division?  Where  is  it  stated?  (B)  What  use  has  the  author  made  of  parallelism 
and  repetition  in  phrasing?  (c)  Are  the  details  arranged  in  a  climactic  sequence?  Explain 
your  answer. 

<  7-1 1  (D)  What  is  the  main  idea  that  Roosevelt  is  leading  to  in  this  analogical  devel- 
opment? (E)  Show  what  use  has  been  made  of  parallelism  and  repetition  in  phrasing. 
(F)  Account  in  terms  of  climactic  development  for  the  order  of  the  paragraphs  in  this 
division. 

«  1 1-15  (G)  Five  paragraphs  are  included  in  the  third  division  of  thought.  What  basis 
is  there  for  the  arrangement  of  details  in  this  division?  (H)  In  what  sense  is  a  climax 
present  in  this  division  too? 

96        TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


In  the  Americas  its  impact  has  been  irresistible.  America  has  been  the 
New  World  in  all  tongues,  and  to  all  peoples,  not  because  this  continent  was 
a  new-found  land,  but  because  all  those  who  came  here  believed  they  could 
create  upon  this  continent  a  new  life— a  life  that  should  be  new  in 
freedom.  «  13 

Its  vitality  was  written  into  our  own  Mayflower  Compact,  into  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence,  into  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States,  into  the 
Gettysburg  Address.  «  K 

Those  who  first  came  here  to  carry  out  the  longings  of  their  spirit  and  the 
millions  who  followed,  and  the  stock  that  sprang  from  them— all  have  moved 
forward  constantly  and  consistently  toward  an  ideal  which  in  itself  has 
gained  stature  and  clarity  with  each  generation.  «  1 5 

The  hopes  of  the  Republic  cannot  forever  tolerate  either  undeserved 
poverty  or  self-serving  wealth.  «  1 6 

We  know  that  we  still  have  far  to  go;  that  we  must  more  greatly  build 
the  security  and  the  opportunity  and  the  knowledge  of  every  citizen,  in  the 
measure  justified  by  the  resources  and  the  capacity  of  the  land.  «  17 

But  it  is  not  enough  to  achieve  these  purposes  alone.  It  is  not  enough  to 
clothe  and  feed  the  body  of  this  nation,  and  instruct  and  inform  its  mind. 
For  there  is  also  the  spirit.  And  of  the  three,  the  greatest  is  the  spirit.  «  18 

Without  the  body  and  the  mind,  as  all  men  know,  the  nation  could  not  live. 
But  if  the  spirit  of  America  were  killed,  even  though  the  nation's  body  and 
mind,  constricted  in  an  alien  world,  lived  on,  the  America  we  know  would 
have  perished.  «  19 

That  spirit— that  faith— speaks  to  us  in  our  daily  lives  in  ways  often  un- 
noticed, because  they  seem  so  obvious.  It  speaks  to  us  here  in  the  Capital 
of  the  nation.  It  speaks  to  us  through  the  processes  of  governing  in  the 
sovereignties  of  forty-eight  States.  It  speaks  to  us  in  our  counties,  in  our 
cities,  in  our  towns,  arid  in  our  villages.  It  speaks  to  us  from  the  other  nations 
of  the  Hemisphere,  and  from  those  across  the  seas— the  enslaved,  as  well 
as  the  free.  « 20 


«  16-20    (i)  How  is  this  final  division  related  to  the  three  preceding? 

«  18    (j)  Can  you  see  any  reasons  for  the  short  sentences  in  paragraph  18? 

«  19    (K)  Why  use  two  sentences  instead  of  one  in  paragraph  19? 

«  20  (L)  Show  how  in  paragraph  20  Roosevelt  uses  the  same  method  of  arrangement 
that  he  has  been  employing  except  that  here  he  is  handling  smaller  units.  Can  you  see 
any  reason  for  his  doing  this? 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (M)  How  do  parallelisms  and  repetitions  in  phrasing  help  set 
off  the  main  divisions?  (N)  Within  a  given  main  division  the  phrasing  does  not  neces- 
sarily indicate  the  climactic  arrangement  of  details.  Often  it  seems  to  indicate  only  parallel 
ideas.  Can  you  see  any  justification  for  this  seeming  incongruity? 

DEMOCRACY   IS   NOT   DYING         97 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  Second  inaugural  address 

WORDS  AND  SENTENCES.  Interrelated  and  fusing  with  the  effects  created  by  the 
mode  of  attack  and  the  arrangement  of  ideas  are  the  effects  evoked  by  sentences 
and  words.  By  his  choice  and  arrangement  of  words  in  sentences  a  speaker  and 
even  a  writer  can  play  upon  the  emotions  of  his  audience  just  as  though  they  were 
a  large  and  very  complex  musical  instrument.  Hitler  had  this  power.  So,  for  more 
admirable  ends,  did  Webster,  Bryan,  Theodore  Roosevelt,  and  Franklin  D.  Roose- 
velt. 

Sentence  structure,  though  it  seems  like  a  lackluster  affair,  has  much  to  do  with 
emotional  effect.  Short,  jabby  little  sentences  give  one  effect;  long,  periodic  sen- 
tences give  another;  balanced  sentences  give  still  a  third.  The  effective  speaker 
or  writer  will  recognize  and  use  these  different  effects.  In  large  measure,  sen- 
tence structure  not  only  points  up  the  relation  between  ideas  but  distributes  the 
emphasis,  establishes  the  tempo,  and  creates  the  prose  rhythm. 

Words  taken  alone  have  the  power  to  evoke  emotional  responses.  Think,  for 
example,  of  snake,  sirloin,  and  entrails.  In  combination,  words  can  be  even  more 
evocative.  The  shrewd  arguer  manipulates  them  accordingly.  When  he  wants 
you  to  like  something,  he  attaches  appealing  words  to  it;  when  he  wants  you  to 
dislike  something,  he  attaches  repelling  words  to  it.  In  either  event,  he  uses  words 
that  are  emotionally  "loaded"— words  that  are  rich  in  connotation  and  have  an 
emotional  effect  upon  his  audience. 

Few  writers  in  the  English  language  have  been  such  masters  of  English  sentences 
and  words  as  Abraham  Lincoln.  Probably  you  at  one  time  memorized  his  "Gettys- 
burg Address,"  and  not  just  because  of  his  sentiments— there  have  been  other  ad- 
dresses expressing  similar  sentiments.  You  memorized  it  because  of  the  power- 
ful effect  created  by  its  sentences  and  words.  The  "Second  Inaugural,"  printed 
here,  offers  a  more  lengthy  exhibition  of  Lincoln  s  skill. 

In  the  year  1865,  when  Lincoln's  address  was  delivered,  the  South,  after 
nearly  four  years  of  war,  was  weakening.  A  peace  conference  which  had  been 
held  had,  despite  its  failure,  convinced  Lincoln  that  the  end  was  very  near. 
Lincoln's  one  thought,  according  to  his  biographers,  "was  to  shorten  by  gener- 
ous conciliation,  the  period  of  the  dreadful  conflict."  His  cabinet  and  many 
Northerners,  however,  disapproved  of  his  wish  for  liberal  and  humane  terms. 
The  speech,  it  would  seem,  had  as  a  main  purpose  the  creation  of  a  spirit  of 
charity  on  the  part  of  such  opponents  in  the  North.  To  create  such  a  spirit,  Lin- 
coln so  molded  his  style  as  to  minimize  differences  and  emphasize  kinships  between 
North  and  South. 


AT  THIS  SECOND  APPEARING  to  take  the  oath  of  the  presidential  office,  there 
is  less  occasion  for  an  extended  address  than  there  was  at  first.  Then 
a  statement,  somewhat  in  detail,  of  a  course  to  be  pursued,  seemed  fitting 
and  proper.    Now,  at  the  expiration  of  four  years,  during  which  public 

98        TECHNIQUES  OF  ARGUMENT 


declarations  have  been  constantly  called  forth  on  every  point  and  phase  of 
the  great  contest  which  still  absorbs  the  attention  and  engrosses  the  energies 
of  the  nation,  little  that  is  new  could  be  presented.  The  progress  of  our 
arms,  upon  which  all  else  chiefly  depends,  is  as  well  known  to  the  public 
as  to  myself;  and  it  is,  I  trust,  reasonably  satisfactory  and  encouraging  to  all. 
With  high  hope  for  the  future,  no  prediction  in  regard  to  it  is  ventured.  «  I 

On  the  occasion  corresponding  to  this  four  years  ago,  all  thoughts  were 
anxiously  directed  to  an  impending  civil  war.  All  dreaded  it,— all  sought  to 
avert  it.  While  the  inaugural  address  was  being  delivered  from  this  place, 
devoted  altogether  to  saving  the  Union  without  war,  insurgent  agents  were 
in  the  city  seeking  to  destroy  it  without  war— seeking  to  dissolve  the  Union, 
and  divide  effects,  by  negotiation.  Both  parties  deprecated  war;  but  one  of 
them  would  make  war  rather  than  let  the  nation  survive;  and  the  other  would 
accept  war  rather  than  let  it  perish.  And  the  war  came.  «  2 

One  eighth  of  the  whole  population  were  colored  slaves,  not  distributed 
generally  over  the  Union,  but  localized  in  the  southern  part  of  it.  These 
slaves  constituted  a  peculiar  and  powerful  interest.  All  knew  that  this  inter- 
est was,  somehow,  the  cause  of  the  war.  To  strengthen,  perpetuate,  and 
extend  this  interest  was  the  object  for  which  the  insurgents  would  rend  the 
Union,  even  by  war;  while  the  government  claimed  no  right  to  do  more  than 
to  restrict  the  territorial  enlargement  of  it.  Neither  party  expected  for  the 
war  the  magnitude  or  the  duration  which  it  has  already  attained.  Neither 
anticipated  that  the  cause  of  the  conflict  might  cease  with,  or  even  before, 
the  conflict  itself  should  cease.  Each  looked  for  an  easier  triumph,  and  a 
result  less  fundamental  and  astounding.  Both  read  the  same  Bible,  and  pray 
to  the  same  God;  and  each  invokes  His  aid  against  the  other.  It  may  seem 
strange  that  any  men  should  dare  to  ask  a  just  God's  assistance  in  wringing 
their  bread  from  the  sweat  of  other  men's  faces;  but  let  us  judge  not,  that 
we  be  not  judged.  The  prayers  of  both  could  not  be  answered— that  of 
neither  has  been  answered  fully.  The  Almighty  has  His  own  purposes.  "Woe 
unto  the  world  because  of  offenses!  for  it  must  needs  be  that  offenses  come; 
but  woe  to  that  man  by  whom  the  offense  cometh."  If  we  shall  suppose  that 
American  slavery  is  one  of  those  offenses  which,  in  the  providence  of  God, 
must  needs  come,  but  which,  having  continued  through  His  appointed  time, 
He  now  wills  to  remove,  and  that  He  gives  to  both  North  and  South  this 

«  I  (A)  The  speech  begins  quietly  and  with  no  special  fanfare.  How  in  terms  of  word 
choice  and  sentence  structure  is  this  mood  created?  Why  is  it  suited  to  Lincoln's  purpose? 

«  2  (  B  )  Compare  the  tone  of  the  last  sentence  in  paragraph  2  with  the  tone  in  the 
following  unjustifiable  substitution:  "And  as  a  result  of  the  blindness,  the  stubbornness 
of  the  enemy,  this  war,  which  has  brought  destruction  to  many  a  fair  city,  death  to  many 
a  fine  young  man,  thundered  into  being."  How  do  the  wording,  the  length,  the  abstract- 
ness  of  Lincoln's  version  compare  with  those  of  his  other  sentences  in  paragraphs  1  and  2? 
What  is  the  effect  of  the  last  sentence? 

SECOND   INAUGURAL    ADDRESS        99 


terrible  war,  as  the  woe  due  to  those  by  whom  the  offense  came,  shall  we 
discern  therein  any  departure  from  those  divine  attributes  which  the  believ- 
ers in  a  living  God  always  ascribe  to  Him?  Fondly  do  we  hope,  fervently 
do  we  pray,  that  this  mighty  scourge  of  war  may  speedily  pass  away.  Yet, 
if  God  wills  that  it  continue  until  all  the  wealth  piled  by  the  bondman's  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  of  unrequited  toil  shall  be  sunk,  and  until  every  drop 
of  blood  drawn  with  the  lash  shall  be  paid  by  another  drawn  with  the  sword, 
as  was  said  three  thousand  years  ago,  so  still  it  must  be  said,  "The  judgments 
of  the  Lord  are  true  and  righteous  altogether."  « 3 

With  malice  towards  none,  with  charity  for  all,  with  firmness  in  the  right, 
as  God  gives  us  to  see  the  right,  let  us  strive  on  to  finish  the  work  we  are  in,— 
to  bind  up  the  nation's  wounds,— to  care  for  him  who  shall  have  borne  the 
battle,  and  for  his  widow,  and  his  orphan—to  do  all  which  may  achieve  and 
cherish  a  just  and  lasting  peace  among  ourselves,  and  with  all  nations.  «  4 

«  3  (c)  Compare  the  style  of  the  third  paragraph  with  that  of  the  first  two,  consider- 
ing kinds  of  words  used,  figures  of  speech,  lengths  of  sentences,  forms  of  sentences  (e.g., 
balance  and  rhythm  in  sentences,  such  as  in  the  one  beginning,  "Fondly  do  we  hope  .  .  ."), 
and  Biblical  quotations.  How  are  the  facts  you  find  related  to  the  relative  emotional 
impact  of  the  paragraphs?  To  the  end  Lincoln  had  in  mind? 

«  4  (  D  )  The  final  paragraph  is  one  long  sentence.  Can  you  see  any  reason  for  this? 
Take  the  sentence  apart;  explain  how  it  summarizes  the  thought,  and  helps  by  its  structure, 
word  choice,  sound,  rhythm,  and  tempo  to  achieve  the  purpose  of  the  whole  address. 

THE  WHOLE  SELECTION.  (E)  Compare  the  sentences  and  words  of  the  preceding  selec- 
tion, "Democracy  Is  Not  Dying"  with  those  in  this  address.  Show  how  the  type  of  words 
and  sentences  in  each  would  be  inappropriate  to  the  other.  (  F  )  What  other  selections  that 
you  have  read  compare  with  the  "Second  Inaugural"  in  the  effect  achieved  by  sentences 
and  words?  What  ones  can  you  think  of  that  have  violently  contrasting  effects? 
(G)  Argument,  it  has  been  said,  is  not  only  a  matter  of  transmitting  your  own  ideas  but 
also  of  creating  conditions  conducive  to  their  receptivity.  In  what  ways  can  sentences 
and  words  contribute  to  this  latter  objective? 


100        TECHNIQUES   OF   ARGUMENT 


part  2 

How  to  evaluate 
factual  prose 


EVALUATING   WHAT  YOU   READ 


A;  you  may  have  discovered  from  the 
work  in  Part  One,  learning  to  read 
is  not  a  simple  matter  of  learning  one 
skill  but  a  matter  of  mastering  a  num- 
ber of  distinct  and  related  skills.  If  you 
want  to  consider  a  comparable  problem, 
think  for  a  moment  about  learning  to 
drive  an  automobile.  You  do  not  be- 
come a  good  driver  by  concentrating  on 
driving  as  such.  Rather,  you  try  to  mas- 
ter such  subskills  as  steering,  braking, 
accelerating,  and  shifting  gears.  What 
makes  the  problem  awkward  at  first  is 
that  you  find  it  possible  to  keep  your 
mind  on  only  one  operation  even  though 
you  must  perform  several  at  the  same 
time.  Worse,  you  find  that  each  of  the 
subskills  has  to  be  adapted  to  different 
kinds  of  situations.  For  example,  steer- 
ing is  no  simple,  single  operation  but 
varies  as  you  drive  over  straight  roads, 
around  sharp  unbanked  curves,  through 
heavy  traffic,  over  ice  and  mud,  and  in 
and  out  of  parking  places.  Or  take  an- 
other analogy:  Learning  to  play  golf 
involves  a  mastery  of  the  grip,  the 
stance,  the  backswing,  the  follow 
through,  and  so  on.  And  mastery  of  the 
golf  stroke  is  no  simple  operation  but 
one  which  must  be  adapted  to  driving, 
chipping,  blasting  from  sand,  putting, 
and  what  to  the  beginner  seems  an  in- 
finite number  of  situations. 

In  like  manner,  learning  to  read  is  a 
matter  of  developing  a  number  of  sub- 
skills  and  of  adapting  them  to  varying 
situations.  Thus  it  is  a  matter  of  gain- 
ing a  preliminary  mastery  over  such 
highly  complex  and  intimately  related 


subskills  as  moving  the  eyes  efficiently 
across  the  printed  page,  picking  out 
the  main  idea,  discovering  meanings 
through  context,  seeing  the  relation  be- 
tween details  and  generalizations,  and 
spotting  undue  bias.  These  are  just  a 
few  examples.  The  complete  list  would 
include  everything  involved  in  tem- 
porarily controlling  our  entire  psycho- 
physiological  being  and  directing  it 
toward  the  printed  page.  Then  these 
subskills  must  be  adapted  to  varying 
situations.  For  example,  seeing  the  re- 
lation between  details  and  generaliza- 
tions is  an  operation  that  varies  with  the 
type  of  discourse  and  with  the  kind  of 
reasoning  within  the  type.  Thus,  it  is 
one  thing  to  detect  the  relation  between 
the  generalization  and  details  in  an  ex- 
pository paragraph  in  which  the  details 
are  arranged  chronologically;  it  is  quite 
another  thing  to  detect  such  a  relation 
in  an  argument  in  which  the  writer  is 
reasoning  deductively.  In  spite  of  these 
complexities,  good  reading  is  not  at  all 
beyond  your  capacities  provided  you 
have  normal  intelligence,  are  patient 
enough  to  train  yourself  properly,  and 
want  to  learn. 

In  Part  One  of  this  volume  we  have 
tried  to  give  you  practice  with  some  of 
the  essential  subskills  and,  more  particu- 
larly, with  the  kinds  of  situations  to 
which  these  subskills  must  be  adapted. 
If  you  have  worked  through  Part  One 
carefully,  you  have  completed  the  more 
mechanical  and  possibly  less  interesting 
part  of  the  work.  You  should  now  be 
competent  enough  in  reading  factual 


102 


EVALUATING   WHAT   YOU  READ 


prose  to  determine  in  most  instances 
what  an  author  is  trying  to  say  and  how 
he  says  it,  The  next  step  is  to  discover 
techniques  for  deciding  whether  it  is 
well  said  or  worth  saying.  For  if  the 
author's  reasoning  is  false,  his  facts 
wrong,  his  style  ambiguous,  the  work 
probably  does  not  merit  any  more  of 
your  time  or  attention.  Certainly  it  is 
nothing  that  you  want  to  make  an  im- 
portant part  of  your  thinking  or  upon 
which  you  want  to  base  any  serious  ac- 
tion. Thus,  closely  related  to  the  act 
of  reading  is  the  act  of  judgment- 
making,  or  evaluation. 

There  are  probably  many  ways  in 
which  you  already  evaluate  factual 
prose;  you  may  think  that  a  magazine 
article,  to  take  one  example,  is  good  be- 
cause it  is  easy  to  read,  or  because  the 
material  is  vivid,  or  because  the  author 
belongs  to  your  church,  or  because  the 
article  appears  in  your  favorite  maga- 
zine, or  because  your  father  says  it  is 
good,  or  because  it  contains  some  facts 
that  are  new  to  you,  or  because  it 
agrees  with  your  point  of  view,  or  be- 
cause it  is  funny,  or  because  of  a  hun- 
dred and  one  other  reasons  you  may 
not  even  be  conscious  of.  It  would  be 
impossible  in  the  next  few  pages  to  dis- 
cuss all  of  the  yardsticks  you  and  others 
use  in  measuring  the  excellence  of  fac- 
tual prose.  What  we  shall  do  is  select 
three  that  a  great  many  readers  think 


are  especially  valuable:  (1)  evaluating 
a  work  for  its  truth,  (2)  evaluating  a 
work  in  its  own  terms,  and  (3)  evaluat- 
ing a  work  for  its  literary  excellence. 
In  each  case  we  shall  briefly  describe 
the  method  and  then  give  you  several 
selections  on  which  to  apply  it.  Ques- 
tions at  the  end  of  each  selection  will 
help  you  in  making  the  application. 
They  are  typical  of  the  questions  you 
might  ask  yourself  in  applying  these 
methods  to  almost  any  factual  prose 
account. 

One  final  word  before  you  tackle  the 
first  method.  There  js  no  single  Ipest 
ir^ethod  of  evaluation.  Sometimes  one 
will  seem  more  relevant,  sometimes  an- 
other. For  example,  the  truth  of  Hitler's 
Mein  Kampf  is  probably  a  more  signifi- 
cant issue  to  raise  than  the  issue  of 
whether  it  does  efficiently  what  it  sets 
out  to  do  or  the  issue  of  its  literary 
excellence.  Better  yet  would  be  a  final 
evaluation  based  on  an  application  of 
several  methods.  Thus  the  best  advice 
we  can  give— assuming  for  the  moment 
that  you  want  advice— is  that  in  assess- 
ing the  merits  of  a  factual  account  you 
use  as  many  methods  as  seem  likely  to 
produce  useful  judgments.  Not  only 
will  several  approaches  be  likely  to  re- 
sult in  a  sounder  final  evaluation  than 
one,  but  also  they  will  increase  your 
understanding  of  the  work  you  are 
reading. 


EVALUATING   WHAT   YOU   HEAD        103 


EVALUATING  A  WORK  FOR  ITS  TRUTH 


WHAT  misleads  us  about  bookish- 
ness  and  justifies  Whitman's 
\v  arning  about  'the  spectres  that  stalk  in 
books/  "  writes  Professor  Jacques  Bar- 
zun,  "is  the  habit  of  taking  the  contents 
of  books  in  themselves,  trusting  to  words 
as  magic,  failing  to  test  them  with  life 
or  light  them  up  with  imagination— in 
short  preferring  hokum  to  truth." 

Professor  Barzun  is  arguing  here  for 
measuring  a  work  by  the  yardstick  of 
truth.  Clearly,  his  remark  makes  goocl 
sense.  It  is  astonishing  how  many  peo- 
ple assume  that  mere  print  has  some- 
thing innately  convincing  about  it.  It 
is  astonishing  because  a  moment  of 
thought  will  show  that  the  mere  fact 
that  something  has  managed  to  get 
printed  really  means  nothing.  Incom- 
petents, fools,  and  rascals  may  print 
half  truths,  nonsense,  and  lies  today  as 
in  the  past— and  they  frequently  do. 
Consequently,  to  say  "I  believe  this  or 
that  because  I  read  it  somewhere"  is  to 
invite  the  rather  sarcastic  answer.  "Well, 
it's  nice  to  know  that  you  can  read,  but 
wouldn't  it  be  a  good  plan  to  learn  to 
think  a  little,  too?" 

The  truth  or  falsity  of  a  piece  of  writ- 
ing may  be  tested  by  considering  two 
questions— one  or  both  of  them  accord- 
ing to  the  nature  of  the  piece:  (1)  Who 
says  it?  (2)  What  is  said? 

Who  says  it? 

IF  Einstein,  the  world's  greatest  au- 
thority on  relativity,  writes  on  rela- 
tivity, the  reader  who  knows  of  Ein- 
stein's  reputation  will  feel   that  it  is 


fairly  safe  to  trust  what  he  writes.  If 
John  Smith,  an  insurance  agent,  writes 
on  the  same  subject,  the  reader  will 
probably  have  some  doubts.  At  best  he 
will  adopt  a  "show  me"  attitude.  If 
some  propaganda  minister  for  a  total- 
itarian state  writes  an  article  on  such 
a  subject,  or  on  any  subject,  most  read- 
ers, suspecting  him  of  being  an  unmiti- 
gated liar,  would  probably  not  even  take 
the  trouble  to  look  at  his  first  paragraph. 
In  short,  the  reputation  of  the  author 
unconsciously  and  automatically  enters 
into  our  judgment  of  the  truth  of  a 
work. 

Sometimes  these  unconscious  and  au- 
tomatic elements  in  a  judgment  are  fair, 
sometimes  not.  It  is  quite  possible,  for 
example,  that  an  insurance  agent,  hav- 
ing devoted  long  years  to  the  study  of 
relativity,  might  turn  out  a  sound  and 
worth-while  article  011  the  subject.  To 
discard  it  simply  because  the  author 
does  not  seem  to  be  an  authority  in  the 
field  would  be  manifestly  unfair.  Your 
first  function  in  using  this  particular 
method  of  evaluation,  therefore,  is  to 
find  out  all  that  you  can  about  the  au- 
thor. First  of  all,  discover  whether  there 
is  any  known  reason  for  doubting  his 
integrity.  If  he  is  a  columnist  gener- 
ally criticized  for  distorting  facts,  a  his- 
torian notorious  for  unreasoned  preju- 
dices, a  political  writer  with  communist 
bias,  then  you  will  want  to  scrutinize 
what  he  has  to  say  with  especial  care. 
I£  there  is  no  clear  reason  for  doubting 


his  integrity, 

Assume  that  helsThonest.   A  man  is  not 

guilty  until  proved  so. 


104 


EVALUATING    A    WORK    FOR    ITS    TRUTH 


Second,  fin^^utjfjthe  author1  is  an 
authority  in  nisfield.  This  is  a  matter 
of  discovering  whether,  for  example,  he 
has  worked  in  the  field  himself,  whether 
he  has  published  other  works  on  the 
same  subject,  whether  he  has  spent  con- 
siderable time  gathering  data  for  the 
article  you  are  reading.  You  may  have 
some  serious  questions,  for  instance, 
about  the  soap  salesman  who  suddenly 
turns  political  analyst  or  the  navy  cap- 
tain who  tells  educators  how  to  change 
their  curricula.  Naturally,  if  you  are 
sensible,  you  will  not  want  to  carry  this 
to  such  an  extreme  that  you  pooh-pooh 
anything  written  by  someone  without  a 
national  reputation  in  the  field.  Just  to 
be  on  the  safe  side,  however,  you  will 
want  to  check  the  facts  and  conclusions 
of  such  an  author  against  those  of  recog- 
nized authorities.  And  remember  that 
a  reputation  in  one  field  does  not  make 
a  person  an  authority  in  another.  Keep 
that  in  mind  the  next  time  you  hear  a 
motion-picture  columnist  telling  the 
State  Department  what  to  do  about 
Russia. 

Third,  discover  whether  there  is  any 
reason  for  the  writer's  being  biased  on 
the  subject  of  the  particular  work  you 
are  reading.  Otherwise  objective  his- 
torians, for  example,  often  lose  their  ob- 
jectivity when  writing  about  the  Civil 
War.  Two  accounts  of  its  outcome- 
one  written  by  an  Alabaman  and  an- 
other by  a  New  Yorker— may  differ 
widely,  despite  the  fact  that  both  au- 
thors have  reputations  as  sound  his- 
torians. In  the  last  war  our  accounts 
of  battles  differed  widely  from  those  of 
the  Japanese.  And  our  interpretation 
of  what  happened  at  the  Yalta  Confer- 
ence still  differs  from  the  Russian  inter- 
pretation. Remember,  too,  that  the 
testimonials  in  advertising  are  open  to 


question.  You  yourself  would  probably 
not  be  too  reluctant  to  sign  a  statement 
dreamed  up  by  an  advertising  agent  if 
you  were  paid  a  fat  fee  for  doing  so. 
In  short,  if  there  is  any  reason  for  the 
author's  being  biased,  put  on  your  best 
spectacles  when  you  read. 

All  of  this  boils  down  to  the  fact  that 
in  estimating  thetruth 
identity  and  reliability  oT  the  author 
tJSimof  "and  sKoulchriof "  Be  ignorec]-  The 
Value  of  any  testimony  depends  sub- 
stantially on  the  character  and  compe- 
tence of  the  witness  giving  it. 

What  is  said£ 

A?TER  you  have  discovered  as  much 
as  possible  about  the  author,  you 
are  ready  to  extend  your  study  to  the 
work  itself.  Four  questions  deserve  your 
attention  as  you  develop  your  evaluation 
of  its  truth. 

1.    ARE  THE   FACTS  ACCURATE? 

Let  us  assume  that  by  "fact"  we  mean 
an  event  or  datum  upon  the  nature  of 
which  most  people  in  a  position  to  know 
agree.  Checking  the  accuracy  of  the  al- 
leged facts  you  read  varies  with  what 
you  know  and  what  you  can  find  out. 
If  you  are  an  authority  in  the  field,  then 
you  can  use  your  own  knowledge  as  a 
check.  If  you  are  not  an  authority  but 
if  information  on  the  same  subject  is 
readily  available,  you  can  check  the 
alleged  facts  against  what  other  authori- 
ties have  to  say.  If  you  are  not  an  au- 
thority and  if  information  on  the  same 
subject  is  not  readily  available,  then  you 
have  to  fall  back  on  the  reputation  of 
the  author  and  the  reliability  of  his 
sources. 

We  have  alieady  suggested  how  you 
might  determine  the  competence  of  the 
author.  What  we  had  to  say  there  ap- 


EVALUAT1NG   A    WORK   FOR   ITS    TRUTH        105 


plies  also  to  the  sources  he  uses.  Ask 
the  same  questions  of  them:  Are  they 
reliable?  Are  they  authoritative?  Have 
they  any  reason  to  be  biased?  One  point 
about  the  authoritativeness  of  the 
sources  probably  needs  to  be  stressed. 
Other  things  being  equal,  the  most  au- 
thoritative sources  of  information  are 
those  closest  to  the  events  and  phenom- 
ena themselves.  For  example,  the  best 
sources  for  a  historian  are  documents 
from  the  period  he  is  writing  about,  not 
books  by  other  historians.  The  best 
source  for  a  literary  critic  is  the  work 
he  is  criticizing,  not  someone  else's 
comment  about  the  work.  The  best 
source  of  information  for  the  scientj|t 
is  an  experiment  which  he  himself  has 
observed,  not  accounts  of  experiments 
by  others.  As  you  check  for  factual  ac- 
curacy, therefore,  see  whether  the  au- 
thor's sources  of  information  are  first-  or 
second-hand,  and  make  your  judgments 
accordingly. 

2.    ARE  THE  FACTS  REPRESENTATIVE? 

There  will  be  times  when  no  single 
fact  presented  you  by  a  writer  may  be 
inaccurate  and  still  you  will  get  a  wholly 
false  impression  because  of  what  has 
been  included  and  excluded.  Even  in 
the  best  accounts  the  truth  sometimes 
gets  blurred  because  no  author  is  ever 
able  to  know  or  to  include  all  the  facts. 
What  you  expect  of  a  just  account,  how- 
ever, is  not  all  the  facts  but  a  fair  repre- 
sentation of  them. 

To  see  what  happens  when  an  author 
holds  out  on  you,  consider  two  histori- 
ans' treatments  of  the  men  who  framed 
our  national  Constitution.  In  one  ac- 
count, the  historian  assembles  facts 
which  show  that  these  men  were  highly 
idealistic,  were  men  influenced  by  the 
enlightenment  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 


tury, men  who  believed  profoundly  in 
their  country  and  devoutly  in  their  God. 
In  another  account,  the  historian  as- 
sembles facts  which  show  that  these 
same  framers  of  the  Constitution  were 
men  of  property  who  were  looking  for 
an  instrument  that  would  protect  them- 
selves and  their  wealth  from  radical 
laws  and  revolution.  Now,  both  of  these 
historians  may  be  using  accurate  facts, 
but  through  the  selection  of  details, 
they  have  given  two  completely  differ- 
ent pictures.  Neither,  in  short,  has  used 
representative  facts  since  each  has  ex- 
cluded a  significant  portion  of  them. 

This  is  a  question  that  has  special 
pertinence  for  news  accounts  and  ad- 
vertising. Many  newspapers  make  no 
attempt,  especially  in  political  news,  to 
print  representative  facts.  A  Republican 
paper  plays  up  those  which  flatter  the 
Republican  party;  a  Democratic  news- 
paper does  the  same  for  those  that  re- 
flect credit  on  the  Democratic  party. 
And  unless  you  buy  both  papers,  you— 
the  reader— get  only  half  truths.  Adver- 
tising by  its  very  nature  is  committed 
to  half  truths.  You  read  that  a  new 
cereal  is  chock-full  of  vitamins  but  not 
that  it  tastes  like  stale  mush;  you  dis- 
cover that  you  can  strengthen  your  gums 
by  rubbing  them  with  a  finger  covered 
with  a  certain  dentifrice,  but  not  that 
you  can  strengthen  them  equally  well 
by  rubbing  them  with  a  finger  not  cov- 
ered by  that  dentifrice;  you  are  told 
that  a  gasoline  gives  you  more  mileage 
per  gallon,  but  the  advertiser  fails  to 
specify  more  mileage  than  what. 

3.    ARE  THE  ASSUMPTIONS  TRUE? 

The  assumptions  are  what  the  author 
takes  for  granted.  They  represent  the 
foundation  of  his  thinking  and  of  his 
attitudes.  (Before  going  on,  you  might 


106        EVALUATING   A   WORK   FOR  ITS   TRUTH 


turn  back  to  pages  52-60  to  review  what 
is  said  there  about  them.) 

Supposing  that  you  are  an  ordinary 
reader  and  not  a  trained  logician,  there 
are  roughly  two  kinds  of  assumptions 
that  you  should  concern  yourself  with. 
The  first  is  an  assumption  upon  which 
the  truth  of  a  specific  statement  by  the 
"TulrTTbr  dependsl  FoiHS^ffipIe",  you  read 
in  "an  editorial  column:  "Since  the  new 
sewage-disposal  system  is  to  be  a  public 
rather  than  a  private  enterprise,  we  can 
expect  extravagance  if  not  corruption  in 
its  management."  If  you  think  about 
this  for  a  moment,  you  will  see  that  the 
author  is  assuming  that  all  public  en- 
terprises are  extravagant  if  not  corrupt 
in  their  management.  Otherwise,  his 
statement  about  this  sewage-disposal 
system  would  not  necessarily  be  true. 
Notice  what  assumption  must  be  true 
if  each  of  these  assertions  is  to  be  true: 

Since  Professor  Blodgett  was  not 
born  in  the  United  States,  there  is  good 
reason  to  doubt  his  patriotism. 

Being  a  monopoly,  the  American 
Telephone  and  Telegraph  Company 
works  against  the  best  interests  of  the 
public. 

Farnsworth  is  only  a  freshman.  You 
can't  expect,  therefore,  that  he  would 
have  much  command  of  the  English 
language. 

Skill  in  spotting  such  assumptions  is  not 
something  that  you  can  pick  up  over- 
night. Yet  with  a  little  practice  you  will 
be  pleased  to  notice  that  you  are  spot- 
ting them  more  quickly  and  more  accu- 
rately. Simply  ask  yourself  what  gen- 
eral statement  must  be  true  if  this 
particular  statement  is  to  be  true.  Obvi- 
ously, as  a  typical  reader  you  do  not 
have  time  to  do  this  for  every  particular 
statement  based  on  an  assumption.  But 


whenever  you  are  interested  in  evaluat- 
ing the  truth  of  a  work,  you  are  obli- 
gated to  do  it  for  any  key  statements 
based  on  assumptions.  For  if  the  as- 
sumptions upon  which  key  statements 
are  based  are  questionable,  the  truth 
of  the  whole  work  is  in  doubt. 

The  other  kind  of  assumption  in  this 
rough  classification  of* "ours"  is  the 
broader  type  of  assumption  about  wEat 
is  valuable  m  life:  assumptions  about 
what  isjbasically  good^  true,  desirable, 
'^iserul,  and  so  on.  These  general  as- 
sumptions are  ones  that  you  discern  as 
you  think  about  the  work  as  a  whole, 
and  especially  about  the  authors  atti- 
tude toward  his  material.  Even  in  so 
simple  a  paragraph  as  Twain's  recipe 
for  making  a  New  England  pie  (p.  6), 
you  find  that  he  is  making  an  assump- 
tion about  what  is  valuable  in  pies, 
namely  that  they  should  be  edible  and 
tasty.  In  the  speech  by  Johnson,  "We're 
Losing  Our  Moral  Courage**  (pp.  57- 
59),  the  speaker  is  basing  his  thinking 
on  the  assumption  that  men  every- 
where are  entitled  to  equal  human 
rights.  Suppose,  now,  it  became  clear 
that  Twain  thought  pies  should  not  be 
edible  and  Johnson  assumed  that  some 
men  are  entitled  to  special  privileges  be- 
cause of  their  birth  or  color  or  religion. 
What  would  happen  to  your  judgments 
about  the  truth  of  these  works? 

4.    IS   THE    REASONING   VALID? 

This  question  about  the  validity  of 
the  reasoning  may  suggest  that  you  need 
training  in  formal  logic  in  order  to 
answer  it.  Certainly  such  training  would 
not  be  amiss,  but  for  your  ordinary  pur- 
poses as  a  reader,  it  is  not  necessary. 
Your  problem  is  simply  to  see  in 
common-sense  terms  whether  the  con- 
clusions of  an  author  are  justified.  AI- 


EVALUATING    A   WORK  FOR  ITS   TRUTH        107 


ready  you  know  that  they  are  not  justi- 
fied if  the  facts  are  inaccurate  or 
unrepresentative  or  if  the  assumptions 
are  unsound.  Here  are  some  other  clues. 
You  might  consider  them  danger  sig- 
nals warning  you  that  you  need  to  check 
the  process  by  which  the  author  arrives 
at  his  main  contentions. 

(A)  Sweeping  generalizations.    Gen- 
eralizations that  cover  great  quantities 
of  data  or  large  masses  of  people  need 
to  be  checked.  If  an  author,  for  example, 
makes  the  claim  that  in  the  last  ten 
years  the  standard  of  living  in  Alaska 
has  materially  improved,  you  will  prob- 
ably want  to  see  how  extensive  his  sur- 
vey has  been.    If  he  is  basing  such  a 
statement  on,  say,  a  visit  to  Nome,  then 
you  might  well  ask  him  what  he  knows 
about  Alaska  as  a  whole.    Be  especially 
wary  of  generalizations  which  are  all- 
inclusive  or  all-exclusive  on  controversial 
subjects.   Usually  they  will  be  unsound. 
Here  are  a  few  samples. 

The  Russians  are  out  to  dominate  the 
world.  (All  Russians?) 

Americans  are  becoming  more  and 
more  imperialistic.  (All  Americans?) 

No  one  liked  the  test  Professor  Syca- 
more gave.  (Not  even  the  students 
who  got  A's,  and  Professor  Sycamore 
himself?) 

Watch  out,  too,  for  generalizations  with 
superlatives  in  them.  The  claim  by  its 
chamber  of  commerce  that  Squeedunk- 
ville  is  the  fastest  growing  town  in 
America  is  probably  false.  Only  one 
town  in  America  is  the  fastest  growing, 
and  its  citizens  are  probably  too  busy  to 
spend  their  time  bragging. 

(B)  Either-or  generalizations,  such  as 
"Every  statement  is  either  true  or  false." 
Such  generalizations  are  often  the  re- 
sult   of    simple-minded    thinking    that 
sees  everything  in  terms  of  black  and 


white:  good  and  bad,  desirable  and 
undesirable,  useful  and  useless,  and  so 
on.  Such  thinking  does  not  recognize 
any  middle  position,  that  an  action  may 
be  admirable  in  some  respects  and  rep- 
rehensible in  others.  In  short,  such 
thinking  does  not  recognize  reality  for 
the  complex  thing  that  it  is.  Usually 
neither  part  of  the  either-or  dichotomy 
is  made  explicit.  What  you  encounter 
most  of  the  time  is  some  such  arbi- 
trary statement  as  this:  "The  activi- 
ties of  this  student  group  are  un- 
American."  The  implication  is  that 
human  activities  can  be  neatly  classified 
into  two  groups,  those  that  are  Ameri- 
can and  those  that  are  un-American. 
Even  supposing  that  the  author  has  a 
clear  idea  of  what  he  means  by  Ameri- 
can, it  is  doubtful  that  he  would  often 
encounter  a  group  activity  which  in  all 
its  aspects  would  meet  or  fail  to  meet 
his  requirements  for  Americanism. 

(c)  Forced  analogies.  One  of  the 
favorite  campaign  statements  of  an  in- 
cumbent seeking  re-election  is  that  the 
voter  should  not  "swap  horses  in  mid- 
stream." Undoubtedly,  this  makes 
sense  for  someone  on  horseback  in  the 
middle  of  a  river,  but  it  has  little  per- 
ceptible relevance  for  a  voter  who  is 
supposed  to  be  making  his  decision  on 
the  basis  of  issues  and  men.  Reasoning 
based  on  such  a  forced  analogy  is  fal- 
lacious, and  the  author's  proposition 
should  be  scrutinized  carefully. 

(D)  Forced  causal  relationships.  One 
of  the  worst  of  these  is  the  type  in  which 
the  author  assumes  that  because  one 
event  happened  before  another,  it  there- 
fore caused  the  other.  Take  a  classic 
example:  Item  One— the  election  of 
Hoover  in  1928.  Item  Two-the  great 
business  collapse  in  1929.  Did  one 
cause  the  other,  or  did  it  merely  pre- 
cede it?  As  Professors  Shurter  and 


108        EVALUATING   A   WOK*  FOR   ITS   TRUTH 


Helm  point  out  in  their  little  book  en- 
titled Argument,  "The  situation  here  is 
so  complex  and  so  colored  by  our  politi- 
cal affiliations  that  we  shall  probably 
never  have  an  exact  answer."  Be  wary, 
then,  of  the  author  who  in  dealing  with 
a  complex  situation  gives  you  neat,  ex- 
act answers.  Another  type  of  forced 
causal  relationship  is  the  non  sequitur, 
in  which  the  alleged  result  bears  no 
relation  at  all  to  the  cause.  In  one  of  its 
most  vicious  forms,  this  type  of  reason- 
ing appears  in  diatribes  against  a  man's 
fitness  for  political  office  because  of  his 
religion  or  his  mustache. 

(E)  Begging  the  question.  In  this 
type  of  reasoning  fallacy,  the  author  as- 
sumes what  he  should  be  proving.  Thus 
he  may  blandly  take  for  granted  that 
socialized  medicine  results  in  expensive 
and  second-rate  medical  service  and 
then  go  on  to  argue  that,  since  this  is  the 
case,  we  need  to  do  everything  we  can 
to  keep  Congress  from  passing  any  bill 
that  will  permit  socialization.  The  real 


question,  of  course,  is  whether  social- 
ized medicine  does  result  in  expensive 
and  second-rate  service.  This  is  what 
must  be  backed  up  by  facts.  No  argu- 
ment can  be  highly  rated  for  its  truth 
when  based  on  intellectual  dishonesty. 

(F)  Ignoring  the  question.  This  is 
another  type  of  dishonesty  and,  like 
begging  the  question,  is  found  chiefly  in 
argument.  When  the  author  gets  away 
from  his  proposition  completely  and  be- 
gins telling  irrelevant  stories  or  indulg- 
ing in  mud-slinging  or  arguing  for 
something  else,  you  are  justified  in  ques- 
tioning his  sincerity  and  hence  the  truth 
of  his  work. 

In  this  discussion  we  have  tried  to 
indicate  how  you  may  evaluate  a  work 
for  its  truth:  first  by  examining  the  repu- 
tation of  the  author,  and  second  by 
examining  his  facts,  assumptions,  and 
reasoning  processes.  To  see  how  all  this 
works  out  in  practice,  you  should  read 
the  next  two  selections  and  try  to  answer 
the  questions  at  the  end  of  each. 


ADOLF    HITLER      SeleCtlOllS     flOU!     The 


After  the  unsuccessful  putsch  of  November  1923,  Adolf  Hitler  spent  a 
little  over  a  year  in  prison.  While  there  he  dictated  the  first  volume  of  Mein 
Kampf  ("My  Struggle")  to  Emil  Maurice  and  Rudolf  Hess.  This  volume  was 
published  in  1925.  In  1926,  he  wrote  a  second  volume  plus  a  second  edition 
of  the  first  under  the  supervision  of  Josef  Cerny,  staff  member  of  Volkischer 
Beobachter,  the  Nazi  party  paper.  The  selection  given  here  is  from  Volume 
H,  Chapter  2. 


iffr 


INCE  NATIONALITY  or  rather  race  does  not  happen  to  lie  in  language  but 
in  the  blood,  we  would  only  be  justified  in  speaking  of  a  Germanization 
>y  such  a  process  we  succeeded  in  transforming  the  blood  of  the  subjected 


From  Mein  Kampf  by  Adolf  Hitler;  Ralph  Manheim,  translator.    Reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 


SELECTIONS   FROM      THE   STATE 


109 


people.  But  this  is  impossible.  Unless  a  blood  mixture  brings  about  a  change, 
which,  however,  means  the  lowering  of  the  level  of  the  higher  race.  The 
final  result  of  such  a  process  would  consequently  be  the  destruction  of  pre- 
cisely those  qualities  which  had  formerly  made  the  conquering  people 
capable  of  victory.  Especially  the  cultural  force  would  vanish  through  a 
mating  with  the  lesser  race,  even  if  the  resulting  mongrels  spoke  the  language 
of  the  earlier,  higher  race  a  thousand  times  over.  For  a  time,  a  certain 
struggle  will  take  place  between  the  different  mentalities,  and  it  may  be  that 
the  steadily  sinking  people,  in  a  last  quiver  of  life,  so  to  speak,  will  bring  to 
light  surprising  cultural  values.  But  these  are  only  individual  elements 
belonging  to  the  higher  race,  or  perhaps  bastards  in  whom,  after  the  first 
crossing,  the  better  blood  still  predominates  and  tries  to  struggle  through; 
but  never  final  products  of  a  mixture.  In  them  a  culturally  backward  move- 
ment will  always  manifest  itself.  «  I 

Today  it  must  be  regarded  as  a  good  fortune  that  a  Germanization  as 
intended  by  Joseph  II  in  Austria  was  not  carried  out.  Its  result  would 
probably  have  been  the  preservation  of  the  Austrian  state,  but  also  the  lower- 
ing of  the  racial  level  of  the  German  nation  induced  by  a  linguistic  union. 
In  the  course  of  the  centuries  a  certain  herd  instinct  would  doubtless  have 
crystallized  out,  but  the  herd  itself  would  have  become  inferior.  A  state- 
people  would  perhaps  have  been  born,  but  a  culture-people  would  have 
been  lost.  «2 

For  the  German  nation  it  was  better  that  such  a  process  of  mixture  did 
not  take  place,  even  if  this  was  not  due  to  a  noble  insight,  but  to  the  short- 
sighted narrowness  of  the  Habsburgs.  If  it  had  turned  out  differently,  the 
German  people  could  scarcely  be  regarded  as  a  cultural  factor.  « 3 

Not  only  in  Austria,  but  in  Germany  as  well,  so-called  national  circles 
were  moved  by  similar  false  ideas.  The  Polish  policy,  demanded  by  so  many, 
involving  a  Germanization  of  the  East,  was  unfortunately  based  on  the  same 
false  inference.  Here  again  it  was  thought  that  a  Germanization  of  the  Polish 
element  could  be  brought  about  by  a  purely  linguistic  integration  with  the 
German  element.  Here  again  the  result  would  have  been  catastrophic;  a  peo- 
ple of  alien  race  expressing  its  alien  ideas  in  the  German  language,  compro- 
mising the  lofty  dignity  of  our  own  nationality  by  their  own  inferiority.  «  4 

How  terrible  is  the  damage  indirectly  done  to  our  Germanism  today  by 
the  fact  that,  due  to  the  ignorance  of  many  Americans,  the  German-jabbering 
Jews,  when  they  set  foot  on  American  soil,  are  booked  to  our  German 
account.  Surely  no  one  will  call  the  purely  external  fact  that  most  of  this 
lice-ridden  migration  from  the  East  speaks  German  a  proof  of  their  German 
origin  and  nationality.  «5 

What  has  been  profitably  Germanized  in  history  is  the  soil  which  our 
ancestors  acquired  by  the  sword  and  settled  with  German  Peasants.  In  so 

.110       EVALUATING  A  WORK   FOR  ITS  TRUTH 


far  as  they  directed  foreign  blood  into  our  national  body  in  this  process, 
they  contributed  to  that  catastrophic  splintering  of  our  inner  being  which  is 
expressed  in  German  super-individualism— a  phenomenon,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
which  is  praised  in  many  quarter 8*+  ,  *  «  6 

The  state  in  itself  does  not  create  a  specific  cultural  level;  it  can  only  pre- 
serve the  race  which  conditions  this  level.  Otherwise  the  state  as  such  may 
continue  to  exist  unchanged  for  centuries  while,  in  consequence  of  a  racial 
mixture  which  it  has  not  prevented,  the  cultural  capacity  of  a  people  and 
the  general  aspect  of  its  life  conditioned  by  it  have  long  since  suffered  a 
profound  change.  The  present-day  state,  for  example,  may  very  well  simulate 
its  existence  as  a  formal  mechanism  for  a  certain  length  of  time,  but  the 
racial  poisoning  of  our  national  body  creates  a  cultural  decline  which  even 
now  is  terrifyingly  manifest.  «  7 

Thus,  the  precondition  for  the  existence  of  a  higher  humanity  is  not  the 
state,  but  the  nation  possessing  the  necessary  ability.  «  8 

This  ability  will  fundamentally  always  be  present  and  must  only  be 
aroused  to  practical  realization  by  certain  outward  conditions.  Culturally 
and  creatively  gifted  nations,  or  rather  races,  bear  these  useful  qualities 
latent  within  them,  even  if  at  the  moment  unfavorable  outward  conditions 
do  not  permit  a  realization  of  these  latent  tendencies.  Hence  it  is  an  unbeliev- 
able offense  to  represent  the  Germanic  peoples  of  the  pre-Christian  era  as 
'cultureless,'  as  barbarians.  That  they  never  were.  Only  the  harshness  of 
their  northern  homeland  forced  them  into  circumstances  which  thwarted 
the  development  of  their  creative  forces.  If,  without  any  ancient  world,  they 
had  come  to  the  more  favorable  regions  of  the  south,  and  if  the  material 
provided  by  lower  peoples  had  given  them  their  first  technical  implements, 
the  culture-creating  ability  slumbering  within  them  would  have  grown  into 
radiant  bloom  just  as  happened,  for  example,  with  the  Greeks.  But  this 
primeval  culture-creating  force  itself  arises  in  turn  not  from  the  northern 
climate  alone.  The  Laplander,  brought  to  the  south,  would  be  no  more 
culture-creating  than  the  Eskimo.  For  this  glorious  creative  ability  was. 
giyen^onljMto^  the  Aryan,  whether  he  bears  it  dormant  within  himself  or  gives 
it  to  awakening  life,  depending  whether  favorable  circumstances  permit  this 
or  an  inhospitable  Nature  prevents  it.  «  9 

From  this  the  following  realization  results: 

The  state  is  a  means  to  an  end.  Its  end  lies  in  the  preservation  and  advance- 
ment of  a  community  of  physically  and  psychically  homogeneous  creatures. 
This  preservation  itself  comprises  first  of  all  existence  as  a  race  and  thereby 
permits  the  free  development  of  all  the  forces  dormant  in  this  race.  Of  them 
a  part  will  always  primarily  serve  the  preservation  of  physical  life,  and  only 
the  remaining  part  the  promotion  of  a  further  spiritual  development.  Actually 
the  one  always  creates  the  precondition  for  the  other.  «  10 

SELECTIONS   FROM   "THE    STATE*'        111 


States  which  do  not  serve  this  purpose  are  misbegotten,  monstrosities  in 
fact.  The  fact  of  their  existence  changes  this  no  more  than  the  success  of  a 
gang  of  bandits  can  justify  robbery.  «  1 1 

We  National  Socialists  as  championitof  a  new  philosophy  of  life  must 
never  base  ourselves  on  so-called  ^ccepted^actsj—and  false  ones  at  Jfoat. 
If  we  did,  we  would  not  be  the  champions  ot  a  new  great  idea,  but  the  coolies 
of  the  present-day  lie.  We  must  distinguish  in  the  sharpest  way  between 
the  state  as  a  vessel  and  the  race  as  its  content.  This  vessel  has  meaning 
only  if  it  can  preserve  and  protect  the  content;  otherwise  it  is  useless.  «  12 

Thus,  the  highest  purpose  of  a  folkish  state  is  concern  for  the  preservation 
of  those  original  racial  elements  which  bestow  culture  and  create  the  beauty 
and  dignity  of  a  higher  mankind.  We,  as  Aryans,  can  conceive  of  the  state 
only  as  the  living  organism  of  a  nationality  which  not  only  assures  the  preser- 
vation of  this  nationality,  but  by  the  development  of  its  spiritual  and  ideal 
abilities  leads  it  to  the  highest  freedom.  «  13 

Questions  ^n  answermg  tms»  discuss  such  assump- 

tions  as   (a)    there  is  such  a  thing  as 

WHAT  do  you  know  about  the  au-  blood  mixing,  (b)  there  are  inferior  and 

thor's  reputation  for  honesty  and  superior  races,    (c)   there  is  an  Aryan 

reliability?  race,  and  ( d )  the  mixing  of  races  results 

2.  What   in  his   experience,   study,  in  a  cultural  lowering  of  the  superior, 
and  other  works  indicates  that  he  was  What  does  Hitler  seem  to  think  is  most 
an  authority  on  genetics?  valuable  in  life? 

3.  Did  he  have  any  reason  for  bias  6.    What  about  his  reasoning  proc- 
on  this  subject   (i.e.,  did  he  stand  to  esses?  Do  you  find  sweeping  generaliza- 
profit   personally   if   the   Germans   ac-  tions?  either-or  generalizations?  forced 
cepted  his  views)?  analogies?  forced  causal  relationships? 

4.  What  facts  do  you  find?  Are  they  Does  he  ever  beg  the  question?  ignore 
accurate?  Are  the  facts  representative?  the  question? 

Does  he  indicate  what  his  sources  of  7.    In  the  light  of  your  answers  to 
information  are?                              -       — *  the  preceding  questions  evaluate  this 

5.  How  sound  are  his  assumptions?  part  of  Mein  Kampf  for  its  truth. 


112 


EVALUATING   A   WORK   FOR   ITS   TRUTH 


HARRY  L.  SHAPIRO  Anthropology's  contribution 
to  inter-racial  understanding 


THERE  STILL  EXISTS  in  our  industrial  societies  a  tendency,  inherited  from 
the  past,  to  regard  technological  progress  as  wholly  beneficent.  We 
have  become  accustomed  to  hail  enthusiastically  every  advance  for  its  own 
sake  or  for  the  greater  ease  it  brings  into  our  personal  lives,  without  consid- 
eration for  its  effect  upon  our  society.  We  have  grasped  eagerly  at  the  fruits 
of  science  regardless  of  their  price.  Now  we  are  discovering  that  they  have 
a  price;  that  every  advance  of  technology  enhances  our  responsibilities 
whether  we  like  it  or  not.  The  radio,  the  movie,  the  airplane  have,  or  should 
have,  taught  us  that  technology  may  be  beneficent,  but  may  also  serve  evil 
purposes;  that  the  acceptance  of  these  productions  can  not  remain  super- 
ficial but  must  enter  into  and  profoundly  alter  the  organization  of  our 
societies.  « I 

In  no  aspect  of  our  lives  as  members  of  a  complex  industrial  community, 
or  as  a  nation  in  the  modern  world,  has  technology  brought  greater  responsi- 
bilities than  in  our  attitudes  toward  the  various  groups  that  make  up  our 
society,  or  toward  the  peoples  that  constitute  mankind.  It  is  a  commonly 
observed  truism  that  the  world  grows  more  interdependent,  and  that  our 
society  demands  increased  cooperation  from  all  its  members,  as  mechaniza- 
tion progresses.  As  for  the  future  that  lies  ahead  who  can  question  that  this 
process  with  its  demands  will  continue?  There  is,  therefore,  every  reason 
to  believe  that  more  cooperation  rather  than  less  will  be  required  of  us,  if 
the  structure  of  our  society  is  to  be  preserved.  Indeed,  the  very  war  in 
which  we  are  now  engaged  may  be  said  to  be  the  result  of  an  effort  to 
substitute  coercion,  intolerance  and  slavery  for  our  traditional  ideals  of 
cooperation.  «2 

The  evidences  of  intolerance  and  of  lack  of  cooperation  which  confront 
us  on  all  sides  represent  maladjustments  which  become  increasingly  por- 
tentous as  the  needs  for  tolerance  and  cooperation  become  more  pressing. 
There  can,  I  think,  be  no  question  that  one  of  the  gravest  problems  facing 
our  internal  as  well  as  our  external  existence  lies  in  our  ability  to  compose 
the  differences  that  exist  and  to  create  understanding  in  their  place.  This  is 
particularly  true  of  the  United  States,  where,  unfortunately,  the  materials 

This  address  was  delivered  January  21,  1944,  at  the  Cranbrook  Institute  of  Science, 
on  the  opening  of  an  exhibit  on  the  races  of  man.  It  was  published  in  Science,  May  12, 
1944.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Science  Press  and  H.  L.  Shapiro. 

ANTHROPOLOGY'S  CONTRIBUTION.  .  .      113 


for  group  antagonisms  are  all  too  abundant.  Although  essentially  the  United 
States  has  received  its  population,  as  have  all  other  nations,  by  the  immigra- 
tion of  various  people,  for  no  national  populations  are  autochthonous,  never- 
theless the  manner  and  circumstances  of  these  settlements  have  been 
significant.  Where  England,  Germany,  France,  Spain  and  other  nations  in 
prehistoric  times  or  during  ages  of  barbarism  have  been  invaded,  overrun 
or  settled  by  the  successive  groups  which  now  constitute  their  present  popu- 
lation, the  United  States  was  settled  in  the  full  blaze  of  introspective  history. 
Where  European  nations  have  taken  millennia  in  the  amalgamation  and 
assimilation  of  their  people,  we  have  compressed  the  greatest  migration  in 
the  history  of  man  into  three  centuries.  Where  they  have  received  neigh- 
boring people  of  similar  culture  or  race,  we  have  engulfed  a  native  Indian 
people  with  representatives  of  every  European  people  and  forcibly  inducted 
millions  of  African  Negroes  not  to  mention  our  acquisition  of  contingents 
from  Asia.  « 3 

Now,  these  circumstances  of  history  and  accident  are  pregnant  with 
meaning  for  our  future.  Let  us  examine  the  consequences  of  these  facts. 
It  is,  I  think,  a  consideration  of  immense  importance  that  this  country  was 
settled  when  it  was,  in  a  period  of  developed  literacy  and  self -consciousness. 
Under  such  conditions,  group  identities  and  group  traditions  become  quickly 
established  and  resist  the  solvents  of  time  and  association.  The  Pilgrim 
fathers  and  the  Puritans,  sharply  aware  of  their  peculiar  status,  intensified 
and  immortalized  it  in  their  written  records.  The  tradition  thus  created 
served  to  set  apart  its  inheritors  from  all  later  comers  unless  they  could  by 
some  means  identify  themselves  with  it.  Similarly,  the  pioneer  groups  in 
the  west  lost  no  time  in  establishing  their  own  legends  and  traditions  which 
drew  together  in  a  common  bond  their  descendants  but  shut  out  the  settlers 
who  followed  them.  Thus,  there  has  grown  up  a  system  of  hierarchies,  local 
and  national,  which  excludes  whole  sections  of  the  population  and  erects 
barriers  to  assimilation  and  participation.  In  Europe,  where  migration  suc- 
ceeded migration,  priority  of  settlement  confers  no  prestige.  Indeed,  if  time 
is  a  factor  at  all,  it  is  likely  to  be  the  latest  conquerors  coming  in  during 
historic  and  literate  times  who  have  a  special  exclusive  tradition.  «  4 

The  rapidity  of  the  settlement  of  the  United  States  has  also  contributed 
to  the  fissures  of  our  society.  During  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  cen- 
turies when  immigration  was  relatively  slow  it  was  possible  for  newcomers 
arriving  in  small  lots  to  become  absorbed  rather  quickly,  despite  initial 
prejudices  against  them.  But  with  the  advent  of  the  Irish  and  German  waves 
of  migration  in  the  mid-nineteenth  century,  overwhelming  numbers  and 
differences  in  religion  and  culture  created  in  the  settled  Americans  an  antag- 
onism toward  these  newer  immigrants  which  continued  for  a  long  time. 

114   EVALUATING  A  WORK  FOB  ITS  TRUTH 


With  each  succeeding  wave  and  with  the  ever-increasing  numbers,  the  fears 
and  antagonisms  were  intensified.  These  we  have  inherited  and  will  plague 
us  in  the  future.  Had  these  migrations  consisted  of  Europeans  only,  we 
might  look  to  their  eventual  absorption  by  the  body  of  older  Americans  in 
the  course  of  time,  since  the  physical  disparities  are  slight,  the  cultural  ones 
disappear  and  only  religious  prejudices  offer  any  obstacles.  The  injection, 
however,  of  large  masses  of  Negroes  and  other  non-European  people  into  the 
population  has  created  a  profound  schism.  For  these  people  bear  with  them 
the  mark  of  their  difference  which  neither  cultural  nor  religious  assimilation 
can  efface.  Thus,  the  welding  of  the  American  population  into  a  harmonious 
community  faces  many  difficulties  whose  final  resolution  requires  tolerance 
and  understanding.  Without  these  essential  attitudes  we  can  expect  aggrava- 
tions of  critical  situations  and  serious  dangers  to  our  society.  «  5 

When  we  look  to  the  world  beyond  our  borders  we  see  there,  too,  the 
same  forces  of  intolerance  at  work  poisoning  mutual  understanding  and 
respect,  at  a  time  when  the  technology  of  the  future  is  likely  to  increase 
rather  than  to  dimmish  the  needs  for  international  and  inter-racial  harmony. 
It  is  obvious,  I  think,  that  the  task  of  building  attitudes  of  tolerance,  of 
fostering  cooperation  and  of  encouraging  understanding  in  these  matters 
is  a  long  and  tedious  path.  It  is  not  a  subject  for  evangelization.  Not  by  an 
act  of  faith  will  the  unregenerate  become  converted  to  the  ways  of  toler- 
ance. Only  by  the  road  of  education  and  by  the  use  of  reason  can  we  hope 
to  create  a  lasting  atmosphere  of  tolerance  and  cooperation.  «  6 

In  this  effort  we  can,  I  believe,  use  with  profit  the  lessons  of  anthropology, 
for  it  is  the  peculiar  advantage  of  this  discipline  that  it  permits  us  to  see 
mankind  as  a  whole  and  to  scrutinize  ourselves  with  some  degree  of  objectiv- 
ity. All  of  us  are  born  into  a  special  group  of  circumstances  and  are  molded 
and  conditioned  by  them.  Our  views  and  our  behavior  are  regulated  by 
them.  We  take  ready-made  our  judgments  and  tend  to  react  emotionally 
to  any  divergence  from  or  interference  with  them.  In  a  sense  we  are  impris- 
oned in  our  own  culture.  Many  of  us  never  succeed  in  shaking  off  the 
shackles  of  our  restricted  horizons.  But  those  who  have  been  educated  by 
experience  or  by  learning  to  a  broader  view  may  escape  the  micro-culture  of 
the  specific  group  with  which  they  are  identified  and  achieve  a  larger  per- 
spective. I  am  sure  that  some  of  you  may  recall  vividly  the  experience  of 
an  expanding  world  as  you  left  behind  the  limitations  of  youth  for  the 
understanding  and  freedom  of  maturity.  This  is  an  experience  which  has 
its  counterpart  in  the  intellectual  understanding  of  ourselves  and  of  our 
culture  which  anthropology  is  able  to  impart.  For  anthropology  deliberately 
undertakes  to  study  man  as  a  biological  phenomenon  like  any  other  organism, 
and  on  its  social  side  it  seeks  to  lift  the  student  out  of  his  culture  by  treating 

ANTHROPOLOGY'S  CONTRIBUTION.  .  .      115 


it  as  one  in  many  social  experiments.  Professor  Boas  once  observed  that 
his  preoccupation  with  Eskimo  culture  permitted  him  to  see  his  own  with 
a  fresh  eye.  Moreover,  in  placing  man's  struggle  toward  civilization  in  this 
perspective  the  anthropologist  achieves  a  historical  view  which  serves  to 
correct  the  astigmatisms  of  the  present.  «  7 

In  studying  man  in  this  fashion,  anthropology  teaches  us  among  other 
things  that^civilization  has  never  been  thej^d^y(y2^^ 
and  thatthe  particular  culture  of  any  race  or  group.. of  ^men  is  never  the 
complete1  product  dfffiat  race  or  group.  Our  own  culture,  stemming  from 
western  EuroperhaSTTODts  fri  most  of  tKe~civilizations  of  the  past  and  has  not 
hesitated  to  borrow  from  its  living  contemporaries.  Our  writing,  for  example, 
has  come  to  us  from  Asia  Minor  via  the  Greeks;  we  have  inherited  principles 
of  architecture  discovered  for  us  in  Egypt,  in  the  valleys  of  the  Tigris- 
Euphrates  and  of  the  Indus;  our  knowledge  of  weaving  probably  originated 
in  the  Nile  Valley,  the  use  of  cotton  in  India  and  silk  in  China.  Egypt  and 
Mesopotamia  debate  the  honor  of  inventing  agriculture  and  domesticating 
certain  animals.  From  the  American  Indian  we  have  received  a  variety  of 
things  such  as  food  plants,  snowshoes,  the  hammock  and  the  adobe  house; 
from  the  American  Negro  a  rich  source  of  music.  The  list  of  our  borrowings 
and  inheritances  is  long.  Without  them  we  could  not  have  built  our  own 
civilization.  Yet  our  debts  have  not  made  us  humble.  We  behave  as  if  we 
had  created  our  civilization  singlehanded  and  had  occupied  a  position  of 
leadership  from  the  beginning  of  civilization  itself.  Actually,  we  are  not 
only  the  inheritors  of  a  varied  and  complex  tradition,  but  the  present  pro- 
tagonists of  western  civilization  are  merely  the  latest  of  mankind  to  become 
civilized.  One  might  add  that  they  unfortunately  show  it.  All  during  the 
prehistoric  ages  northwestern  Europe  represented  a  back  water.  Into  these 
remote  regions  came  the  stone  age  innovations  after  they  had  been  invented 
elsewhere.  Similarly,  the  neolithic  techniques  and  the  use  of  bronze  and  iron 
only  slowly  were  diffused  to  western  Europe  centuries  after  their  discovery 
in  Egypt  and  Mesopotamia.  So  wild  and  barbarous  were  the  regions  inhab- 
ited by  the  ancient  Britons,  the  Scandinavians  and  the  Germans  that  the 
Greeks  never  even  knew  of  their  existence.  And  to  the  Romans  the  inhab- 
itants of  these  far  distant  corners  were  uncouth  barbarians  unfamiliar  with 
the  amenities  of  civilization.  In  fact,  up  to  the  time  of  the  Renaissance  the 
northwestern  Europeans  could  hardly  claim  parity  by  any  objective  standard 
with  a  civilization  such  as  the  Chinese  of  the  same  epoch,  or  the  native 
civilizations  of  Mexico  or  Peru  where  substantial  achievements  in  social 
organization,  architecture  and  art  far  surpassed  contemporary  European 
productions.  Well  into  the  Christian  era  the  archeological  remains  of  British 
culture  display  a  crudity  quite  unprophetic  of  their  future  evolution.  If, 

116        EVALUATING   A  WORK   FOR  ITS   TRUTH 


then,  we  justly  attribute  this  backwardness  of  northwestern  Europe  in  the 
ways  of  civilization  to  the  accidents  of  place  and  history,  how  can  we  fail 
to  admit  the  potentialities  of  our  contemporaries  who  give  evidence  by  their 
learning,  by  their  arts  or  by  their  skills  of  accomplishments  fully  as  great  as 
those  of  the  ancient  Briton,  Gaul  or  German.  «  8 

Though  we  admit  the  superiority  of  western  civilization  in  technology 
and  science,  anthropology  is  decisive  in  disclaiming  any  equivalent  suprem- 
acy in  the  social  organization  of  the  nations  of  the  western  world.  Indeed, 
it  would  be  easy  to  enumerate  examples  among  non-European  people  with 
more  complicated  social  systems  or  with  more  efficient  ones.  If  it  is  true  that 
the  magnitude  of  our  commerce  and  industry,  enlarged  by  the  resources  of 
science,  has  created  a  stupendous  economic  structure  upon  our  society,  it 
is  also  true  that  the  social  framework  which  supports  it  is  in  certain  respects 
inadequate  and  inefficient.  We  who  are  so  proud  of  our  gadgets,  who 
misjudge  those  who  live  on  a  simpler  material  plane,  who  scorn  others  for 
their  superstitions,  how  are  we  to  judge  our  ancestors  of  two  or  three  cen- 
turies ago  who  lacked  all  that  we  prize  in  the  way  of  material  comforts  and 
who  believed  in  witchcraft?  One  can  not  help  but  feel  that  our  attitudes 
are  something  like  those  of  the  little  boy  whose  superior  Christmas  present 
elevates  him  above  his  less  fortunate  mates.  «  9 

One  of  the  most  pernicious  breeders  of  ill-will  among  various  races  of 
mankind  is  the  doctrine  that  a  racial  hierarchy  exists  based  upon  physical 
and  psychological  superiorities.  It  is  interesting  that  the  preferred  positions 
in  this  scale  are  reserved  for  the  race  to  which  the  claimants  think  they 
belong.  Notions  of  superiority  are,  of  course,  widespread.  They  permeate 
groups  of  all  kinds  and  sizes.  The  city  slicker's  airs  of  superiority  over  his 
country  cousin  are  tinged  with  the  same  smugness  that  characterizes  rival 
parishes  or  sets  off  the  Scotch  Highlander  from  the  Lowlanders,  distinguishes 
the  Englishman  from  the  British  colonial,  the  Nordic  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean, the  white  races  from  the  colored.  They  are  all  based  on  the  idea 
that  differences  are  degrees  of  goodness,  whereas  in  most  instances  differ- 
ences are  merely  reflections  of  environmental  adaptations,  historical  acci- 
dents, local  developments  or  simply  superficial  physical  mutations  of  no 
intrinsic  value.  During  the  nineteenth  century  these  ideas  crystallized  around 
the  concept  of  race  largely  through  the  writing  of  de  Gobineau,  who  extolled 
purity  of  race  and  in  particular  the  virtues  of  the  Nordic.  This  was  a  period 
when  many  so-called  European  races  had  each  their  protagonists.  The 
Mediterranean  man  was  hailed  as  the  culture  hero  of  Europe.  English  writers 
drew  racial  distinctions  among  their  own  peoples  but  spoke  instead  of  Kelt 
or  Saxon  or  Norman  and  attributed  to  them  exclusive  virtues  or  vices.  The 
attributions  were  so  precise  that  it  must  have  been  a  rash  Saxon  who  would 

ANTHROPOLOGY'S  CONTRIBUTION.  .  .      117 


presume  to  write  mystic  poetry  or  a  foolhardy  Kelt  who  would  aspire  to. 
martial  glory.  «  10 

Race,  which  started  out  as  a  zoological  concept,  a  convenient  method  of 
classifying  mankind  according  to  physical  criteria,  much  as  the  kinds  of 
animals  might  be  distinguished,  thus  became  encrusted  with  psychological 
attributes  and  assignments  of  value.  We  all  know  how  this  monstrous  doc- 
trine has  been  elevated  into  a  credo,  how  it  has  been  used  to  inflame  and 
manipulate  masses  of  men,  how  insidiously  it  is  calculated  to  make  even 
those  who  attack  it  disseminate  its  seeds.  Anthropology,  which  traditionally 
has  been  concerned  with  the  problems  of  race,  has  here,  too,  much  to  offer 
in  clarifying  and  correcting  racial  misconceptions  fostered  for  evil  purposes. 
Perhaps  I  might  best  summarize  this  in  a  series  of  principles.  «  1 1 

(1)  The  racial  classification  of  man  is  primarily  a  zoological  concept.  It 
attempts  merely  to  classify  and  distinguish  the  varieties  of  men  by  physical 
criteria.  «  12 

(2)  Migration  and  intermingling  have  from  his  earliest  history  been 
characteristic  of  man  so  that  "pure"  races,  if  they  ever  existed,  are  no  longer 
to  be  found  in  nature.  «  1 3 

(3)  The  consequence  of  this  intermixture  has  led  to  the  overlapping  of 
physical  characteristics  between  neighboring  people  with  a  pronounced 
tendency  for  changes  in  any  physical  characteristic  to  be  gradual  so  that  it 
is  practically  impossible  to  set  arbitrary  lines  of  division  between  one  type 
and  another.  «  14 

(4)  The  geographic  extremes  of  these  continuities  do  show  pronounced 
differences  in  physical  criteria,  such  as  the  northwest  European,  the  Chinese 
and  the  Negro  of  Central  Africa.  «  15 

(5)  No  nation  is  exclusively  of  one  race,  or  breed.  In  Europe  especially 
prehistoric  and  historic  migrations  have  mixed  the  various  European  strains 
inextricably.    There  is  for  example  no  Nordic  Germany.    So-called  Nordic 
tribes  settled  in  France,  invaded  Italy,  overran  Spain  and  even  reached 
North  Africa.  Each  nation  in  Europe  represents  a  composite  varying  some- 
what in  their  ingredients  and  proportions.  «  16 

(6)  The  psychological  attributes  of  race  are  non-zoological  and  logically 
have  no  place  in  racial  classification.  They  are  not  coterminous  with  race, 
which  itself  is  an  abstraction.  «  1 7 

(7)  Moreover,  since  psychological  attributes  are  commonly  based  on  sub- 
jective judgments,  are  resistant  to  precise  measurement,  and  are  often  pro- 
foundly influenced  by  environmental  and  cultural  conditions,  they  are  not 
suitable  as  criteria  in  the  classification  of  races.  Their  use  has  led  to  tragic 
distortions  of  truth.  «  18 

Parenthetically,  I  can  not  forbear  pointing  out  the  illusions  we  cherish  in 
the  name  of  practicality.  The  charge  used  to  be  leveled  against  anthropology 

118       EVALUATING   A  WORK   FOR  ITS   TRUTH 


that  it  was  not  practical,  that  it  was  remote  from  the  important  concerns  of 
everyday  living,  and  that  it  was  largely  absorbed  in  abstract  and  academic 
concepts.  But  now  we  are  witnessing  a  world  conflict  in  which  these 
academic  concepts  play  an  enormous  part  and  motivate  the  thinking  of  many 
of  the  actors.  How  practical  it  is  then  to  keep  these  concepts  free  from 
distortion  and  to  expose  the  fallacies  which  they  engender!  «  19 


Questions 

EOK  up  Mr.  Shapiro  in  Who's  Who  in 
America  and  in  any  other  work 
that  might  contain  information  about 
him.  Is  there  anything  that  would  make 
you  want  to  question  his  reputation  for 
honesty  and  reliability? 

2.  What  can  you  say  about  him  as 
an    authority   in    the   field   of   anthro- 
pology?   Does  this  make  him   an   au- 
thority on  the  subject  of  this  address? 

3.  Does  he  have  any  apparent  reason 
for  bias    (i.e.,  does  he  stand  to  profit 
personally  if  people  generally  come  to 
believe  as  he  does)? 


4.  Do  you  consider  his  facts  accurate 
and  representative?   What  are  the  ap- 
parent sources  of  his  facts?  Where  might 
you  check  them  if  you  so  desired? 

5.  What  basic  assumptions  do  you 
find  about  the  way   men  should  gain 
knowledge  and  use  it?  What  does  Mr. 
Shapiro  seem  to  think  is  valuable  in 
life?  Do  you  agree? 

6.  Do  you  find  instances  of  fallacious 
reasoning? 

7.  In  the  light  of  your  answers  to 
the  preceding  questions,  evaluate  this 
address  for  its  truth. 

8.  Compare  your  evaluations  of  the 
Hitler  excerpt  and  this  address. 


EVALUATING   A   WORK 
IN    ITS   OWN   TERMS 


WHEN  you  evaluate  a  work  in  its 
own   terms   you   attempt  to   see 
how  well  it  does  what  it  sets  out  to  do. 
Instead  of  testing  it  for  its  truth,  you 
test  it  for  its  efficiency. 

To  the  person  using  this  method  of 
evaluation,  each  work,  then,  is  a  new 
and  unique  problem.  It  is  almost  impos- 
sible, therefore,  to  generalize  about  the 
method  as  a  whole.  The  one  thing  that 
can  be  said  is  that  sound  evaluation  of 


a  work's  efficiency  depends  upon  your 
ability  to  recognize:  (1)  the  author's 
purpose,  (2)  the  readers  (or  listeners) 
for  whom  the  work  was  originally  in- 
tended, (3)  the  ways  in  which  the  con- 
tent, organization,  and  presentation  are 
adapted  to  purpose  and  audience.  So 
that  you  can  see  how  this  method  works 
with  various  types  of  factual  discourse, 
we  are  discussing  in  turn  several  of  the 
most  common  types:  exposition,  argu- 


EVALUATING    A   WORK   IN   ITS   OWN   TERMS 


119 


ment,  history,  biography,  and  criticism. 
Following  each  discussion  is  a  sample 
of  the  type,  and  questions  which  will  be 
of  help  to  you  in  making  your  evalua- 
tions. 

Explanation 

IF  a  written  or  oral  account  is  de- 
signed primarily  to  make  something 
clear,  it  is  explanation,  or  exposition. 
You  know  that  already  from  your  study 
of  the  selections  in  Part  One.  At  this 
point  you  need  to  take  a  step  further. 
You  need  to  decide  for  the  work  you  are 
evaluating  just  what  the  work  is  trying 
to  make  clear  and  for  whom. 

The  specific  purpose  of  an  explana- 
tion is  ordinarily  not  too  difficult  to  dis- 
cover. Usually  the  author  states  it  in 
his  introduction  or  conclusion  or  in  both. 
If  he  does  not  make  clear  anywhere 
what  he  is  trying  to  explain,  the  ex- 
planation itself  certainly  cannot  be  very 
effective.  You  would  be  justified  in  giv- 
ing it  a  low  rank  without  further  con- 
sideration. 

It  may  be  a  little  harder  to  discover 
for  what  audience  the  work  is  intended. 
Of  course,  if  the  work  was  originally  a 
speech,  there  is  no  special  problem; 
simply  find  out  before  whom  the  speech 
was  delivered.  The  task  is  easy,  too,  in 
an  essay  or  article,  if  the  author  states 
for  whom  he  is  writing.  He  may,  for 
example,  in  an  introduction  or  preface 
or  in  the  text  itself  explain,  "What  I 
have  to  say,  I  have  to  say  for  all  those 
now  attending  college  in  America." 
More  frequently,  however,  there  will  be 
no  such  obvious  clue.  Then  you  need 
to  do  a  bit  of  sleuthing.  Discover  where 
the  work  first  appeared.  If  it  was  in  The 
New  Yorker,  for  instance,  you  know  im- 
mediately that  is  was  designed  prima- 
rily for  adults  of  some  education  and 
sophistication.  If  the  work  is  a  book,  the 


advertisements  for  the  book,  the  format, 
perhaps  the  author's  biography,  the  re- 
views, or  the  criticisms  may  help.  The 
material  and  style  will  give  you  clues 
also,  but  watch  that  you  do  not  get  into 
circular  reasoning  in  making  inferences 
about  the  audience  from  the  content 
and  style.  That  is,  do  not  infer  that  be- 
cause the  details  are  obvious  and  the 
words  easy  the  work  is  meant  for  a 
young  audience,  and  then  go  on  to  con- 
clude that  because  it  is  meant  for  a 
young  audience  the  details  and  words 
are  appropriate.  If  you  are  going  to 
study  the  appropriateness  of  a  style, 
you  need  some  nonstylistic  clues  to  the 
audience. 

Once  you  have  spotted  the  purpose 
and  audience,  you  are  ready  to  deter- 
mine whether  the  work  does  its  job 
well.  Examine  the  contents.  Ask  your- 
self whether  they  are  relevant  to  the 
purpose  and  adapted  to  the  audience. 
Examine  the  organization  Ask  yoursell 
whether  it  is  appropriate  to  the  material 
and  can  be  followed  by  the  audience. 
Examine  the  words  and  sentences.  Ask 
yourself  whether  they  make  the  ex- 
planation clear  and  readable  for  the 
audience.  In  short,  ask  yourself  whether 
in  terms  of  his  purpose  and  audience 
the  author  accomplishes  what  he  sets  out 
to  accomplish.  This  is  the  key  question 
in  this  method  of  evaluation,  and  on 
your  answer  to  it  depends  your  overall 
judgment. 

The  following  article  appeared  in 
This  Week  Magazine.  Its  author,  Dr. 
Fred  P.  Thieme,  is  a  member  of  the  De- 
partment of  Anthropology  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Michigan.  The  article  is  an 
example  of  a  type  of  explanation  which 
we  encounter  on  all  sides:  popularized 
science.  After  reading  the  article,  fol- 
low the  questions  at  the  end  in  evaluat- 
ing its  efficiency  as  explanation. 


FRED    P.    THIEME 


< 

500,000  years  from  now  what  will  we  look  like? 

PROBABLY  on  the  theory  that  atom  bombs  and  flying  saucers  aren't  enough 
for  people  to  worry  about,  our  comic-book  and  science-fiction  artists 
have  been  busy  inventing  a  new  hobgoblin  which  they  label  "the  man  of 
the  future."  «  i 

This  alleged  descendant  of  ours  has  been  stepping  out  of  illustrators'  ink- 
wells and  into  space  ships  as  if  his  inheritance  of  the  universe  were  a  cer- 
tainty. He  is  pictured  as  aglow  with  rays,  aquiver  with  antennae,  and  com- 
bining the  build  of  a  praying  mantis  with  the  soul  of  an  ice  cube.  «  2 

It  is  unfortunate  for  public  peace  of  mind  that  this  comic  pipe  dream  is 
the  only  "man  of  the  future"  familiar  to  most  readers.  Little  by  little  he 
seems  to  be  insinuating  himself  into  the  national  subconscious  where  he  is 
being  accepted  as  perhaps  a  pretty  fair  version  of  what  Homo  sapiens  of 
the  future  will  look  like.  «  3 

From  the  anthropologist's  vantage  point  this  brain-child  of  science-fiction 
is  a  total  impossibility.  No  matter  what  upheavals  in  environment  should 
occur,  for  instance,  it  is  inconceivable  that  we  would  ever  develop  an  ex- 
ternal skeleton,  or  three  legs,  or  two  heads.  The  ground  plan  of  the  human 
being  as  an  erect  mammal  has  been  well  established.  «  4 

However,  variations  on  the  theme  of  man  are  definitely  possible.  They 
will  take  place  in  accordance  with  patterns  already  laid  down  by  evolu- 
tion. «  5 

What  are  some  of  these  developments  which  the  path  of  evolution  thus  far 
might  allow  us  to  predict  for,  say,  the  year  500,000  A.D.?  «  & 

Broadly  speaking,  the  man  of  the  future  will  probably  have  some  child- 
hood characteristics  of  the  present  man.  His  face  would  perhaps  strike 
us  as  immature  and  feminized.  Along  with  this  should  go  a  general  de- 
crease in  his  muscular  development.  «  7 

The  bones  of  modern  man  are  already  less  massive  than  those  of  his 
ancestor.  We  can,  therefore,  expect  our  distant  descendants  to  be  even  less 
powerful  and  not  so  well  equipped  for  a  life  demanding  physical  strength.  «  8 

A  slightly  top-heavy  appearance  may  result  from  the  fact  that,  while 
losing  bulk  in  body,  future  man  is  almost  certain  to  have  a  larger  head. 
Growth  of  the  brain  has  been  a  constant  factor  throughout  man's  history. 
Within  the  requirements  imposed  by  childbirth,  this  expansion  undoubtedly 
should  continue  in  the  future.  «  9 


Reprinted  from  This  Week  Magazine.    Copyright  1953  by  the  United  Newspapers 
Magazine  Corporation. 

500,000    YEARS    FHOM    NOW.    .    .    ?          121 


Housing  this  enlarged  area  of  gray  matter  requires  a  larger  skull.  This 
will  be  managed  by  a  bulging  of  the  forehead  and  the  lateral  brain 
areas.  «  10 

A  thing  of  beauty,  this  man  of  tomorrow?  Perhaps  not,  by  present  stand- 
ards. But  as  an  intellectual  giant,  our  superbrained  progeny  may  make  us 
look  (or  rather,  think)  like  a  race  of  kindergarteners.  «  1 1 

Despite  the  larger  head,  barbers  won't  be  able  to  charge  more  for  a  hair- 
cut. The  sad  truth  is  that  evolution  may  root  out  the  profession  of  barber- 
ing  completely.  «  12 

Since  the  beginning  of  history,  mankind  has  been  losing  hair.  The  pros- 
perity of  the  hair-restoring  business  shows  that  this  tendency  is  not  yielding 
to  the  blandishments  of  either  lotion  or  massage  and  indicates  that  we  are 
probably  entering  the  final  era  of  Whiskerless  Wonders.  «  13 

Probably  the  most  radical  changes  of  all  are  those  scheduled  for  the  teeth. 
There  will  be  fewer  teeth  and  those  that  survive  will  be  smaller  in  size. 
The  third  molar,  one  of  the  worst  trouble-makers  in  the  mouth,  should  be 
the  first  casualty.  By  500,000  A.D.,  it  may  have  vanished  from  our  mastica- 
tory system.  «  14 

Much  present  trouble  in  the  dental  department  is  due  to  another  altera- 
tion in  man's  anatomy:  a  steady  diminution  in  the  size  of  the  jaw.  Our  teeth 
already  require  more  space  than  is  available  to  them.  This  reduction  in  the 
jaw  is  proceeding  at  a  more  rapid  rate  than  the  reduction  in  tooth  size. 
Hence—the  20th-century 's  plague  of  impactions,  malformations  and  the 
emergence  of  a  prosperous  new  specialist:  the  orthodontist.  «  15 

Reduction  in  the  dimensions  and  number  of  teeth  is  evolution's  way  of 
adapting  to  the  impasse.  By  500,000  A.D.,  it  can  be  expected  that  man's 
allotment  of  32  teeth  will  have  fallen  to  as  few  as  28,  24,  or  even  20.  «  1 & 

One  of  the  less  fortunate  by-products  of  the  smaller,  receding  jaw  will  be 
its  accentuation,  by  comparison,  of  the  size  of  the  nose.  The  nose  of  man, 
and  woman,  has  appeared  to  grow  larger  through  the  ages  due  to  the  grad- 
ual recession  of  the  face.  «  17 

Reaching  its  zenith  in  the  man  of  500,000  A.D.,  the  further  exaggeration 
of  apparent  nose  size  will  pose  a  definite  challenge  to  beauticians  of  the 
future,  besides  luring  the  unemployed  barbers  into  seeking  their  fortune 
as  plastic  surgeons.  «  18 

Transformations  in  details  of  the  human  foot  are  also  indicated.  The  rela- 
tive size  and  importance  of  the  great  toes— each  now  carries  about  half 
the  weight  placed  on  the  foot— will  probably  increase.  «  19 

Conversely,  those  readers  with  a  sentimental  attachment  for  the  little  toe 
will  be  saddened  to  learn  that  this  "little  piggy"  will  stop  "going  to  market" 
one  day  in  the  dim,  distant  future.  Already  practically  unemployed,  the 
little  toe  by  500,000  A.D.  may  be  a  thing  of  the  past.  «  20 


122 


EVALUATING    A    WORK    IN    ITS    OWN    TERMS 


The  accuracy  of  these  predictions  is,  of  course,  open  to  some  question. 
Since  evolution  in  animal  forms  results  from  a  process  of  adaptation  to  their 
physical  environment,  we  should  know  what  the  future  world  will  be  like 
before  drawing  definitive  portraits  of  its  inhabitants.  «  2 1 

An  atom-bomb  war  or  significant  changes  in  the  ways  of  urban  living,  and 
even  perhaps  new  ideas,  could  seriously  affect  man's  evolutionary  fu- 
ture. «22 

But  whatever  happens,  there  will  be  no  radar  ears,  periscope  eyes,  or 
grasshopper  limbs:  the  archeologist  of  500,000  A,D.  will  certainly  recog- 
nize the  remains  of  today's  human  beings  as  those  of  man  and  his  close 
ancestors.  «  23 


*      Questions 

WHAT  is^he  author's  apparent  pur- 
pose or\purposes  in  writing  the 
article?  \ 

2.  Rather    clearly    there    are    many 
developments  in  man  that  the  author 
might  have  tried  to  explain.    Consider- 
ing the  many  developments  he  omits 
and  the  few  he  includes,  what  do  you 
think  his  criteria  for  selection  of  mate- 
rial were? 

3.  What   can  you   determine   about 
the    reading    audience    to    whom    this 
article  is  directed:  their  age,  education, 
interest  in  a  subject  like  this,  probable 
knowledge  of  anthropology? 

4.  Are  the  details  sufficient  in  num- 
ber   to   make    the    explanation    under- 
standable?  Are  the  details  specific  and 
graphic  enough  to  make  it  interesting? 
Are  the  details  the  kind  the  reading 
audience  is  likely  to  understand? 

5.  What  is  the  reason  for  introduc- 
ing the  article  by  referring  to  comic 
books   and  science-fiction?    Where  do 
you  find  the  central  idea  stated?   What 
are  the  main  divisions  in  the  article? 
What  basic  expository  arrangement  or 
arrangements  that  you  studied  in  Part 


One  of  this  book  do  you  find  Dr. 
Thieme  using?  Is  the  conclusion  an 
effective  one?  In  summary,  does  the 
organization  help  to  make  this  a  clear 
explanation? 

6.  Compare  the  length  of  the  para- 
graphs   in    this    article    with    those    of 
paragraphs  in  other  selections  in  this 
book.     Do    you    think    the    paragraph 
length   is   suitable   to   the   four-column 
format  of  This  Week  Magazine?    How 
have  the  sentences  been  adapted  to  an 
audience  of  magazine  readers?   Would 
you  call  this  diction  technical,  formal, 
informal,  homespun,  or  a  combination? 
On  the  whole  do  you  think  Dr.  Thieme's 
style  is  suited  to  the  purpose  and  the 
readers?   Suppose  that  he  were  writing 
a  chapter  on  this  subject  for  an  anthro- 
pology textbook.    In  what  ways  would 
the  style  probably  be  different? 

7.  What  is   your  overall  evaluation 
of  this   article   as   explanation   for   the 
readers  of  This  Week  Magazine?   How 
would  you  evaluate  it  as  explanation  if 
it   had    been   written   for   a   group    of 
kindergarten    youngsters?    for    college 
students   in   a   class   in   anthropology? 
for  a  meeting  of  the  American  Associa- 
tion for  the  Advancement  of  Science? 


500,000   YEARS    FROM    NOW.    .    .    ?         123 


Argument 

A  you  already  know,  if  a  work  sets 
out  to  make  the  reader  believe 
something  or  do  something,  it  is  an  ar- 
gument. Again,  in  reading  argument, 
if  you  are  measuring  the  work  in  its 
own  terms,  you  must  decide  on  its  effi- 
ciency. How  well  does  it  do  what  it 
sets  out  to  do? 

In  evaluating  the  truth  of  a  work,  it 
is  often  not  important  to  make  a  careful 
distinction  between  explanations  and 
arguments  But  in  this  type  of  evalua- 
tion it  is  essential.  Rather  clearly,  you 
need  to  know  in  general  what  a  work 
sets  out  to  accomplish  before  you  can 
say  how  well  it  accomplishes  it.  In  the 
case  of  arguments  the  general  aim  is 
ordinarily  fairly  easy  to  determine  since 
the  author  will  make  it  abundantly  evi- 
dent that  he  wants  you  to  believe  or  do 
something.  Occasionally,  however,  you 
encounter  a  work  whose  tone  is  a  bit 
puzzling.  For  example,  the  work  may 
seem  to  be  argumentative  in  intent;  yet 
all  of  its  outward  characteristics  may 
suggest  an  explanation.  The  author  may 
subtly  be  urging  you  to  do  something  by 
explaining  the  situation  as  it  is.  There 
is  nothing  improper  about  such  a  pro- 
cedure, since  the  case  for  a  change  in 
belief  or  action  must  always  rest— if  the 
case  is  a  sound  one— upon  the  realization 
that  there  is  a  need  for  a  change.  Thus 
a  writer  may  do  little  more  than  explain 
the  rent  situation  in  the  Negro  section 
of  Chicago's  South  Side  and  compare 
rent  scales  there  with  scales  in  other  sec- 
tions of  the  city;  yet  you  may  be  im- 
pelled by  the  gross  inequalities  he 
brings  to  light  to  send  money  to  an  or- 
ganization which  is  attempting  to  bring 
about  rent  adjustments.  Now,  is  the 
author  explaining  or  arguing?  You  have 
to  make  some  decision  so  that  you  can 


decide  how  well  he  does  what  he  sets 
out  to  do.  In  these  borderline  cases  you 
have  to  make  the  best  judgment  you 
can,  based  on  the  overall  effect  the  work 
has  on  you.  You  may  be  helped  in  your 
reading  by  the  following  rule  of  thumb 
which  some  readers  have  found  helpful: 
if  the  subject  is  controversial,  the  work 
is  probably  argumentative  in  its  basic 
purpose. 

Having  decided  that  a  work  is  ar- 
gumentative, you  need  next  to  deter- 
mine its  specific  purpose  and  the  audi- 
ence for  whom  it  is  intended.  In  most 
cases  the  specific  purpose  will  be  per- 
fectly obvious.  Where  it  eludes  you 
completely,  however,  you  can  probably 
by  this  method  of  evaluation  write  off 
the  work  as  a  failure  and  go  about  your 
business.  The  clues  to  the  nature  of  the 
audience  are  substantially  the  same  as 
those  in  explanations  If  the  work  was 
delivered  first  as  a  speech,  find  out  all 
you  can  about  the  listeners.  If  its  orig- 
inal version  was  in  writing,  look  for 
specific  statements  by  the  author  in  a 
preface  or  in  the  text  itself.  Hints  may 
be  gleaned,  too,  from  the  nature  of  the 
work's  publication.  If  the  argument  is  a 
refutation,  find  out  something  about 
the  audience  at  whom  the  original  ar- 
gument was  directed,  for  the  refutation 
will  presumably  be  aimed  at  the  same 
group.  Lastly,  and  with  great  care,  you 
can  make  some  inferences  from  the  con- 
tent, emotional  appeals,  and  style  But 
remember  the  warning  against  circular 
reasoning  in  the  section  just  preceding 
this  one  (p.  120). 

The  next  logical  step  is  to  decide 
how  well  the  contents,  organization, 
emotional  appeals,  sentences,  and  words 
are  adapted  to  the  purpose  and  the  au- 
dience. The  questions  at  the  ends  of  the 
following  selections  indicate  how  your 
thinking  on  almost  any  argument  may 


124 


EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN    ITS    OWN   TERMS 


proceed  if  you  are  to  reach  a  sound  and  terested  in  the  plays  of  William  Shake- 
thoughtful  judgment  on  these  matters,  speare:  did  Shakespeare  write  the  plays 
The  selections  themselves  represent  a  attributed  to  him  or  did  someone  else 
form  in  which  argument  appears  fre-  use  his  name?  Most  commonly,  those 
quently  these  days— letters  to  the  editor,  who  say  that  Shakespeare  was  not  the 
The  question  discussed  by  the  letters  is  author  argue  in  favor  of  Francis  Bacon, 
one  which  has  been  raised  many  times  Here,  however,  a  claim  is  made  for  Ed- 
in  the  last  hundred  years  by  those  in-  ward  De  Vere,  Earl  of  Oxford. 


GELETT  BURGESS  Pseudonym,  Shakespeare 

Sm:  In  the  review  of  G.  B.  Harrison's  "Shakespeare:  23  Plays  and  the 
Sonnets"  [SRL  June  5]  there  is  a  misstatement  so  gross  as  to  vitiate  any 
claims  to  scholarship.  Mr.  Redman  speaks  of  "those  who  hold  fuzzily  to  the 
notion  that  Ve  know  nothing  about  him*  [Shakespeare]  instead  of  realizing 
that  we  know  more  about  him  than  about  'any  other  Elizabethan  dramatist/  " 
«  I 

The  most  meager  knowledge  of  the  Shakespeare  mystery  cognizes  the  fact 

that  all  we  know  of  the  Stratford  Shakespeare,  Shacksper,  or  Shakspe,  could 
easily  be  printed  on  a  half -column  of  this  page.  It  consists  of  perhaps  a  score 
of  often  sordid  facts— baptisms,  marriage,  real  estate  deals,  lawsuits,  fines, 
etc.  Not  one  of  these  records  indicates  in  the  slightest  way  that  the  Strat- 
fordian  was  a  writer.  Nor  do  the  few  recorded  items  regarding  the  actor 
Shakespeare  (who  may  or  may  not  have  been  the  Stratfordian)  give  any  such 
evidence.  «  2 

While  there  were  many  laudatory  references  to  the  author  "Shakespeare" 
by  his  contemporaries,  not  one  of  them  identifies  him  as  the  man  of  Stratford. 
The  name  was  as  much  a  pseudonym  as  Mark  Twain  or  O.  Henry,  and  it  was 
a  common  practice  in  Elizabethan  times  to  use  stooges,  often  ignorant,  whose 
names  were  put  on  title  pages,  even  by  the  clergy.  The  anonymity  of  several 
important  Elizabethan  works  has  never  been  pierced.  « 3 

What  Mr.  Harrison  and  Mr.  Redman  'loiow"  about  Shakespeare  is  a 
fictitious  biography  based  on  hearsay,  conjecture,  and  old  wives'  tales  col- 
lected by  the  actor  Betterton  seventy  years  after  the  Stratfordian's  death, 
and,  in  Mr.  Harrison's  case,  inflated  by  inferential  interpretations  of  topical 
subjects  in  the  "Plays  and  Sonnets."  The  assertion  that  Shakespeare  of 
Stratford  was  the  author  was  not  asserted  in  print  until  many  years  after 
his  death.  «  4 


From  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature,  October  2,  1948.   Reprinted  by  permission 
of  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature  and  Gelett  Burgess. 

PSEUDONYM,   SHAKESPEARE        125 


On  the  other  hand,  what  we  know  about  "other  Elizabethan  dramatists* 
is  considerable.  Of  such  writers  as  Edmund  Spenser,  Marlowe,  Ben  Jonson, 
Nash,  Lyly,  Peele,  and  others  we  have  a  good  picture  of  their  education,  the 
books  they  owned,  and  their  artistic  interests  which  qualified  them  as 
writers.  «5 

While  many  of  the  best-known  and  most  influential  scholars  in  England- 
such  men  as  the  Dean  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  in  London,  the  Canon  of 
Chelmsford  Cathedral,  principal  of  Victoria  College,  University  of  Liverpool, 
head  master  of  the  Charterhouse  School,  the  professor  of  English  at  the 
Royal  Naval  Academy,  etc.—  have  publicly  attested  to  their  belief  that  the 
true  author  was  Edward  De  Vere,  seventeenth  Earl  of  Oxford,  hardly  a  single 
important  professor  of  English  literature  in  the  United  States  has  been  will- 
ing even  to  consider  the  new  historical  evidence  that  has  changed  the  whole 
Elizabethan  picture.  They  rest  content,  like  the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica, 
with  historical  data  derived  from  sources  no  later  than  1897.  Many  of  the 
college  faculties  have  been  invited  to  refute,  if  possible,  the  new  evidence 
that  has  accumulated  since  then.  All  have  refused.  «  6 

It  is  true  what  Mr.  Redman  says,  that  we  know  more  about  Shakespeare 
than  about  any  other  Elizabethan  writer—  but  the  "Shakespeare"  is  not  the 
Shakespeare  of  Stratford.  He  was  the  brightest  star  in  the  firmament  of 
talent  in  that  splendid  era.  A  royal  ward,  brought  up  at  Court,  he  was 
familiar  with  its  usages.  Highly  educated,  with  degrees  from  both  Oxford 
and  Cambridge,  familiar  with  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  he  could  give 
the  plays  their  sophisticated  touch.  A  student  at  Gray's  Inn  for  three  years, 
his  references  to  the  intricacies  of  law  are  easily  accounted  for.  Traveled  in 
Italy,  a  champion  in  the  tournament,  an  aristocrat  pur  sang,  an  expert  fal- 
coner, a  musician,  a  poet  praised  as  the  best,  and  excellent  in  comedy,  and 
above  all,  as  Lord  Great  Chamberlain  in  charge  for  years  of  the  company  of 
players  who  performed  Shakespeare's  dramas,  he  had  every  possible  qualifi- 
cation for  authorship,  while  the  dummy  of  Stratford  had  not  one.  «  7 


Questions  ^*    W^at  are  ^e  ma*n  divisions  of  the 

^  argument?  Show  why  this  arrangement 

WHAT  is  the  specific  purpose  of  the  is  effective  or  ineffective. 

writer  of  the  first  letter  to  The  5.    What  emotional  appeals  are  used? 

Saturday  Review  of  Literature?  Are  they  suited  to  the  audience? 

2.  What  is  the  nature  of  his  audi-  6.    Is  Mr.  Burgess*  style  suited  to  the 
ence?  subject   and   audience?    Explain   your 

3.  Describe  the  evidence.   Is  it  con-  answer. 

crete?  first-hand?  substantial?  convinc-  7.    Is  this  a  good  argument?  Explain 

ing?  your  answer. 

126       EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN   ITS  OWN  TERMS 


CLARK    KINNAIRD     A    TCpty    tO    Ml.    BuigCSS 

£1  IR:  Mr.  Gelett  Burgess's  discovery  that  there  are  ignoramuses  who,  after 
1^  all  the  evidence  presented  to  the  contrary,  still  believe  the  plays  at- 
tributed to  Shakespeare  were  actually  written  by  that  unlettered  lout  of  a 
horseholder,  has  alarmed  me.  I  am  now  convinced  that  any  further  delay  in 
arousing  the  reading  public's  attention  regarding  certain  facts  about  George 
Bernard  Shaw,  as  he  is  called,  may  make  it  more  difficult  to  establish  the  true 
authorship  of  the  plays  bearing  his  name.  «  i 

It  will  be  seen  from  the  evidence  I  am  presenting  that  it  is  just  as  unlikely 
that  the  real  Shaw  wrote  the  plays  attributed  to  him  as  that  Shakespeare 
wrote  the  plays  of  Edward  De  Vere.  «  2 

Let  us  consider  that  the  facts  about  Shaw's  life  are  no  better  established 
than  that  "perhaps  score  of  sordid  facts,"  as  Mr.  Burgess  puts  it,  we  have 
about  Shakespeare.  We  are  dependent  upon  birth  and  marriage  records, 
reports  in  the  notoriously  unreliable  press,  and  biographies  which  disagree 
throughout,  and  which  are  questionable  on  other  grounds.  For  example,  we 
know  that  the  so-called  biography  of  Shaw  by  one  who  supposedly  knew 
him,  Frank  Harris,  was  written  by  one  Frank  Scully,  who  never  saw  Shaw 
and  therefore  could  not  prove  Shaw  ever  lived!  In  other  cases,  Shaw,  as  he 
is  called,  when  mysteriously  given  access  to  the  Ms.,  changed  the  original 
text  of  the  author  to  suit  his  purpose.  (We  shall  show  what  the  purpose 
was!)  «3 

From  the  small  body  of  ^incontestable  fact  about  Shaw,  it  is  certain  that  he 
was  not  of  royal  blood,  or  even  lordly  lineage.  His  father  was  no  more  than  a 
corn  merchant.  George  Bernard  Shaw,  as  he  is  called,  never  had  any  formal 
schooling  after  the  age  of  fourteen.  Indeed,  it  is  questionable  whether  he  had 
much  schooling  earlier,  because  of  his  apparent  inability  to  spell  or  punctuate 
correctly.  Any  who  have  seen  his  letters  know  them  to  be  studded  with 
"thru,"  "dont"  (without  the  apostrophe),  etc.  «4 

How  could  one  who  never  went  to  college  or  even  high  school  have  pos- 
sibly written  such  a  masterpiece  as  "Candida"?  «  5 

There  is  no  evidence  whatever  that  the  real  Shaw  even  tried  to  write  any- 
thing in  his  youth.  He  was  certainly  content  to  work  for  five  years  in,  of  all 
places,  a  real  estate  office.  It's  simply  incredible  that  the  author  of  "Pyg- 
malion" could  have  existed  five  years  in  such  a  stultifying  atmosphere. 
However,  we  do  not  have  to  believe  our  senses;  for  staring  us  in  the  face  is 
indisputable  evidence  of  the  man  Shaw's  ineptitude  as  a  writer  when  he  did 

From  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature,  November  6,  1948.  Reprinted  by  permission 
of  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature  and  Clark  Kinnaird. 

A  REPLY   TO   MR.    BURGESS        127 


try  to  make  his  living  with  a  pen.  In  nine  years  after  he  left  the  real  estate 
office  (under  circumstances  which  we  can  conjecture),  he  earned  exactly 
£6.  Four  novels,  as  they  were  called,  were  rejected  one  after  the  other  by 
publishers.  One  was  about  prize-fighting,  which  is  only  further  evidence 
of  what  low  tastes  he  had.  Try  to  couple  that  with  the  authorship  of  "Saint 
Joan"!  «  6 

His  family  had  to  struggle  for  existence.  "I  did  not  throw  myself  into  it, 
I  threw  my  mother  into  it,"  Shaw  said.  That  sufficiently  characterizes  the 
man  who  some  persons  believe,  oddly,  wrote  "Mrs.  Warren's  Profession/'  « 7 

The  real  Shaw  did,  it  seems,  work  in  the  lowest  type  of  literary  endeavor, 
criticism,  but  drifted  from  publication  to  publication— Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
The  Star,  The  Saturday  Review,  apparently  unable  to  keep  a  job.  It  is  well 
known  that  any  person  capable  of  creating  first-rate  plays  (such  as  "The 
Apple  Cart,"  "On  the  Rocks,"  etc. )  devotes  himself  to  creative  work  and  does 
not  resort  to  making  a  living  as  scavenger  among  other  men's  ideas;  the  critic 
at  best  is  one  who  knows  how  but  cannot  do  it  himself.  «  8 

Realization  of  this  might  have  made  him  disposed  to  allow  his  name  to  be 
used  on  another  man's  work.  He  practised  such  deceit  himself,  as  those 
aware  of  the  relationship  of  Shaw  and  Corno  di  Bassetto  know.  But  that 
is  another  story.  «  9 

And  now  for  a  conjecture.  «  10 

The  other  man  with  great  plays  in  his  mind  and  heart  was  in  a  position 
that  required  deceit,  as  De  Vere  was.  He  was  an  aristocrat,  son  of  a  lord 
and  grandson  of  a  duke.  He  had  the  education,  background,  and  ability  for 
his  chosen  profession  of  playwright,  such  as  De  Vere  had.  But  playwriting 
was  no  occupation  for  one  of  his  social  position.  Persons  of  the  theatre  were 
not  acceptable  in  his  set.  Also,  the  kind  of  plays  he  was  determined  to  write 
would,  he  realized,  inevitably  compromise  the  political  career  for  which  he 
was  destined  by  his  family  and  its  traditions— if  presented  in  his  own  name. 
«  ii 

The  circumstances  demanded  that  the  plays  bear  another's  name.  A  nom- 
de-plume  would  be  more  easily  penetrated.  So  a  deal  was  made,  I  conjecture. 
How  wise  the  playwright  must  have  regarded  his  decision  when  he  rose  to 
high  office—the  highest  office!  How  embarrassing  it  might  have  been  for  him 
then  if  Backbenchers  had  quoted  lines  he  put  in  John  Tanner's  mouth  in 
"Man  and  Superman."  Or  for  him  to  have  had  to  receive  an  ambassador  from 
Bulgaria  who  was  aware  the  prime  minister  was  the  author  of  "Arms  and 
the  Man."  «  12 

That  reference  gives  you  a  hint  as  to  the  true  identity  of  the  author  of 
George  Bernard  Shaw's  plays.  You  will  find  stronger  hints  in  a  comparison 
of  the  literary  styles  of  a  recent  autobiographical  work  of  an  exalted  person- 


128 


EVALUATING  A  WORK  IN  ITS   OWN   TERMS 


age  in  Great  Britain.  But  I  now  present,  for  the  first  time,  plainer  evidence 
of  the  true  author  of  Shaw's  plays.  His  name  is  concealed  in  the  tides  of 
the  plays!  Look: 

"Widower's  Houses" 
"Saint  Joan" 
"Man  and  Superman" 
"Arms  and  the  Man" 

"The  Philanderer" 
"Too  Good  to  Be  True" 
"Androcles  and  the  Lion" 

"Mrs.  Warren's  Profession" 

"Pygmalion" 
"Over-Ruled" 

"On  the  Rocks" 
"Back  to  Methuselah" 

"Getting  Married" 

"Great  Catherine" 

"The  Doctor's  Dilemma" 

"Heartbreak  House" 
"Yow  Never  Can  Tell" 
"Major  Barbara" 

"Caesar  and  Cleopatra" 
"T/ie  Man  of  Destiny" 
"Candida" 
"Misa/liance" 
"John  Bufl's  Other  Island"  «  13 

Questions  convince    you    that    Churchill    wrote 

^  Shaw's  plays?   Does  the  writer  want  to 

WHAT  is  the  writer's  apparent  pur-  convince  you?  Explain  your  answer, 

pose?  What  is  his  real  purpose?  4.    Is  this  a  direct  or  indirect  attack? 

2.  What  is  the  nature  of  his  audi-  What  emotional  appeals  are  used? 
cnce?  5.    Is  this  a  convincing  refutation  of 

3.  Describe  in  detail  the  nature  of  the  Burgess  argument?    Explain  your 
the  evidence  the  writer  uses.    Does  it  answer. 


A    REPLY    TO    MR.    BURGESS         129 


HOY  CBANSION  A  reply  to  Mr.  Burgess 

SIR:  The  present  Oxford  theorist  affirms  that  Oxford  wrote  the  plays,  but 
assumed  the  name  of  Shakespeare;  and  the  Stratford  Shakespeare  whom 
he  calls  the  "Dummy  of  Stratford"  hadn't  the  qualifications  to  produce  them. 
«  I 

1.  If  Shakespeare  was  only  a  country  bumpkin,  and  without  any  educa- 
tion, why  was  he  buried  in  the  Stratford  church,  and  a  carved  stone  bust  of 
him  placed  on  the  chancel  wall?  This  stone  bust  represents  Shakespeare  with 
one  hand  resting  on  a  scroll,  and  a  pen  in  his  other  hand.   So  the  bust  is  a 
memorial  to  a  writer.  «  2 

2.  At  the  age  of  about  nineteen  Shakespeare  went  to  London.  He  had  a 
brother,  an  actor,  there.  Richard  Burbidge,  a  famous  London  actor  who  sub- 
sequently played  leading  roles  in  Shakespeare's  great  dramas,  was  a  Stratford 
man.   There  is  no  doubt  that  these  two  Stratford  men  read  specimens  of 
Shakespeare's  work,  and  induced  him  to  go  to  London,  the  Mecca  for  tal- 
ented youth.   «  3 

3.  In  London  Shakespeare  had  his  poem  "Venus  and  Adonis"  published. 
He  wrote  this  in  Stratford.   The  very  man  who  published  his  poem  was  a 
printer  who  also  went  from  Stratford  to  London  a  few  years  before  Shake- 
speare.   Shakespeare  had  known  this  printer  in  Stratford.    His  name  was 
Richard  Field,  and  his  father  was  a  tanner  in  the  town.   Shakespeare  dedi- 
cated "Venus  and  Adonis"  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  and  called  the  poem: 
"The  first  heir  of  my  invention."  Here  we  have  evidence  that  the  Stratford 
Shakespeare  states  that  he  is  a  writer.   «  4 

4.  In  Shakespeare's  plays  you  will  find  names  of  people  he  knew  in  Strat- 
ford.  In  the  Induction  to  "The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  Sly  the  tinker  is  the 
chief  character.  There  was  a  tinker  in  Stratford  by  the  name  of  Sly.  In  the 
same  comedy  Sly  refers  to  a  woman  who  kept  a  public  house  in  the  village 
of  Wincot,  a  village  near  Stratford.   Sly  says:    "Ask  Marian  Hacket  the  fat 
ale-wife  of  Wincot."  Sly  states  that  he  is  the  son  of  old  Sly  of  Burton  Heath, 
a  village  near  Stratford,  «  5 

5.  Two  associates  of  Shakespeare's  in  London,  and  men  who  were  also 
actors  in  his  plays,  collected  Mss.  of  all  Shakespeare's  plays  and  published 
them  seven  years  after  his  death.  There  are  documents  extant  that  also  prove 
that  Shakespeare  was  a  Stratford  man,  for  Shakespeare's  youngest  daughter, 
Judith,  took  from  Stratford  a  bundle  of  Mss.  to  her  own  home,  soon  after 
her  father  died.  «  6 


From  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literaturey  November  6,  1948.  Reprinted  by  permission 
of  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature  and  Hoy  Cranston, 

130        EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN   ITS   OWN   TERMS 


6.  Shakespeare's  will  proves  that  he  was  a  Stratford  man,  that  he  fre- 
quently went  there  from  London,  that  he  died  and  was  buried  in  Stratford. 
His  will  also  proves  that  he  was  the  same  Shakespeare  who  wrote  plays  and 
produced  them  in  London.  In  his  will  which  was  made  and  signed  in  Strat- 
ford, he  left  legacies  to  relatives  and  friends  living  in  Stratford.  He  be- 
queathed his  Stratford  home  to  his  daughter  Susanna.  All  this  proves  that 
Shakespeare  was  a  Stratford  man.  The  will  also  proves  that  the  same  Shake- 
speare produced  plays  of  his  own  in  London  theatres.  We  find  in  the  will  the 
following:  "And  to  my  Fellows  (all  actors  with  shares  in  London  theatres) 
John  Hemmynges,  Henry  Cundell,  Richard  Burbidge  XXVi8  Viijd  apiece  to 
buy  them  rings."  Burbidge  was  leading  tragedian  in  Shakespeare's  great 
tragedies.  The  other  two  men  were  Shakespeare's  associates  and  fellow 
actors  in  London.  "Fellows"  means  associates.  Hemmynges  and  Cundell 
were  the  first  to  publish  all  Shakespeare's  plays  in  one  volume  which  is  called 
"The  1623  Folio/'  Shakespeare's  will  alone  furnishes  absolute  proof  that 
the  Shakespeare  who  produced  the  plays  was  a  Stratford  man,  and  not  a 
Stratford  "dummy."  We  know  that  Shakespeare  was  also  an  actor,  and 
speeches  in  his  tragedies  prove  it,  for  he  knew  the  art  of  making  points.  « 1 

Many  years  ago  Mr.  William  Winter  the  greatest  dramatic  critic  in  Amer- 
ica, took  me  with  him  to  see  Edwin  Booth  as  Othello.  After  the  wonderful 
performance  Mr.  Winter  said:  "Shakespeare  did  not  make  those  great 
speeches  of  Othello's  sitting  down  alone  in  a  room.  I'm  sure  he  dictated  them, 
while  standing,  and  when  roused  to  'the  top  of  his  bent'."  Shakespeare  the 
actor-dramatist  knew  how  to  fit  an  actor  with  a  "role  to  tear  a  cat  in,"  the  kind 
Bottom  the  weaver  required  to  properly  demonstrate  his  histrionic  ability. 


Questions 

WHAT  is  Mr.  Cranston's  purpose  in 
writing  this  letter?  Is  his  purpose 
the  same  as  Mr.  Kinnaird's? 

2.  Show  in  detail  how  his  method  of 
refutation  differs  from  that  of  Mr.  Kin- 
naird.  In  your  answer,  consider  the 
mode  of  attack,  the  nature  of  the  con- 
tents, the  arrangement  of  contents,  the 


emotional  appeals,  and  the  style  of  each 
of  the  two  letters. 

3.  Do  you  find  this  convincing  refu- 
tation? 

4.  Which   of   the   three    arguments 
thus  far  do  you  think  is  best  as  argu- 
ment? 

5.  Which  of  the  three  would  you 
rank  first  if  you  were  evaluating  them 
for  their  truth? 


A  REPLY  TO  MR.   BURGESS       131 


GELETT  BURGESS  The  butcher  boy  of  Stratford 

In  this  piece  of  counterrefutation,  Mr.  Burgess  ignores  Mr.  Kinnaird's 
letter  but  replies  in  some  detail  to  Mr.  Cranston  s.  The  statements  about 
Mr.  Hoepfner  and  Mr.  Humphreys  are  references  to  letters  not  reprinted 
here. 

SIR:  My  recent  communication  relative  to  Oxford-is-Shakespeare  elicited 
responses  which  evince  and  hypostatize  the  bigoted  renitency  usual  in 
orthodox  addicts.  For  the  Stratfordian  mythology  has  engendered  a  strange 
nympholepsy  like  a  fanatical  religion  which  is  not  amenable  to  reason  or 
logic,  and  abrogates  all  scientific  method.  «  I 

The  lay  enthusiasts  for  the  precocious  butcher  boy  of  Stratford  have  dis- 
played of  late  not  only  an  egregious  lack  of  truth  but  of  courtesy.  To  accuse 
me  of  falsehood  in  an  intellectual  discussion,  as  has  Mr.  Hoepfner,  without 
specifying  wherein  I  lied,  seems  like  hitting  below  the  belt.  And  when  Mr. 
Humphreys  implies  that  humorists  can  never  be  taken  seriously,  a  gentle- 
man, even  if  an  M.  A.,  should  know  that  a  resort  to  personalities  is  the  surest 
sign  that  the  unparliamentary  satirist  feels  insecure  in  his  legitimate  argu- 
ment. No  doubt  he  would  question  the  accuracy  of  Charles  L.  Dodgson's 
"Treatise  on  Determinants"  because  he  happened  to  write  "Alice  in  Won- 
derland." «2 

The  redargution  of  my  correspondents  contains  too  many  mistakes  to  cor- 
rect in  this  space.  But,  to  illustrate  their  general  incompetency,  I  may  hit  a 
few  high  lights  of  ignorance.  I  am  childishly  taken  to  task  by  Mr.  Hoepfner, 
for  example,  for  including  Edmund  Spenser  in  a  list  of  Elizabethan  drama- 
tists. He  should  read  more  carefully.  Spenser's  biographers  all  mention, 
amongst  his  missing  papers,  nine  comedies.  And  Gabriel  Harvey,  an  eminent 
critic  of  the  era,  must  also  have  considered  Spenser  a  dramatist,  for  in  his 
letter  he  hopes  that  he  himself  will  not  be  made  fun  of  on  the  stage  by  his 
friend  Edmund.  «  3 

Mr.  Hoy  Cranston,  too,  has  drunk  none  too  deeply  of  the  Pierian  Spring. 
His  amusing  "proof"  that  the  Stratford  man  was  a  writer  because  his  bust 
shows  him  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  gives  one  an  insight  into  Mr.  Cranston's 
limited  erudition.  For  he  should  know  that  the  monument  in  the  Stratford 
church  dates,  in  its  present  condition,  only  from  1748-49.  It  differs  materially 
from  the  original  bust  as  sketched  by  Dugdale  for  his  book  on  Warwickshire 
published  in  1656.  That  showed  a  sad,  cadaverous  gent  with  a  long,  droop- 

From  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature,  February  5,  1949.  Reprinted  by  permission 
of  The  Saturday  Review  of  Literature  and  Gelett  Burgess. 

132        EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN   ITS   OWN   TERMS 


ing  mustache,  his  arms  awkwardly  outangled,  his  hands  resting  on  a  cushion. 
No  pen.  Still  another  picture  of  that  bust,  or  another,  was  the  frontispiece  to 
Nicholas  Rowe's  edition  of  Shakespeare,  1709.  This  differed  from  both  the 
others,  but  also  showed  no  pen  in  the  hand  of  the  Bard.  «  4 

Mr.  Cranston's  assertion  that  Judith  Shakspere  "took  from  Stratford  a  bun- 
dle of  Ms.  to  her  own  home"  is  a  wild  flight  of  fancy.  It  is  supported  by  no 
known  record.  All  we  know  is  that  when  Thomas  Quiney,  her  husband,  after 
having  been  twice  fined  for  keeping  a  disorderly  house  ("The  Cage"  tavern), 
disappeared  from  Stratford,  an  inventory  of  his  goods  itemed  a  box  of  books. 
No  Mss.  are  mentioned.  The  rest  of  the  Cranston  pseudo-information  is 
mere  conjecture.  «  5 

But  why  break  these  silly  butterflies  on  the  wheel?  The  man  who  is  ac- 
knowledged to  be  the  greatest  living  authority  on  Shakespeare's  life  has  said 
the  last  word  on  the  subject.  Sir  Edmund  Chambers  (not  an  Oxfordian), 
author  of  monumental  volumes  on  the  Elizabethan  stage,  published  in  1930 
his  final  documentary  life  of  the  Bard  in  two  volumes,  after  years  of  prepara- 
tion. This  is  his  conclusion  as  to  the  Stratford  man's  career  as  a  playwright 
in  London: 

It  is  no  use  guessing.  As  in  so  many  other  historical  investigations,  after  all  the 
careful  scrutiny  of  clues  and  all  the  patient  balancing  of  possibilities,  the  last  word 
for  a  self-respecting  scholarship  can  only  be  that  of  nescience.  «  6 


Questions 

WHAT  is  Mr.   Burgess'  purpose  in 
his  second  letter  to  The  Saturday 
Review? 

2.  What  is  the  nature  of  his  audi- 
ence?  How  does  it  differ  from  the  na- 
ture of  his  original  audience? 

3.  In  what  ways  does  he  attempt  to 
undermine   Mr.    Cranston's   argument? 
In  answering  this,  read  once  more  the 
comments  on  refutation,  page  48. 

4.  What  various  types  of  emotional 


appeal  are  employed?  In  answering 
this,  comment  especially  on  the  device 
of  using  such  words  as  hypostatize, 
nympholepsy,  redargution  in  the  same 
letter  with  expressions  like  hitting  below 
the  belt. 

5.  Do  you  feel  that  this  argument  is 
successful  as  argument?  Does  it  dispose 
of  the  Cranston  argument?    Give  your 
reasons  in  detail. 

6.  On  the  basis  of  these  four  letters 
alone,   which   side   in  your   estimation 
wins  the  argument? 


THE  BUTCHER  BOY  OF  STRATFORD    133 


History 

EVALUATING  a  historical  account  in 
its  own  terms  is  a  more  difficult 
task  than  it  might  first  appear.  Written 
history  is  both  a  record  and  an  interpre- 
tation of  past  events.  In  the  sense  that 
it  is  a  record,  it  is  clearly  explanation; 
in  the  sense  that  it  is  an  interpretation, 
it  is  substantially  an  argument  for  a 
proposition  of  fact.  Frequently  it  is 
more  of  an  argument  than  you  think. 
The  stuff  of  history  is  human  affairs,  and 
human  affairs  inevitably  involve  con- 
troversy. Historians,  being  human,  are 
bound  to  take  sides  on  many  of  the  con- 
troversial questions— either  unconscious- 
ly or  deliberately.  Thus  a  patriotic  Eng- 
lishman is  likely  to  interpret  events 
leading  up  to  the  American  Revolution 
in  one  way,  a  patriotic  Ameiican  in  an- 
other. Each,  while  explaining  the  facts, 
is  arguing  for  his  interpretation  of  the 
facts.  This  suggests  the  immediate 
problem.  To  evaluate  a  historical  ac- 
count in  its  own  terms,  you  first  have 
to  determine  rather  precisely  what  those 
terms  are.  What  exactly  is  the  historian 
trying  to  do?  To  what  extent  is  he 
simply  trying  to  relate  the  facts  of  his- 
tory? To  what  extent  is  he  arguing  for 
his  own  interpretation  of  these  facts? 
The  two  extremes  might  be  found  in 
(1)  an  encyclopedia  account  of  the 
Revolutionary  War  in  which  the  writer 
attempts  primarily  to  list  the  major 
events,  and  (2)  a  Marxist  account  of  the 
same  war  in  which  the  author  selects 
and  organizes  the  facts  so  that  they 


correspond  with  his  theory  of  economic 
determinism.  In  the  first  case,  the  writer 
wants  you  to  have  certain  information; 
in  the  second,  he  wants  you  to  believe 
that  this  information  is  evidence  in  sup- 
port of  his  politico-economic  theory. 

Once  you  have  the  author's  specific 
purpose  in  mind,  you  need  to  do  a  little 
thinking  about  the  people  for  whom  the 
history  was  apparently  written.  Deter- 
mine as  closely  as  you  can  their  age, 
education,  geographical  distribution, 
and  experience  as  readers  of  history. 
After  some  consideration,  you  should  be 
able  to  say,  for  instance,  that  the  work 
was  designed  for  American  high-school 
students,  or  for  American  adults  who 
are  not  specialists  in  history,  or  for  col- 
lege professors  who  are  specialists  in 
American  constitutional  history. 

Now  you  are  ready  to  determine 
whether  in  terms  of  its  purpose  and 
audience  the  history  does  a  competent 
job.  The  basic  considerations— content, 
organization,  and  style— are  much  the 
same  as  those  in  exposition  and  argu- 
ment. Your  problem,  again,  is  to  see 
how  well  they  have  been  adapted  to  the 
writer's  purpose  and  to  his  readers,  and 
in  the  light  of  your  judgments  to  evalu- 
ate the  efficiency  of  the  work  as  a  whole. 

The  following  selection  deals  with  the 
immediate  causes  for  and  the  nature  of 
the  Declaration  of  Independence.  It  is 
taken  from  a  two-volume  work  entitled 
The  Growth  of  the  American  Republic, 
written  by  Samuel  E.  Morison  and 
Henry  S.  Commager,  both  of  them  em- 
inent American  historians. 


134 


EVALUATING    A    WORK   IN    ITS   OWN    TERMS 


SAMUEL    ELIOT    MORISON 
HENRY    STEELE    COMMAGER 


Independence  and  the  great  Declaration 

STILL,  THE  IDEA  of  independence  was  repugnant  to  many  members  of 
Congress  and  to  a  large  part  of  the  American  people.  The  ostensible 
purpose  of  the  two  Continental  Congresses  had  been  to  get  the  Coercive  Acts 
repealed,  restore  imperial  relations  as  before  1763,  and  thus  avert  both  war 
and  independence.  As  late  as  the  autumn  of  1775  the  legislatures  of  North 
Carolina,  Pennsylvania,  New  Jersey,  New  York,  and  Maryland  went  on  rec- 
ord against  independence.  Public  opinion  was  not  yet  ready  for  any  drastic 
action.  Yet  the  colonies  could  not  forever  remain  half  in,  half  out  of  the 
empire,  professing  allegiance  while  refusing  obedience.  Moderates  per- 
suaded themselves  that  they  were  not  fighting  the  king  or  the  mother  coun- 
try, but  the  "unprincipled  hirelings  of  a  venal  ministry/'  They  referred  to 
the  enemy  as  the  "ministerial,"  not  the  British  army;  they  hoped  for  a  political 
crisis  in  England  that  would  place  their  friends  in  power;  as  late  as  January 
1776  the  king's  health  was  toasted  nightly  in  the  officers'  mess  presided  over 
by  General  Washington.  Radicals  acquiesced  in  this  policy  because  they 
expected  that  it  would  have  the  contrary  effect,  and  make  Britain  more  un- 
compromising; as  it  did.  «  I 

As  the  months  wore  on,  the  difficulties  of  prosecuting  a  war  while  still  a 
part  of  the  empire  became  more  and  more  patent.  Independence  was  desir- 
able for  military  success;  without  it  the  colonies  could  scarcely  expect  that 
assistance  from  France  upon  which  they  based  great  hopes.  Furthermore,  it 
became  clearer  every  day  that  the  first  Congress's  policy  of  non-importation 
and  non-exportation  was  a  complete  failure.  Commercial  pressure  was  not 
effective  after  fighting  had  aroused  passion.  It  simply  prevented  the  Ameri- 
cans from  getting  needed  supplies,  and  hurt  them  more  than  it  did  the 
British.  And  after  so  many  lives  had  been  lost,  at  Bunker  Hill  and  in  the 
vain  assault  on  Quebec  (December  1775),  there  came  a  feeling  that  some- 
thing of  permanent  value  ought  to  be  achieved.  «  2 

No  compromise  came  from  England.  King  George,  naturally  regarding  as 
insincere  an  "olive-branch"  petition  from  a  body  that  was  carrying  on  armed 
rebellion,  refused  to  receive  it,  and  instead  issued  a  proclamation  declaring 
the  colonies  to  be  in  a  state  of  rebellion  (23  August  1775).  And  on  22 

From  The  Growth  of  the  American  Republic,  by  Samuel  Eliot  Morison  and  Henry 
Steele  Commager,  copyright  1930,  1937,  1942,  1950  by  Oxford  University  Press,  Inc. 

INDEPENDENCE  AND  THE  CHEAT  DECLARATION    135 


December  1775,  all  trade  and  intercourse  with  the  Thirteen  Colonies  was 
interdicted  by  Parliament.  The  triumphant  comment  of  John  Adams  reveals 
how  this  Act  helped  the  American  radicals:  «3 

I  know  not  whether  you  have  seen  the  Act  of  Parliament  called  the  Restraining 
Act  or  Prohibitory  Act,  or  Piratical  Act  or  Act  of  Independency— for  by  all  these 
titles  it  is  called.  I  think  that  the  most  apposite  is  the  Act  of  Independency;  the 
King,  Lords  and  Commons  have  united  in  sundering  this  country  from  that,  I  think 
forever.  It  is  a  complete  dismemberment  of  the  British  Empire.  It  throws  thirteen 
colonies  out  of  the  royal  protection,  and  makes  us  independent  in  spite  of  supplica- 
tions and  entreaties.  «4 

In  January  1776  Thomas  Paine's  pamphlet  Common  Sense  was  published. 
This  book  was  to  the  American  Revolution  what  Uncle  Toms  Cabin  was 
to  the  Civil  War.  Sweeping  aside  dialectic  and  sentiment,  Paine  stated  the 
case  for  independence  in  a  crisp,  vigorous  language,  that  appealed  to  the 
ordinary  American.  It  presented  in  popular  form  the  natural  rights  philoso- 
phy that  was  to  be  embodied  in  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  "Society 
in  every  state  is  a  blessing,  but  Government,  even  in  its  best  state,  is  but  a 
necessary  evil;  in  its  worst,  an  intolerable  one.  Government,  like  dress,  is 
the  badge  of  lost  innocence;  the  palaces  of  kings  are  built  upon  the  ruins 
of  the  bowers  of  Paradise."  With  ruthless  disregard  for  tradition  and  senti- 
ment Paine  attacked  the  monarchy,  the  British  Constitution,  and  the  empire. 
Monarchy  itself,  he  argued,  is  an  absurd  form  of  government;  one  honest 
man  worth  "all  the  crowned  ruffians  that  ever  lived";  and  George  III,  "the 
Royal  Brute  of  Great  Britain,"  the  worst  of  inonarchs.  Such  words  were 
sweet  music  to  democratic  ears.  How  absurd,  too,  that  a  continent  should 
be  governed  by  an  island!  Such  an  unnatural  connection  merely  subjected 
the  colonies  to  exploitation,  and  involved  them  in  every  European  war. 
Separation  would  not  only  avert  these  evils,  but  bring  positive  benefits- 
such  as  a  world  market  for  American  trade.  Anticipating  the  idea  of  isolation, 
Paine  announced  it  to  be  "the  true  interest  of  America  to  steer  clear  of 
European  contentions,  which  she  can  never  do  while,  by  her  dependence 
on  Great  Britain,  she  is  made  the  make-weight  in  the  scale  of  British 
politics."  «5 

Thus  with  persuasive  simplicity  Paine  presented  the  alternatives:  contin- 
ued submission  to  a  tyrannous  king,  an  outworn  government,  and  a  vicious 
economic  system;  or  liberty  and  happiness  as  a  self-sufficient  independent 
republic.  The  loyalists  he  lumped  together  and  denounced  as  "interested 
men  who  are  not  to  be  trusted,  weak  men  who  cannot  see,  prejudiced  men 
who  will  not  see,  and  a  certain  set  of  moderate  men  who  think  better  of  the 
European  world  than  it  deserves."  And  he  closed  with  the  eloquent 
peroration:  «6 


136 


EVALUATING    A    WOHK    IN    ITS    OWN    TERMS 


O!  ye  that  love  mankind!  Ye  that  dare  oppose  not  only  the  tyranny  but  the 
tyrant,  stand  forth!  Every  spot  of  the  old  world  is  overrun  with  oppression.  Free- 
dom hath  been  hunted  round  the  Globe.  Asia  and  Africa  have  long  expelled  her. 
Europe  regards  her  as  a  stranger  and  England  hath  given  her  warning  to  depart. 
O!  receive  the  fugitive  and  prepare  in  time  an  asylum  for  mankind.  «  7 

The  influence  of  this  amazing  pamphlet  cannot  well  be  exaggerated. 
Within  a  few  months  it  had  been  read  by  or  to  almost  every  American.  It 
rallied  the  undecided  and  the  wavering,  and  proved  a  trumpet  call  to  the 
radicals.  "Every  Post  and  every  Day  rolls  in  upon  us  Independence  like  a 
Torrent,"  observed  John  Adams  exultantly.  Among  the  makers  of  the  new 
nation  few  played  a  more  dynamic  part  than  Thomas  Paine,  sometime  stay- 
maker  of  Norfolk  in  old  England.  «  8 

In  each  colony  now  a  keen  struggle  was  going  on  between  conservatives 
and  radicals  for  control  of  the  delegations  in  Congress.  As  yet  only  a  few 
delegations  were  definitely  instructed  for  independence:  it  was  the  task  of 
the  radicals  to  force  everyone  into  line.  The  struggle  coincided  with  the  class 
and  sectional  divisions  which  we  have  already  described  as  present  in  most 
of  the  colonies.  Everywhere  the  radicals  were  using  the  powerful  lever  of 
independence  to  oust  the  conservatives  and  put  themselves  in  control,  and, 
under  cover  of  a  popular  war,  push  through  their  programs  of  democratic 
reform.  The  alternative  that  faced  the  conservatives  in  such  colonies  as  New 
York,  Pennsylvania,  Maryland,  and  South  Carolina  was  not  pleasant.  If  they 
tried  to  stem  the  popular  tide,  they  would  see  themselves  denounced  as 
tories,  hurled  out  of  office,  and  old  institutions  exposed  to  the  mercies  of  the 
radical  democrats.  They  could  maintain  their  accustomed  position  and  influ- 
ence, and  save  their  property,  only  by  acquiescing  in  a  policy  of  war  and 
separation.  In  Pennsylvania  the  struggle  was  particularly  bitter,  coincid- 
ing as  it  did  with  the  ancient  feud  of  Scotch-Irish  frontiersmen  and  the  city 
artisans  against  the  Quaker  oligarchy  and  the  wealthier  Germans.  The  suc- 
cess of  the  radicals  here  was  achieved  only  by  overthrowing  the  old  govern- 
ment, establishing  a  new  one  with  full  representation  of  the  frontier  counties, 
and  drawing  up  a  new  constitution.  This  new  revolutionary  government 
promptly  instructed  the  Pennsylvania  delegates  for  independence.  The  effect 
of  this  radical  victory  upon  the  Congress,  sitting  in  Philadelphia,  was  tre- 
mendous. «9 

Events  now  moved  rapidly  toward  independence.  In  January  1776  came 
the  burning  of  Norfolk  by  the  patriots  to  prevent  it  falling  into  the  power  of 
Lord  Dunmore,  and  Virginia  loyalists  had  to  seek  the  protection  of  the 
British  fleet.  The  next  month  the  embattled  farmers  of  the  South  repulsed 
royal  troops  and  native  loyalists  at  Moore's  Creek  Bridge.  In  March  the 
legislature  of  North  Carolina  instructed  its  delegates  to  declare  independence 

INDEPENDENCE  AND  THE  GREAT  DECLARATION    137 


and  form  foreign  alliances.  Congress  then  threw  the  ports  of  America  open 
to  the  commerce  of  the  world,  and  sent  an  agent  to  France  to  obtain  assist- 
ance. On  10  May  Congress  advised  the  states  to  establish  independent 
governments,  as  several  had  done  already.  On  7  June  Richard  Henry  Lee, 
pursuant  to  instructions  from  his  native  state,  rose  in  Congress  and  moved 
"That  these  United  Colonies  are,  and  of  right  ought  to  be,  Free  and  Inde- 
pendent States."  After  a  terrific  debate  in  which  sturdy  John  Adams  pled 
the  cause  of  independence,  Lee's  motion  was  carried  on  2  July.  Meantime 
Congress  had  appointed  a  committee  consisting  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  John 
Adams,  Benjamin  Franklin,  Roger  Sherman,  and  Robert  Livingston  to  pre- 
pare a  formal  declaration  "setting  forth  the  causes  which  impelled  us  to  this 
mighty  resolution."  This  Declaration  of  Independence,  written  by  Thomas 
Jefferson,  was  adopted  4  July  1776.  «  10 

The  Declaration  of  Independence  not  only  announced  the  birth  of  a  new 
nation;  the  philosophy  which  it  set  forth  has  been  a  dynamic  force  in  the 
entire  Western  world  throughout  the  nineteenth  century.  "Out  of  a  decent 
respect  for  the  opinions  of  mankind,"  Jefferson  summed  up,  not  only  the 
reasons  which  impelled  Americans  to  independence,  but  the  political  and 
social  principles  upon  which  the  Revolution  itself  rested.  The  particular 
"abuses  and  usurpations"  which  are  charged  against  the  king,  and  which  fill 
a  large  part  of  the  Declaration,  are  not  advanced  as  the  basis  for  revolution, 
but  merely  as  proof  that  George  III  had  "in  direct  object  the  establishment 
of  an  absolute  tyranny  over  these  states."  The  Declaration  rests,  therefore, 
not  upon  particular  grievances,  but  upon  a  broad  basis  which  commanded 
general  support  not  only  in  America  but  in  Europe  as  well.  The  grievances 
are  scarcely  those  which  appeal  to  the  student  of  that  period  as  fundamental; 
examined  in  the  candid  light  of  history  many  seem  distorted,  others  inconse- 
quential, some  unfair.  One  of  the  strongest,  an  indictment  of  the  slave  trade, 
was  struck  out  at  the  insistence  of  Southern  and  New  England  delegates. 
But  the  historical  accuracy  of  the  grievances  is  not  the  yardstick  by  which 
they  are  to  be  measured.  Jefferson  was  making  history,  not  writing  it.  «  1 1 

Jefferson's  indictment  is  drawn  against  George  III,  despite  the  fact  that 
for  twelve  years  the  dispute  between  the  colonies  and  Britain  had  centered 
on  the  question  of  parliamentary  authority.  The  only  reference  to  Parliament 
is  in  the  clause,  "He  has  combined  with  others  to  subject  us  to  a  jurisdiction 
foreign  to  our  constitution  and  unacknowledged  by  our  laws,  giving  his 
assent  to  their  acts  of  pretended  legislation."  Entire  odium  of  parliamentary 
misdeeds  is  transferred  to  the  hapless  George  III.  The  reason  for  this  shift 
was  not  that  the  king's  influence  over  politics  was  understood,  but  that 
Congress  had  finally  accepted  the  position  of  Adams,  Jefferson,  and  Wilson 
regarding  Parliament  as  merely  the  legislative  body  of  Great  Britain,  each 

138       EVALUATING  A  WORK  IN  ITS  OWN  TERMS 


colonial  legislature  being  a  co-equal  and  coordinate  body,  having  exclusive 
power  (with  the  king  or  his  representative)  over  that  particular  colony.  «  12 

The  political  philosophy  of  the  Declaration  is  set  forth  clearly  and  suc- 
cinctly in  the  second  paragraph: 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident,  that  all  men  are  created  equal,  that  they 
are  endowed  by  their  creator  with  certain  inalienable  rights,  that  among  these  are 
life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  That  to  secure  these  rights  governments 
are  instituted  among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers  from  the  consent  of  the 
governed.  That  whenever  any  form  of  government  becomes  destructive  to  these 
ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or  abolish  it,  and  to  institute  new  govern- 
ment, laying  its  foundation  on  such  principles  and  organizing  its  powers  in  such 
form,  as  to  them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  safety  and  happiness. 

"These  truths"  were  not  the  creatures  of  Jefferson's  mind;  they  formed  a 
political  theory  "self-evident"  to  his  generation.  The  obvious  sources  for  this 
philosophy  were  Harrington  and  Sidney,  John  Locke's  Second  Treatise  on 
Government,  and  the  actual  experience  of  Americans.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
seek  further.  «  1 3 

And  what  was  the  nature  of  this  ideal  government?  It  was  one  created  by 
social  compact.  Originally,  so  Locke  and  Jefferson  held,  men  lived  equal  in 
a  state  of  nature.  When  necessity  required  some  form  of  control,  they  got 
together  and  set  up  a  government  by  popular  consent.  It  is  the  function  and 
purpose  of  government  to  protect  men  in  their  life,  liberty,  and  property. 
Jefferson  substituted  for  the  term  "property"  the  phrase  "pursuit  of  happi- 
ness": a  characteristic  and  illuminating  stroke  on  the  part  of  this  social 
philosopher  who  throughout  his  life  placed  human  rights  first.  If  government 
fails  to  perform  these  functions,  "it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or 
abolish  it  altogether,  and  to  institute  new  government"— as  the  Americans 
were  doing.  To  the  troublesome  charge  that  such  popular  power  would  lead 
to  anarchy,  Jefferson  replied,  "all  experience  hath  shown  that  mankind  are 
more  disposed  to  suffer  while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to  right  them  by 
abolishing  the  forms  to  which  they  are  accustomed."  «  14 

It  is  futile  and  irrelevant  to  argue  that  this  theory  of  the  origin  of  govern- 
ment does  not  square  with  nineteenth-century  experience  and  twentieth- 
century  anthropological  knowledge.  Whatever  the  origin  of  government  may 
have  been  in  prehistoric  times,  in  America  it  often  arose  just  as  Jefferson 
described.  As  in  the  Mayflower  Compact  of  1620,  so  in  countless  frontier 
settlements  from  the  Watauga  to  the  Willamette,  men  came  together  spon- 
taneously and  organized  a  government.  Jefferson's  political  philosophy 
seemed  to  them  merely  the  common  sense  of  the  matter.  And  the  ideas  of 
the  Declaration  were  vital  throughout  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Historical 
facts  derive  their  significance  not  as  they  are  judged  correct  or  incorrect  by 

INDEPENDENCE  AND  THE  GREAT  DECLARATION   139 


some  abstract  criterion,  but  by  the  place  they  come  to  hold  in  the  minds  and 
imaginations  of  men.  By  a  curious  transfer  of  ideas  Jefferson's  doctrine  that 
all  men  are  created  equal  has  gradually  come  to  mean  that  all  men  are  equal, 
or  that  if  not  they  ought  to  be.  And  although  Jefferson  did  not  mean  to 
include  slaves  as  men,  public  opinion  finally  came  to  regard  slavery  as  incon- 
sistent with  the  Declaration.  Most  of  the  great  liberal  reform  movements  of 
the  nineteenth  century— abolition,  universal  suffrage,  labor  laws,  popular 
education;  most  of  the  nationalist  movements— in  Ireland,  Finland,  Italy, 
Germany  in  '48,  Czecho-Slovakia— based  their  philosophy  on  the  Declaration 
of  Independence;  and  the  American  Union  could  not  have  been  saved  in 
1861-65  without  it.  The  timelessncss  of  its  doctrines  and  the  haunting  beauty 
of  its  phrasing  insure  immortality  to  the  Great  Declaration.  «  15 

Questions  originally  entitled  "Independence"  (par- 

agraphs   1-10)?   the   section   originally 

WHAT  is  the  specific  purpose  of  the      entitled  "The  Great  Declaration"  (para- 
authors  in  this  passage?    Is  this      graphs   11-15)?    How  are  the  two  re- 


HAT  is  the  specific  purpose  of  the 
authors  in  this  passage?  Is  this 
purpose  wholly  a  matter  of  explaining 
what  happened  or  do  the  authors  argue 
for  a  point  of  view?  In  answering  this, 
consider  among  other  things  whether 
they  want  you  to  think  that  the  action 
of  the  colonists  was  just  and  admirable. 
Might  an  English  historian  have  another 
point  of  view  in  presenting  these  facts? 

2.  Describe  the  reading  audience  for 
whom  you  think  this  account  is  intended. 

3.  In  obtaining  their  material,  what 
sources  other  than  the  Declaration  itself 
must  the  authors  have  used?   By  refer- 
ring to  the  document  itself,  page  53, 
show  how  much  of  the  Declaration  is 
quoted,   how  much  paraphrased,   and 
how  much  ignored.   Do  you  think  there 
is  enough  factual  material  for  your  un- 
derstanding of  these  particular  events 
in  American  history?    Is  there  enough 
material  to  support  the  implied  proposi- 
tion that  what   the  colonists   did   was 
just  and  admirable? 

4.  Show  in  detail  how  the  selection 
is  organized.    Even  though  it  is  only 
part  of  a  larger  whole,  do  you  think  it 
has  an  effective  beginning  and  ending? 
What   is   the   purpose   of   the   section 


lated?  Can  you  follow  the  organization 
easily?  If  not,  what  suggestions  would 
you  have  for  changing  it? 

5.  How  do  the  sentences  and  words 
here  differ  from  those  in  the  article  from 
This  Week  Magazine  (p.  121)  and  in 
the  letters  to  the  editor  (pp.  125-133)? 
Be  specific  and  detailed.    Account  for 
these  differences  in  terms  of  the  authors' 
purposes,  readers,  and  form  of  publica- 
tion. What  special  stylistic  devices,  like 
the  repeated  use  of  quotations,  do  you 
find  here?    Are  these  devices  justified? 
On  the  whole,  is  the  style  appropriate  or 
inappropriate?   Explain  your  answer. 

6.  What  changes  in  the  selection  as 
it  stands  would  probably  be  made  by 
the  authors  if  they  had  started  with  the 
assumption  that  the  colonists  were  a 
pack  of  radicals  and  that  what  they  did 
was  reprehensible? 

7.  What  changes  would  probably  be 
evident  if  the  authors  had  written  this 
for  eighth-grade  students? 

8.  What  is  your  final  evaluation  of 
this  history  as  history? 

9.  How  would  you  rate  the  Declara- 
tion itself  as  history?  Why? 


140 


EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN   ITS   OWN   TERMS 


Biography 

SINCE  biography  can  be  thought  of 
as  simply  a  special  type  of  history, 
almost  everything  that  was  said  about 
the  latter  holds  true  for  the  former.  In 
most  respects  the  ends  and  the  means 
are  similar. 

To  sharpen  up  your  thinking,  how- 
ever, it  might  be  useful  before  tackling 
the  selection  given  here  to  recall  some 
of  the  most  common  purposes  of  biog- 
raphers. Here  is  a  tabulation  of  a  few 
of  them:  (1)  to  give  the  bare  facts  of 
the  subject's  life,  as  in  the  brief  accounts 
in  Who's  Who  in  America  and  the  Dic- 
tionary of  American  Biography;  (2)  to 
present  an  example  of  a  virtuous  and 
successful  life  for  the  edification,  par- 
ticularly, of  the  young;  (3)  to  pay 
tribute  to  a  personal  or  popular  hero; 
(4)  to  debunk  a  popular  hero;  (5)  to 


define  a  class,  like  Americans  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  by  describing  a  typ- 
ical example;  (6)  to  reinterpret  the  life 
of  a  man  about  whom  several  biogra- 
phies have  already  been  written;  (7) 
to  write  a  good  story  based  more  or  less 
on  the  facts  of  someone's  life.  With  one 
exception,  these  purposes  can  be  found 
at  the  root  of  autobiographies,  too:  It 
is  probably  seldom  that  a  man  sets  out 
to  debunk  his  own  reputation,  but  he 
might  well  wish  to  set  forth  the  facts, 
interpret  the  facts,  or  offer  himself  as  a 
splendid  example  of  what  all  men 
should  be. 

The  following  selection  from  Carl 
Sandburg's  long  biography  on  Abraham 
Lincoln  describes  the  details  of  Lin- 
coln's assassination.  It  gives  you  a  good 
opportunity  to  study  the  relation  be- 
tween means  and  ends,  and  to  evaluate 
a  piece  of  biography  for  its  efficiency. 


CARL    SANDBURG 


The  assassination  of  Lincoln 


THE  PLAY  PROCEEDS,  not  unpleasant,  often  stupid,  sprinkled  with  silly 
puns,  drab  and  aimless  dialogues,  forced  humor,  characters  neither 
truly  English  nor  truly  American  nor  fetching  as  caricatures.  The  story 
centers  around  the  Yankee  lighting  his  cigar  with  an  old  will,  burning  the 
document  to  ashes  and  thereby  throwing  a  fortune  of  $400,000  away  from 
himself  into  the  hands  of  an  English  cousin.  The  mediocre  comedy  is  some- 
what redeemed  by  the  way  the  players  are  doing  it.  The  audience  agrees 
it  is  not  bad.  The  applause  and  laughter  say  the  audience  is  having  a  good 
time.  «  I 

Mrs.  Lincoln  sits  close  to  her  husband,  at  one  moment  leaning  on  him 
fondly,  suddenly  realizing  they  are  not  alone,  saying  with  humor,  "What 
will  Miss  Harris  think  of  my  hanging  on  to  you  so?"  and  hearing  his:  "She 
won't  think  anything  about  it."  «  2 

From  Abraham  Lincoln:  The  War  'Years  by  Carl  Sandburg.  Copyright,  1939,  by  Har- 
court,  Brace  and  Company,  Inc.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Karcourt,  Brace  and  Com- 
pany, Inc. 


THE    ASSASSINATION    OF    LINCOLN 


141 


From  the  upholstered  rocking  armchair  in  which  Lincoln  sits  he  can  see 
only  the  persons  in  the  box  with  him,  the  players  on  the  stage,  and  any 
persons  offstage  on  the  left.  The  box  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  theatre  is 
empty.  With  the  box  wall  at  his  back  and  the  closely  woven  lace  curtains 
at  his  left  arm,  he  is  screened  from  the  audience  at  his  back  and  from  the 
musicians  in  the  orchestra  pit,  which  is  below  and  partly  behind  him.  « 3 

The  box  has  two  doors.  Sometimes  by  a  movable  cross  partition  it  is 
converted  into  two  boxes,  each  having  its  door.  The  door  forward  is  locked. 
For  this  evening  the  President's  party  has  the  roominess  and  convenience 
of  double  space,  extra  armchairs,  side  chairs,  a  small  sofa.  In  the  privacy 
achieved  he  is  in  sight  only  of  his  chosen  companions,  the  actors  he  has  come 
to  see  render  a  play,  and  the  few  people  who  may  be  offstage  to  the  left.  «  4 

This  privacy  however  has  a  flaw.  It  is  not  as  complete  as  it  seems.  A  few 
feet  behind  the  President  is  the  box  door,  the  only  entry  to  the  box  unless 
by  a  climb  from  the  stage.  In  this  door  is  a  small  hole,  bored  that  afternoon 
to  serve  as  a  peephole— from  the  outside.  Through  this  peephole  it  is  the 
intention  of  the  Outsider  who  made  it  with  a  gimlet  to  stand  and  watch  the 
President,  then  at  a  chosen  moment  to  enter  the  box.  This  door  opens  from 
the  box  on  a  narrow  hallway  that  leads  to  another  door  which  opens  on  the 
balcony  of  the  theatre.  « 5 

Through  these  two  doors  the  Outsider  must  pass  in  order  to  enter  the 
President's  box.  Close  to  the  door  connecting  with  the  balcony  two  inches 
of  plaster  have  been  cut  from  the  brick  wall  of  the  narrow  hallway.  The 
intention  of  the  Outsider  is  that  a  bar  placed  in  this  cut-away  wall  niche 
and  then  braced  against  the  panel  of  the  door  will  hold  that  door  against 
intruders,  will  serve  to  stop  anyone  from  interference  with  the  Outsider 
while  making  his  observations  of  the  President  through  the  gimleted  hole  in 
the  box  door.  «  6 

At  either  of  these  doors,  the  one  to  the  box  or  the  one  to  the  hallway,  it  is 
the  assigned  duty  and  expected  responsibility  of  John  F.  Parker  to  stand  or 
sit  constantly  and  without  fail.  A  Ward  Lamon  or  an  Eckert  on  this  duty 
would  probably  have  noticed  the  gimleted  hole,  the  newly  made  wall  niche, 
and  been  doubly  watchful.  If  Lincoln  believes  what  he  told  Crook  that 
afternoon,  that  he  trusted  the  men  assigned  to  guard  him,  then  as  he  sits  in 
the  upholstered  rocking  armchair  in  the  box  he  believes  that  John  F.  Parker 
in  steady  fidelity  is  just  outside  the  box  door,  in  plain  clothes  ready  with  the 
revolver  Pendel  at  the  White  House  had  told  him  to  be  sure  to  have  with 
him.  «7 

In  such  a  trust  Lincoln  is  mistaken.  Whatever  dim  fog  of  thought  or  duty 
may  move  John  F.  Parker  in  his  best  moments  is  not  operating  tonight.  His 
life  habit  of  never  letting  trouble  trouble  him  is  on  him  this  night;  his  motive 

142        EVALUATING    A   WORK   IN   ITS   OWN   TERMS 


is  to  have  no  motive.  He  has  always  got  along  somehow.  Why  care  about 
anything,  why  really  care?  He  can  always  find  good  liquor  and  bad  women. 
You  take  your  fun  as  you  find  it.  He  can  never  be  a  somebody,  so  he  will 
enjoy  himself  as  a  nobody— though  he  can't  imagine  how  perfect  a  cipher, 
how  completely  the  little  end  of  nothing,  one  John  F.  Parker  may  appear  as 
a  result  of  one  slack  easygoing  hour.  «  8 

"The  guard  .  .  .  acting  as  my  substitute,"  wrote  the  faithful  Crook  later, 
"took  his  position  at  the  rear  of  the  box,  close  to  an  entrance  leading  into  the 
box.  .  .  .  His  orders  were  to  stand  there,  fully  armed,  and  to  permit  no 
unauthorized  person  to  pass  into  the  box.  His  orders  were  to  stand  there  and 
protect  the  President  at  all  hazards.  From  the  spot  where  he  was  thus  sta- 
tioned, this  guard  could  not  see  the  stage  or  the  actors;  but  he  could  hear  the 
words  the  actors  spoke,  and  he  became  so  interested  in  them  that,  incredible 
as  it  may  seem,  he  quietly  deserted  his  post  of  duty,  and  walking  down  the 
dimly-lighted  side  aisle,  deliberately  took  a  seat."  «  9 

The  custom  was  for  a  chair  to  be  placed  in  the  narrow  hallway  for  the 
guard  to  sit  in.  The  doorkeeper  Buckingham  told  Crook  that  such  a  chair 
was  provided  this  evening  for  the  accommodation  of  the  guard.  "Whether 
Parker  occupied  it  at  all,  I  do  not  know,"  wrote  Crook.  "Mr.  Buckingham  is 
of  the  impression  that  he  did.  If  he  did,  he  left  it  almost  immediately,  for  he 
confessed  to  me  the  next  day  that  he  went  to  a  seat,  so  that  he  could  see  the 
play."  The  door  to  the  President's  box  is  shut.  It  is  not  kept  open  so  that  the 
box  occupants  can  see  the  guard  on  duty.  «  10 

Either  between  acts  or  at  some  time  when  the  play  was  not  lively  enough 
to  suit  him  or  because  of  an  urge  for  a  pony  of  whiskey  under  his  belt,  John  F. 
Parker  leaves  his  seat  in  the  balcony  and  goes  down  to  the  street  and  joins 
companions  in  a  little  whiff  of  liquor— this  on  the  basis  of  a  statement  of  the 
coachman  Burns,  who  declared  he  stayed  outside  on  the  street  with  his  car- 
riage and  horses,  except  for  one  interlude  when  "the  special  police  officer 
( meaning  John  F.  Parker )  and  the  footman  of  the  President  ( Forbes )  came 
up  to  him  and  asked  him  to  take  a  drink  with  them;  which  he  did."  «  1 1 

Thus  circumstance  favors  the  lurking  and  vigilant  Outsider  who  in  the 
afternoon  gimleted  a  hole  in  the  door  of  the  President's  box  and  cut  a  two- 
inch  niche  in  a  wall  to  brace  a  bar  against  a  door  panel  and  hold  it  against 
interference  while  he  should  operate.  «  1 2 

The  play  goes  on.  The  evening  and  the  drama  are  much  like  many  other 
evenings  when  the  acting  is  pleasant  enough,  the  play  mediocre  and  so-so, 
the  audience  having  no  thrills  of  great  performance  but  enjoying  itself.  The 
most  excited  man  in  the  house,  with  little  doubt,  is  the  orchestra  leader, 
Withers.  He  has  left  the  pit  and  gone  backstage,  where,  as  he  related,  "I 
was  giving  the  stage  manager  a  piece  of  my  mind.  I  had  written  a  song  for 

THE  ASSASSINATION   OF  LINCOLN        143 


Laura  Keene  to  sing.  When  she  left  it  out  I  was  mad.  We  had  no  cue,  and 
the  music  was  thrown  out  of  gear.  So  I  hurried  round  on  the  stage  on  my 
left  to  see  what  it  was  done  for."  «  13 

And  of  what  is  Abraham  Lincoln  thinking?  As  he  leans  back  in  this  easy 
rocking  chair,  where  does  he  roam  in  thought?  If  it  is  life  he  is  thinking 
about,  no  one  could  fathom  the  subtle  speculations  and  hazy  reveries  result- 
ing from  his  fifty-six  years  of  adventures  drab  and  dazzling  in  life.  Who  had 
gone  farther  on  so  little  to  begin  with?  Who  else  as  a  living  figure  of  re- 
publican government,  of  democracy,  in  practice,  as  a  symbol  touching  free- 
dom for  all  men— who  else  had  gone  farther  over  America,  over  the  world? 
If  it  is  death  he  is  thinking  about,  who  better  than  himself  might  interpret 
his  dream  that  he  lay  in  winding  sheets  on  a  catafalque  in  the  White  House 
and  people  were  wringing  their  hands  and  crying  "The  President  is  dead!" 
—who  could  make  clear  this  dream  better  than  himself?  Furthermore  if  it 
is  death  he  is  thinking  about,  has  he  not  philosophized  about  it  and  dreamed 
about  it  and  considered  himself  as  a  mark  and  a  target  until  no  one  is  better 
prepared  than  he  for  any  sudden  deed?  Has  he  not  a  thousand  times  said 
to  himself,  and  several  times  to  friends  and  intimates,  that  he  must  accom- 
modate himself  to  the  thought  of  sudden  death?  Has  he  not  wearied  of  the 
constructions  placed  on  his  secret  night  ride  through  Baltimore  to  escape  a 
plot  aimed  at  his  death?  Has  he  not  laughed  to  the  overhead  night  stars 
at  a  hole  shot  in  his  hat  by  a  hidden  marksman  he  never  mentioned  even 
to  his  boon  companion  Hill  Lamon?  And  who  can  say  but  that  Death  is  a 
friend,  and  who  else  should  be  more  a  familiar  of  Death  than  a  man  who 
has  been  the  central  figure  of  the  bloodiest  war  ever  known  to  the  Human 
Family— who  else  should  more  appropriately  and  decently  walk  with  Death? 
And  who  can  say  but  Death  is  a  friend  and  a  nurse  and  a  lover  and 
a  benefactor  bringing  peace  and  lasting  reconciliation?  The  play  tonight 
is  stupid.  Shakespeare  would  be  better.  "Duncan  is  in  his  grave  ...  he 
sleeps  well."  «  14 

Yes,  of  what  is  Abraham  Lincoln  thinking?  Draped  before  him  in  salute 
is  a  silk  flag  of  the  Union,  a  banner  of  the  same  design  as  the  one  at  Inde- 
pendence Hall  in  Philadelphia  in  February  of  '61  which  he  pulled  aloft 
saying,  "I  would  rather  be  assassinated  on  this  spot  than  surrender  it,"  say- 
ing the  flag  in  its  very  origins  "gave  promise  that  in  due  time  the  weights 
would  be  lifted  from  the  shoulders  of  all  men,  and  that  all  should  have  an 
equal  chance."  Possibly  his  mind  recurs  for  a  fleeting  instant  to  that  one  line 
in  his  letter  to  a  Boston  widow  woman:  "the  solemn  pride  that  must  be  yours 
to  have  laid  so  costly  a  sacrifice  upon  the  altar  of  freedom."  Or  a  phrase 
from  the  Gettysburg  speech:  "we  here  highly  resolve  that  these  dead  shall 
not  have  died  in  vain."  «  15 


144 


EVALUATING    A    WORK    IN    ITS    OWN    1 KHMS 


Out  in  a  main-floor  seat  enjoying  the  show  is  one  Julia  Adelaide  Shephard, 
who  wrote  a  letter  to  her  father  about  this  Good  Friday  evening  at  the 
theatre.  "Cousin  Julia  has  just  told  me,"  she  reported,  "that  the  President 
is  in  yonder  upper  right  hand  private  box  so  handsomely  decked  with  silken 
flags  festooned  over  a  picture  of  George  Washington.  The  young  and  lovely 
daughter  of  Senator  Harris  is  the  only  one  of  his  party  we  see  as  the  flags 
hide  the  rest.  But  we  know  Father  Abraham  is  there  like  a  Father  watching 
what  interests  his  children,  for  their  pleasure  rather  than  his  own.  It  had 
been  announced  in  the  papers  he  would  be  there.  How  sociable  it  seems 
like  one  family  sitting  around  their  parlor  fire.  Everyone  has  been  so  jubi- 
lant for  days  that  they  laugh  and  shout  at  every  clownish  witticism  such  is 
the  excited  state  of  the  public  mind.  One  of  the  actresses  whose  part  is  that 
of  a  very  delicate  young  lady  talks  about  wishing  to  avoid  the  draft  when 
her  lover  tells  her  not  to  be  alarmed  'for  there  is  to  be  no  more  draft*  at  which 
the  applause  is  loud  and  long.  The  American  cousin  has  just  been  making 
love  to  a  young  lady  who  says  she'll  never  marry  for  love  but  when  her 
mother  and  herself  find  out  that  he  has  lost  his  property  they  retreat  in 
disgust  at  the  left  hand  of  the  stage  while  the  American  cousin  goes  out  at 
the  right.  We  are  waiting  for  the  next  scene."  «  16 

And  the  next  scene?  «  1 7 

The  next  scene  is  to  crash  and  blare  as  one  of  the  wildest,  one  of  the 
most  inconceivably  fateful  and  chaotic,  that  ever  stunned  and  shocked  a 
world  that  heard  the  story.  «  1 8 

The  moment  of  high  fate  was  not  seen  by  the  theatre  audience.  Only  one 
man  saw  that  moment.  He  was  the  Outsider.  He  was  the  one  who  had 
waited  and  lurked  and  made  his  preparations,  planning  and  plotting  that 
he  should  be  the  single  and  lone  spectator  of  what  happened.  He  had  come 
through  the  outer  door  into  the  little  hallway,  fastened  the  strong  though 
slender  bar  into  the  two-inch  niche  in  the  brick  wall,  and  braced  it  against 
the  door  panel.  He  had  moved  softly  to  the  box  door  and  through  the  little 
hole  he  had  gimleted  that  afternoon  he  had  studied  the  box  occupants  and 
his  Human  Target  seated  in  an  upholstered  rocking  armchair.  Softly  he 
had  opened  the  door  and  stepped  toward  his  prey,  in  his  right  hand  a  one- 
shot  brass  derringer  pistol,  a  little  eight-ounce  vest-pocket  weapon  winged 
for  death,  in  his  left  hand  a  steel  dagger.  He  was  cool  and  precise  and  timed 
his  every  move.  He  raised  the  derringer,  lengthened  his  right  arm,  ran  his 
eye  along  the  barrel  in  a  line  with  the  head  of  his  victim  less  than  five  feet 
away— and  pulled  the  trigger.  «  19 

A  lead  ball  somewhat  less  than  a  half-inch  in  diameter  crashed  into  the 
left  side  of  the  head  of  the  Human  Target,  into  the  back  of  the  head,  in  a 
line  with  and  three  inches  from  the  left  ear.  "The  course  of  the  ball  was 

T1IK    ASSASSINATION    OF    LINCOLN         145 


obliquely  forward  toward  the  right  eye,  crossing  the  brain  in  an  obliqu 
manner  and  lodging  a  few  inches  behind  that  eye.  In  the  track  of  the  woun< 
were  found  fragments  of  bone,  which  had  been  driven  forward  by  th 
ball,  which  was  embedded  in  the  anterior  lobe  of  the  left  hemisphere  c 
the  brain."  «20 

For  Abraham  Lincoln  it  was  lights  out,  good  night,  farewell  and  a  Ion 
farewell  to  the  good  earth  and  its  trees,  its  enjoyable  companions,  and  th 
Union  of  States  and  the  world  Family  of  Man  he  had  loved.  He  was  nc 
dead  yet.  He  was  to  linger  in  dying.  But  the  living  man  could  never  agai 
speak  nor  see  nor  hear  nor  awaken  into  conscious  being.  «  2 1 

Near  the  prompt  desk  offstage  stands  W.  J.  Ferguson,  an  actor.  He  look 
in  the  direction  of  a  shot  he  hears,  and  sees  "Mr.  Lincoln  lean  back  in  hi 
rocking  chair,  his  head  coming  to  rest  against  the  wall  which  stood  betwee 
him  and  the  audience  .  .  .  well  inside  the  curtains"— no  struggle  or  mov 
"save  in  the  slight  backward  sway."  «  22 

Of  this  the  audience  in  their  one  thousand  seats  know  nothing.  «  23 

Major  Rathbone  leaps  from  his  chair.  Rushing  at  him  with  a  knife  is 
strange  human  creature,  terribly  alive,  a  lithe  wild  animal,  a  tiger  for  speec 
a  wildcat  of  a  man  bareheaded,  raven-haired— a  smooth  sinister  face  wit 
glaring  eyeballs.  He  wears  a  dark  sack  suit.  He  stabs  straight  at  the  hear 
of  Rathbone,  a  fast  and  ugly  lunge.  Rathbone  parries  it  with  his  uppe 
right  arm,  which  gets  a  deep  slash  of  the  dagger.  Rathbone  is  staggerec 
reels  back.  The  tigerish  stranger  mounts  the  box  railing.  Rathbone  recover! 
leaps  again  for  the  stranger,  who  feels  the  hand  of  Rathbone  holding  hir 
back,  slashes  again  at  Rathbone,  then  leaps  for  the  stage.  « 24 

This  is  the  moment  the  audience  wonders  whether  something  unusua 
is  happening— or  is  it  part  of  the  play?  «  25 

From  the  box  railing  the  Strange  Man  leaps  for  the  stage,  perhaps  a  ten 
foot  fall.  His  leap  is  slightly  interrupted.  On  this  slight  interruption  th 
Strange  Man  in  his  fine  calculations  had  not  figured.  The  draped  Uiiio 
flag  of  silk  reaches  out  and  tangles  itself  in  a  spur  of  one  riding-boot,  throw 
ing  him  out  of  control.  He  falls  to  the  stage  landing  on  his  left  leg,  breakin 
the  shinbone  a  little  above  the  instep.  «  26 

Of  what  he  has  done  the  audience  as  yet  knows  nothing.  They  wonde 
what  this  swift,  raven -haired,  wild-eyed  Strange  Man  portends.  They  se 
him  rush  across  the  stage,  three  feet  to  a  stride,  and  vanish.  Some  hav 
heard  Rathbone's  cry  "Stop  that  manl"  Many  have  seen  a  man  leap  fron 
a  front  seat  up  on  the  stage  and  chase  after  the  weird  Stranger,  cryin; 
"Stop  that  man!"  «  27 

It  is  a  peculiar  night,  an  odd  evening,  a  little  weird,  says  the  audience  t 
itself.  The  action  is  fast.  It  is  less  than  half  a  minute  since  the  Strange  Mai 
mounted  the  box  railing,  made  the  stage,  and  strode  off.  «  28 


Offstage  between  Laura  Keene  and  W.  J.  Ferguson  he  dashes  at  break- 
neck speed,  out  of  an  entrance,  forty  feet  to  a  little  door  opening  on  an  alley. 
There  stands  a  fast  bay  horse,  a  slow-witted  chore  boy  nicknamed  John 
Peanuts  holding  the  reins.  He  kicks  the  boy,  mounts  the  mare;  hoofs  on  the 
cobblestones  are  heard  but  a  few  moments.  In  all  it  is  maybe  sixty  or  seventy 
seconds  since  he  loosed  the  one  shot  of  his  eight-ounce  brass  derringer.  «  29 

Whether  the  Strange  Man  now  riding  away  on  a  fast  bay  horse  has  paused 
a  moment  on  the  stage  and  shouted  a  dramatic  line  of  speech,  there  was 
disagreement  afterward.  Some  said  he  ran  off  as  though  every  second  of 
time  counted  and  his  one  purpose  was  to  escape.  Others  said  he  faced  the 
audience  a  moment,  brandished  a  dagger  still  bloody  from  slashing  Rath- 
bone,  and  shouted  the  State  motto  of  Virginia,  the  slogan  of  Brutus  as  he 
drove  the  assassin's  knife  into  imperial  Caesar:  "Sic  semper  tyrannis"— "Thus 
be  it  ever  to  tyrants."  Miss  Shephard  and  others  believed  they  heard  him 
shriek  as  he  brandished  the  dagger:  "The  South  is  avenged!"  Others:  "The 
South  shall  be  free!"  "Revenge!"  "Freedom!"  « 30 

Some  said  the  lights  went  out  in  the  theatre,  others  adding  the  detail  that 
the  assassin  had  stabbed  the  gasman  and  pulled  the  lever,  throwing  the 
house  into  darkness.  Others  a  thousand  miles  from  the  theatre  said  they 
saw  the  moon  come  out  from  behind  clouds  blood-red.  It  is  a  night  of  many 
eyewitnesses,  shaken  and  moaning  eyewitnesses.  «  3 1 

The  audience  is  up  and  out  of  its  one  thousand  seats,  standing,  moving. 
Panic  is  in  the  air,  fear  of  what  may  happen  next.  Many  merely  stand  up 
from  their  seats,  fixed  and  motionless,  waiting  to  hear  what  has  happened, 
waiting  to  see  what  further  is  to  happen.  The  question  is  spoken  quietly  or 
is  murmured  anxiously— "What  is  it?  What  has  happened?"  The  question 
is  bawled  with  anger,  is  yelled  with  anguish— "For  God's  sake,  what  is  it? 
What  has  happened?"  « 32 

A  woman's  scream  pierces  the  air.  Some  say  afterward  it  was  Mrs.  Lincoln. 
The  scream  carries  a  shock  and  a  creeping  shiver  to  many  hearing  it.  "He 
has  shot  the  President!"  Miss  Shephard  looks  from  the  main  floor  toward 
the  box  and  sees  "Miss  Harris  wringing  her  hands  and  calling  for  water/' 
There  are  meanings .  "No,  for  God's  sake,  it  can't  be  true— no!  no!  for 
God's  sake!"  « 33 

Men  are  swarming  up  to  the  edge  of  the  stage,  over  the  gas-jet  footlights 
onto  the  stage.  The  aisles  fill  with  people  not  sure  where  to  go;  to  leave 
would  be  safe,  but  they  want  to  know  what  has  happened,  what  else  they 
may  see  this  wild  night.  Men  are  asking  whether  some  God-damned  fool 
has  for  sure  tried  to  shoot  the  President.  Others  take  it  as  true.  The  man 
who  ran  across  the  stage  did  it.  There  are  cries:  "Kill  him!  Shoot  him!"  On 
the  stage  now  are  policemen,  army  officers,  soldiers,  besides  actors  and 
actresses  in  make-up  and  costume.  Cries  for  "Waterl  water!"  Cries  for  "A 

THE    ASSASSINATION    OF    LINCOLN         147 


surgeon!  a  surgeon!"  Someone  brings  water.  It  is  passed  up  to  the  box.  « 34 

An  army  surgeon  climbs  to  the  stage  and  is  lifted  up  and  clambers  over 
the  railing  into  the  box.  Some  two  hundred  soldiers  arrive  to  clear  the 
theatre.  The  wailing  and  the  crazy  chaos  let  down  in  the  emptying  playhouse 
—and  flare  up  again  in  the  street  outside,  where  some  man  is  accused  of  say- 
ing he  is  glad  it  happened,  a  sudden  little  mob  dragging  him  to  a  lamppost 
with  a  ready  rope  to  hang  him  when  six  policemen  with  clubs  and  drawn  re- 
volvers manage  to  get  him  away  and  put  him  in  jail  for  safekeeping.  « 35 

Mrs.  Lincoln  in  the  box  has  turned  from  the  railing,  has  turned  from  where 
she  saw  the  wild-eyed  raven-haired  man  vanish  off  the  stage,  sees  her  hus- 
band seated  in  the  rocking  chair,  his  head  slumped  forward.  Never  before 
has  she  seen  her  husband  so  completely  helpless,  so  strangely  not  himself. 
With  little  moaning  cries  she  springs  toward  him  and  with  her  hands  keeps 
him  from  tumbling  to  the  floor.  Major  Rathbone  has  shouted  for  a  surgeon, 
has  run  out  of  the  box  into  the  narrow  hallway,  and  with  one  arm  bleeding 
and  burning  with  pain  he  fumbles  to  unfasten  the  bar  between  wall  and 
door  panel.  An  usher  from  the  outside  tries  to  help  him.  They  get  the  bar 
loose.  Back  of  the  usher  is  a  jam  of  people.  He  holds  them  back,  allowing 
only  one  man  to  enter.  « 36 

This  is  a  young-looking  man,  twenty-three  years  old,  with  mustache  and 
sideburns.  Charles  A.  Leale,  assistant  surgeon,  United  States  Volunteers, 
who  had  left  the  army  General  Hospital  at  Armory  Square,  where  he  was 
in  charge  of  the  wounded  commissioned  officers'  ward,  saying  he  would  be 
gone  only  a  short  time.  Rathbone  shows  Dr.  Leale  his  bleeding  arm,  "be- 
seeching me  to  attend  to  his  wound,"  related  Leale  later.  "I  placed  my  hand 
under  his  chin,  looking  into  his  eyes  an  almost  instantaneous  glance  re- 
vealed the  fact  that  he  was  in  no  immediate  danger,  and  in  response  to 
appeals  from  Mrs.  Lincoln  and  Miss  Harris,  who  were  standing  by  the  high- 
backed  armchair  in  which  President  Lincoln  sat,  I  went  immediately  to  their 
assistance,  saying  I  was  a  United  States  army  surgeon."  « 37 

Leale  holds  Mrs.  Lincoln's  outstretched  hand  while  she  cries  piteously: 
"Oh,  Doctor!  Is  he  dead?  Can  he  recover?  Will  you  take  charge  of  him? 
Do  what  you  can  for  him.  Oh,  my  dear  husband!  my  dear  husband!"  He 
soothes  her  a  little,  telling  her  he  will  do  all  that  can  possibly  be  done.  « 38 

The  body  in  the  chair  at  first  scrutiny  seems  to  be  that  of  a  dead  man,  eyes 
closed,  no  certainty  it  is  breathing.  Dr.  Leale  with  help  from  others  lifts  the 
body  from  the  chair  and  moves  it  to  a  lying  position  on  the  floor.  He  holds 
the  head  and  shoulders  while  doing  this,  his  hand  meeting  a  clot  of  blood 
near  the  left  shoulder.  Dr.  Leale  recalls  seeing  a  dagger  flashed  by  the 
assassin  on  the  stage  and  the  knife  wound  of  Rathbone,  and  now  supposes 
the  President  has  a  stab  wound.  He  has  the  coat  and  shirt  slit  open,  thinking 

148        EVALUATING   A   WORK    IN    ITS   OWN    TKHMS 


to  check  perhaps  a  hemorrhage.  He  finds  no  wounds.  He  lifts  the  eyelids 
and  sees  evidence  of  a  brain  injury.  He  rapidly  passes  the  separated  fingers 
of  both  hands  through  the  blood-matted  hair  of  the  head,  finding  a  wound 
and  removing  a  clot  of  blood,  which  relieves  pressure  on  the  brain  and  brings 
shallow  breathing  and  a  weak  pulse.  "The  assassin,"  Leale  commented  later, 
".  .  .  had  evidently  planned  to  shoot  to  produce  instant  death,  as  the  wound 
he  made  was  situated  within  two  inches  of  the  physiological  point  of  selec- 
tion, when  instant  death  is  desired."  «  39 

Dr.  Leale  bends  over,  puts  a  knee  at  each  side  of  the  body,  and  tries  to 
start  the  breathing  apparatus,  attempts  to  stimulate  respiration  by  putting 
his  two  fingers  into  the  throat  and  pressing  down  and  out  on  the  base  of 
the  tongue  to  free  the  larynx  of  secretion.  Dr.  Charles  Sabin  Taft,  the  army 
surgeon  lifted  from  the  stage  into  the  box,  now  arrives.  Another  physician, 
Dr.  Albert  F.  A.  King,  arrives.  Leale  asks  them  each  to  manipulate  an  arm 
while  he  presses  upward  on  the  diaphragm  and  elsewhere  to  stimulate  heart 
action.  The  body  responds  with  an  improvement  in  the  pulse  and  the  irregu- 
lar breathing.  «40 

Dr.  Leale  is  sure,  however,  that  with  the  shock  and  prostration  the  body 
has  undergone,  more  must  now  be  done  to  keep  life  going.  And  as  he  told 
it  later:  "I  leaned  forcibly  forward  directly  over  his  body,  thorax  to  thorax, 
face  to  face,  and  several  times  drew  in  a  long  breath,  then  forcibly  breathed 
directly  into  his  mouth  and  nostrils,  which  expanded  his  lungs  and  improved 
his  respirations.  After  waiting  a  moment  I  placed  my  ear  over  his  thorax 
and  found  the  action  of  the  heart  improving.  I  arose  to  the  erect  kneeling 
posture,  then  watched  for  a  short  time  and  saw  that  the  President  could 
continue  independent  breathing  and  that  instant  death  would  not  occur. 
I  then  pronounced  my  diagnosis  and  prognosis:  'His  wound  is  mortal;  it  is 
impossible  for  him  to  recover/"  «4I 


Question**  '          a   sources  °f  information  must 

^  Sandburg  have  used  in  collecting  his 

WHAT  is  Sandburg's  specific  purpose  facts  for  this  selection?    Do  you  find 

in  this  section  of  his  biography?  details  that  must  be  pure  inference  or 

Is  this  a  purely  objective  recital  of  the  guess  work  on  Sandburg's  part?  If  so, 

facts,  or  is  an  interpretation  of  the  facts  do  you  find  them  annoying?  How  does 

apparent?    In  answering  this,  consider  the  kind  of  details   given  here  differ 

whether   or   not   Sandburg   establishes  from  the  kind  given  in  the  Morison  and 

any    attitude    toward    Lincoln,    John  Commager  selection   (p.  135)?    What 

Wilkes  Booth,  and  John  F.  Parker.  reasons  can  you  give  for  this  difference? 

2.    Describe  the  reading  audience  for  Compare   the    details    given   here   for 

whom  you  think  this  biography  is  in-  quantity  and  quality  with  the  details  in 

tended.  some  other  biography  you  have  read. 

THE   ASSASSINATION   OF   LINCOLN        149 


4.  This   is   obviously   the  narrative 
type  biography.  What  are  the  divisions 
within  the  narrative?   What  is  the  cli- 
max?  How  does  Sandburg  build  up  to 
a  climax?    Do  you  think  a  historian  is 
justified  in  creating  a  climax?    Explain 
your  answer. 

5.  How  do  the  sentences  and  words 
here  differ  from  those  in  the  M orison 
and  Commager  selection?  Be  as  definite 
as  you  can.   Can  you  account  for  some 
of  these  differences  by  noticing  the  dif- 
ferences in  the  natures  of  biography  and 
history?    Sandburg's  style,  whether  in 
poetry  or  prose,  is  always  interesting. 
What  is  gained,  for  example,  by  writing 
in  the  present  tense?  What  results  from 
terms  like  "the  Outsider,"  "the  Human 


Target/*  and  "the  Strange  Man'?  Does 
any  paragraph  approach  poetry  in  its 
phrasing  and  effect? 

6.  In  retrospect,  do  you  find  that  the 
content,  organization,  and  style  are  ap- 
propriate to  the  purpose  you  described 
in  your  answer  to  question  1  and  the 
audience  you  defined  in  your  answer  to 
question  2? 

7.  How  would  this  selection  have  to 
be  changed  if  Sandburg  had  desired 
primarily   to   explain   Booth's   motives? 
If  he  had  wanted  to  show  that  Lincoln's 
death  was  a  good  thing?  If  he  had  been 
writing    for    grade-school    youngsters? 
For  professors  of  history? 

8.  What  is  your  final  evaluation  of 
this  biography  as  biography? 


Criticism 

THE  word  critic  comes  from  the 
Greek  word  krinein,  meaning  "to 
judge."  The  chief  purpose  of  the  critic, 
if  we  may  follow  this  etymological  lead, 
is  to  make  judgments.  But  judgments 
of  what?  The  answer  is,  of  almost  any- 
thing. It  is  your  first  function  as  a 
reader  to  discover  precisely  what  the 
critic  is  judging,  and  this  may  not  be  so 
simple  as  it  seems.  For  example,  in  a 
long  critical  essay  like  Stephen  Pepper's 
The  Basis  of  Criticism  in  the  Arts,  you 
will  find  the  author  interested  primarily 
in  evaluating  methods  of  literary  judg- 
ments; in  a  typical  newspaper  review 
you  will  find  the  writer  attempting  to 
evaluate  a  single  work;  in  another  criti- 
cal work  you  may  find  the  critic  evalu- 
ating not  the  work  of  the  author  but 
the  purpose  of  the  author  in  writing  the 
work;  in  still  another,  you  may  find  the 


critic  evaluating  the  achievements  of  a 
whole  era.  And  so  on.  It  seems  unnec- 
essary to  labor  so  obvious  a  point,  and 
yet  many  readers  go  awry  in  reading 
critical  essays  simply  because  they  never 
come  to  realize  precisely  enough  what 
the  critic  is  trying  to  evaluate. 

Knowing  that  criticism  is  judgment- 
making  and  having  determined  what  the 
critic  is  trying  to  evaluate,  you  are  now 
ready  to  determine  his  specific  purpose. 
In  doing  this,  you  might  well  keep  in 
mind  that  a  criticism  is  really  an  argu- 
ment for  a  proposition  of  fact.  Without 
too  much  thought,  you  can  understand 
why  this  should  be.  Resting  ultimately 
on  our  individual  tastes,  critical  judg- 
ments vary  widely  and  are,  therefore, 
controversial.  The  successful  critic  is 
the  one  who  can  assemble  evidence  and 
present  it  in  such  a  fashion  as  to  con- 
vince other  thoughtful  readers  that  his 
judgments  (propositions)  are  sound  and 


150 


EVALUATING  A  WORK  IN  ITS  OWN  TBBMS 


worth  holding.  In  stating  the  critic's 
specific  purpose,  therefore,  you  will  find 
it  useful  to  put  the  statement  of  it  in 
the  form  of  a  proposition.  Don't  be 
content  with  some  vague  statement  to 
the  effect  that  the  critic's  purpose  is  to 
evaluate  The  Scarlet  Letter;  state  his 
precise  proposition  (e.g.,  The  Scarlet 
Letter,  despite  a  weak  ending  and  cer- 
tain flaws  in  style,  continues  to  be  a 
great  novel). 

The  clues  to  the  nature  of  the  critic's 
audience  are  substantially  the  same  as 
those  you  have  found  in  reading  other 
types  of  factual  discourse.  Especially 
important  is  the  place  where  the  critical 
work  appears.  The  Chicago  Sun-Times, 
for  instance,  has  one  reading  audience; 
the  Virginia  Quarterly  Review  has  quite 
another. 

As  usual,  the  main  part  of  your  task  as 
the  critical  reader  is  to  decide  how  well 
the  means  have  been  adapted  to  the  au- 
thor's purposes  and  his  audience.  Only 
one  point  needs  to  be  added  here  to 
what  has  been  said  in  the  previous  dis- 
cussion of  this  problem.  This  point  deals 
with  content.  Criticism  is  almost  invari- 
ably a  matter  of  selecting  and  applying 
standards  to  the  thing  being  criticized. 
Even  when  you  say  a  cherry  pie  is  good, 
you  are  selecting  and  employing  stand- 
ards which  you  think  are  applicable  to 


cherry  pies,  such  standards  as  tartness, 
juiciness,  and  the  like.  These  standards 
are  really  part  of  what  you  have  to  say, 
part  of  the  content  of  your  statement. 
Thus  you  cannot  say  that  you  know 
what  is  in  a  critical  discourse  until  you 
are  able  to  state  what  the  author's  stand- 
ards of  excellence  are.  This  may  not 
always  be  easy  to  do.  Especially  in 
short  reviews,  and  even  in  some  long 
treatises,  the  author  is  unlikely  to  make 
his  standards  explicit.  Frequently,  there- 
fore, you  must  push  beneath  the  words 
themselves  to  see  what  the  author  is  as- 
suming about  the  nature  of  good  books, 
good  plays,  good  gasoline  stoves,  or 
whatever  the  class  is  to  which  the  spe- 
cific object  belongs.  In  short,  you  cannot 
evaluate  the  efficiency  of  a  critic  in  mak- 
ing a  critical  measurement  until  you 
know  what  measuring  sticks  he  is  using. 
The  following  essay  by  Edmund  Wil- 
son falls  in  type  between  the  newspaper 
review  of  a  particular  work  and  a  book 
treating  an  author's  total  artistic  accom- 
plishment. It  deals  with  more  than  one 
work;  yet  its  purpose  is  limited  and 
clearly  discernible.  It  was  published 
first  in  the  New  Republic  and  then  ap- 
peared as  part  of  a  collection  of  essayc 
entitled  The  Boys  in  the  Back  Room. 
Your  problem  is  to  see  how  well  Mr. 
Wilson  does  what  he  sets  out  to  do. 


EDMUND 


WILSON  John  Steinbeck 


JOHN  STEINBECK  is  also  a  native  Californian,  and  he  has  occupied  himself 
more  with  the  life  of  the  state  than  any  of  these  other  writers.   His  ex- 
ploration in  his  novels  of  the  region  of  the  Salinas  Valley  has  been  more 
thoroughgoing  and  tenacious  than  anything  else  of  the  kind  in  our  recent 

From  The  Boys  in  the  Back  Room  by  Edmund  Wilson,  1941.  Reprinted  by  permission 
of  The  Colt  Press. 


JOHN    STEINBECK        151 


fiction,  with  the  exception  of  William  Faulkner's  concentration  on  the  State 
of  Mississippi.  «  I 

And  what  has  Mr.  Steinbeck  found  in  this  country  he  knows  so  well?  I 
believe  that  his  virtuosity  in  a  purely  technical  way  has  tended  to  obscure 
his  themes.  He  has  published  eight  volumes  of  fiction,  which  represent  a 
great  variety  of  forms  and  which  have  therefore  seemed  to  people  to  be 
written  from  a  variety  of  points  of  view.  Tortilla  Flat  was  a  comic  idyl,  with 
the  simplification  almost  of  a  folk  tale;  In  Dubious  Battle  was  a  strike  novel, 
centering  around  Communist  organizers  and  following  a  fairly  conventional 
pattern;  Of  Mice  and  Men  was  a  compact  little  drama,  contrived  with  almost 
too  much  cleverness,  and  a  parable  which  criticized  humanity  from  a  non- 
political  point  of  view;  The  Long  Valley  was  a  series  of  short  stories,  dealing 
mostly  with  animals,  in  which  poetic  symbols  were  presented  in  realistic 
settings  and  built  up  with  concrete  detail;  The  Grapes  of  Wrath  was  a  propa- 
ganda novel,  full  of  preachments  and  sociological  interludes,  and  developed 
on  an  epic  scale.  Thus  attention  has  been  diverted  from  the  content  of 
Mr.  Steinbeck's  work  by  the  fact  that  whenever  he  appears,  he  seems  to 
put  on  a  different  kind  of  show.  He  is  such  an  accomplished  performer  that 
he  has  been  able  to  hold  people's  interest  by  the  story  he  is  telling  at  the 
moment  without  their  inquiring  what  is  behind  it.  «  2 

Yet  there  is  in  Mr.  Steinbeck's  fiction  a  substratum  which  remains  con- 
stant and  which  gives  it  a  certain  basic  seriousness  that  that  of  the  mere 
performer  does  not  have.  What  is  constant  in  Mr.  Steinbeck  is  his  preoc- 
cupation with  biology.  He  is  a  biologist  in  the  literal  sense  that  he  interests 
himself  in  biological  research.  The  biological  laboratory  in  the  short  story 
called  The  Snake  is  obviously  something  which  he  knows  at  first  hand  and 
for  which  he  has  a  strong  special  feeling;  and  it  is  one  of  the  peculiarities 
of  his  vocabulary  that  it  runs  to  biological  terms.  But  the  laboratory  de- 
scribed in  The  Snake,  the  tight  little  building  over  the  water,  where  the 
scientist  feeds  white  rats  to  rattlesnakes  and  fertilizes  starfish  ova,  is  also 
one  of  the  key  images  of  his  fiction.  It  is  the  symbol  of  his  tendency  in  his 
stories  to  present  life  in  animal  terms.  « 3 

Mr.  Steinbeck  almost  always  in  his  fiction  is  dealing  either  with  the  lower 
animals  or  with  human  beings  so  rudimentary  that  they  are  almost  on  the 
animal  level;  and  the  close  relationship  of  the  people  with  the  animals 
equals  even  the  zoophilia  of  D.  H.  Lawrence  and  David  Garnett.  The  idiot 
in  The  Pastures  of  Heaven,  who  is  called  Little  Frog  and  Coyote,  shows  his 
kinship  with  the  animal  world  by  continually  drawing  birds  and  beasts.  In 
Tortilla  Flat,  there  is  the  Pirate,  who  lives  in  a  kennel  with  his  dogs  and 
has  practically  forgotten  human  companionship.  In  In  Dubious  Battle,  there 
is  another  character  whose  personality  is  confused  with  that  of  his  dogs. 


152 


EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN    ITS    OWN   TERMS 


In  The  Grapes  of  Wrath,  the  journey  of  the  Joads  is  figured  at  the  beginning 
by  the  progress  of  a  turtle,  and  is  accompanied  and  parodied  all  the  way 
by  animals,  insects  and  birds.  When  the  expropriated  sharecroppers  are 
compelled  to  abandon  their  farm  in  Oklahoma,  we  get  an  extended  picture 
of  the  invasion  of  the  house  by  the  bats,  the  weasels,  the  owls,  the  mice, 
and  the  pet  cats  that  have  gone  back  to  the  wild.  Lennie  in  Of  Mice  and 
Men  likes  to  cany  around  pet  animals,  toward  which  as  well  as  toward 
human  beings  he  has  murderous  animal  instincts.  The  stories  in  The  Long 
Valley  are  almost  entirely  about  plants  and  animals;  and  Mr.  Steinbeck  does 
not  have  the  effect,  as  Lawrence  or  Kipling  does,  of  romantically  raising  the 
animals  to  the  stature  of  human  beings,  but  rather  of  assimilating  the  human 
beings  to  animals.  The  Chrysanthemums,  The  White  Quail  and  The  Snake 
deal  with  women  who  identify  themselves  with,  respectively,  chrysanthe- 
mums, a  white  quail  and  a  snake.  In  Flight,  a  young  Mexican  boy,  who  has 
killed  a  man  and  run  away  into  the  mountains,  is  finally  reduced  to  a  state 
so  close  to  that  of  the  beasts  that  he  is  taken  by  a  mountain  lion  for  one  of 
themselves;  and  in  the  fantasy  Saint  Katy  the  Virgin,  where  a  bad  pig  is 
made  to  repent  and  become  a  saint,  the  result  is  not  to  dignify  the  animal 
as  the  Little  Floivers  of  Saint  Francis  does  with  the  wolf  of  Agubbio,  for  ex- 
ample, but  to  reduce  human  religion  to  absurdity.  «  4 

Nor  does  Steinbeck  love  his  animals  as  Lawrence  does.  The  peculiar  point 
of  view  is  well  explained  in  connection  with  Thomas  Wayne  in  To  a  God 
Unknown:  "He  was  not  kind  to  animals;  at  least  no  kinder  than  they  were 
to  each  other,  but  he  must  have  acted  with  a  consistency  beasts  could  under- 
stand, for  all  creatures  trusted  him.  .  .  .  Thomas  liked  animals  and  under- 
stood them,  and  he  killed  them  with  no  more  feeling  than  they  had  about 
killing  each  other.  He  was  too  much  an  animal  himself  to  be  sentimental." 
And  Steinbeck  does  not  even  dwell  much,  as  Lawrence  does  again,  on  the 
beauty  of  his  animals  in  their  kinds.  It  is  what  they  do,  not  what  they  look 
like,  that  interests  him.  «  5 

The  chief  subject  of  Mr.  Steinbeck's  fiction  has  been  thus  not  those  aspects 
of  humanity  in  which  it  is  most  thoughtful,  imaginative,  constructive,  nor 
even  those  aspects  of  animals  that  seem  most  attractive  to  humans,  but  rather 
the  processes  of  life  itself.  In  the  natural  course  of  nature,  living  organisms 
are  continually  being  destroyed,  and  among  the  principal  things  that  destroy 
them  are  the  predatory  appetite  and  the  competitive  instinct  that  are  neces- 
sary for  the  very  survival  of  eating  and  breeding  creatures.  This  impulse  of 
the  killer  has  been  preserved  in  a  simpleton  like  Lennie  in  a  form  in  which 
it  is  almost  innocent;  and  yet  Lennie  has  learned  from  his  more  highly  de- 
veloped friend  that  to  yield  to  it  is  to  do  something  "bad."  In  his  struggle 
against  the  instinct,  he  loses.  Is  Lennie  bad  or  good?  He  is  betrayed  as. 

JOHN    STKINBECK         153 


Mr.  Steinbeck  implies,  all  our  human  intentions  are:  by  the  uncertainties 
of  our  animal  nature.  «  6 

And  it  is  only,  as  a  rule,  on  this  primitive  level  that  Mr.  Steinbeck  deals 
with  moral  questions:  the  virtues  like  the  crimes  for  Mr.  Steinbeck  are  still 
a  part  of  these  planless  and  almost  aimless,  of  these  almost  unconscious, 
processes  of  life.  The  preacher  in  The  Grapes  of  Wrath  is  disillusioned 
about  the  human  moralities,  and  his  sermon  at  the  grave  of  Grandpa  Joad, 
so  lecherous  and  mean  during  his  lifetime,  evidently  gives  expression  to 
Mr.  Steinbeck's  point  of  view:  "This  here  ol'  man  jus'  lived  a  life  and  jus' 
died  out  of  it.  I  don't  know  whether  he  was  good  or  bad,  but  that  don't 
matter  much.  He  was  alive,  an'  that's  what  matters.  An'  now  he's  dead, 
an'  that  don't  matter.  Heard  a  fella  tell  a  poem  one  time,  an'  he  says  'All 
that  lives  is  holy/  «  7 

The  subject  of  The  Grapes  of  Wrath,  which  is  supposed  to  deal  with 
human  society,  is  the  same  as  that  of  The  Red  Pony,  which  is  supposed  to 
deal  with  horses:  loyalty  to  life  itself.  The  men  who  feel  the  responsibility 
for  having  let  the  red  pony  die  must  retrieve  themselves  by  sacrificing  the 
mare  in  order  to  bring  a  new  pony  into  life.  And  so  Rose  of  Sharon  Joad, 
with  her  undernourished  baby  born  dead,  must  offer  her  milk,  in  the  deso- 
late barn  which  is  all  she  has  left  for  a  shelter,  to  another  wretched  victim 
of  famine  and  flood,  on  the  point  of  death  from  starvation.  To  what  good 
that  ponies  and  Okies  should  continue  to  live  ori  the  earth?  "And  I  wouldn' 
pray  for  a  oF  fella  that's  dead,"  the  preacher  goes  on  to  say.  "He's  awright. 
He  got  a  job  to  do,  but  it's  all  laid  out  for  'im  an'  there's  on'y  one  way  to 
do  it.  But  us,  we  got  a  job  to  do,  and  they's  a  thousan'  ways,  an'  we  don't 
know  which  one  to  take.  An'  if  I  was  to  pray,  it'd  be  for  the  folks  that  don't 
know  which  way  to  turn."  «  8 

This  preacher  who  has  lost  his  religion  does  find  a  way  to  turn:  he  be- 
comes a  labor  agitator;  and  this  theme  has  already  been  dealt  with  more 
fully  in  the  earlier  novel,  In  Dubious  Battle.  But  what  differentiates  Mr. 
Steinbeck's  picture  of  a  labor  movement  with  radical  leadership  from  most 
books  on  such  subjects  of  its  period  is  again  the  biological  point  of  view. 
The  strike  leaders,  here  as  in  other  novels,  are  Communists,  but  the  book  is 
not  really  based  on  the  formulas  of  Communist  ideology.  The  kind  of  char- 
acter produced  by  the  Communist  movement  and  the  Communist  strategy 
in  strikes  (of  the  Communism  of  the  day  before  yesterday)  are  described 
by  Mr.  Steinbeck,  and  they  are  described  with  a  certain  amount  of  admira- 
tion; yet  the  party  member  of  In  Dubious  Battle  does  not  talk  like  a  Marxist 
of  even  the  Stalinist  revision.  The  principled  cruelty  of  these  revolution- 
ists, though  in  their  struggle  they  must  immolate  themselves,  is  not  palliated 
any  more  than  the  cruelty  of  the  half-witted  Lennie;  and  we  are  made  to 


154 


EVALUATING   A    WORK   IN   ITS   OWN   TERMS 


feel  throughout  that  we  are  witnessing  examples  of  human  behavior  from 
which  the  only  conclusion  that  the  author  seems  confident  in  drawing  is  that 
this  is  how  life  in  our  age  behaves.  There  is  developed  in  the  course  of  the 
book— especially  by  a  fellow-traveler  doctor  who  seems  to  come  closer  than 
the  Communist  to  expressing  Mr.  Steinbeck's  own  ideas—a  whole  philosophy 
of  "group-man"  as  an  "animal."  «  9 

"It  might  be  like  this,  Mac:  When  group-man  wants  to  move,  he  makes 
a  standard.  *God  wills  that  we  recapture  the  Holy  Land';  or  he  says  We 
fight  to  make  the  world  safe  for  democracy';  or  he  says,  'We  will  wipe  out 
social  injustice  with  communism.'  But  the  group  doesn't  care  about  the  Holy 
Land,  or  Democracy,  or  Communism.  Maybe  the  group  simply  wants  to 
move,  to  fight,  and  uses  these  words  simply  to  reassure  the  brains  of  indi- 
vidual men.  .  .  ."  «  10 

"How,"  asks  Mac,  "do  you  account  for  people  like  me,  directing  things, 
moving  things?  That  puts  your  group-man  out."  «  1 1 

"You  might  be  an  effect  as  well  as  a  cause,  Mac.  You  might  be  an  ex- 
pression of  group-man,  a  cell  endowed  with  a  special  function,  like  an 
eye  cell,  drawing  your  force  from  group-man,  and  at  the  same  time  direct- 
ing him,  like  an  eye.  Your  eye  both  takes  orders  from  and  gives  orders  to 
your  brain."  «  1 2 

"This  isn't  practical,"  objects  Mac.  "What's  all  this  kind  of  talk  got  to  do 
with  hungry  men,  with  lay-offs  and  unemployment?"  «  13 

"It  might  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  them.  It  isn't  a  very  long  time 
since  tetanus  and  lockjaw  were  not  connected.  There  are  still  primitives  in 
the  world  who  don't  know  children  are  the  result  of  intercourse.  Yes,  it 
might  be  worth  while  to  know  more  about  group-man,  to  know  his  nature, 
his  ends,  his  desires.  They're  not  the  same  as  ours.  The  pleasure  we  get  in 
scratching  an  itch  causes  death  to  a  great  number  of  cells.  Maybe  group- 
man  gets  pleasure  when  individual  men  are  wiped  out  in  a  way."  «  14 

Later,  when  the  mob  of  striking  fruit-pickers  begins  to  get  out  of  hand, 
the  Communists  themselves  begin  to  think  of  them  in  these  infra-human 
terms:  «  15 

"They're  down  there  now.  God,  Mac,  you  ought  to  of  seen  them.  It  was 
like  all  of  them  disappeared,  and  it  was  just  one  big  animal,  going  down 
the  road.  Just  all  one  animal.  .  .  ."  «  1 6 

"The  animal  don't  want  the  barricade.  I  don't  know  what  it  wants. 
Trouble  is,  guys  that  study  people  always  think  it's  men,  and  it  isn't  men. 
It's  a  different  kind  of  animal.  It's  as  different  from  men  as  dogs  are.  Jim, 
it's  swell  when  we  can  use  it,  but  we  don't  know  enough.  When  it  gets 
started  it  might  do  anything."  «  1 7 

So  the  old  pioneer  of  The  Leader  of  the  People  describes  the  westward 

JOHN   STEINBECK        155 


migration  which  he  led  as  "a  whole  bunch  of  people  made  into  one  big 
crawling  beast.  .  .  .  Every  man  wanted  something  for  himself,  but  the  big 
beast  that  was  all  of  them  wanted  only  westering/'  «  is 

This  animalizing  tendency  of  Mr.  Steinbeck's  is,  I  believe,  at  the  bottom 
of  his  relative  unsuccess  at  representing  human  beings.  «  19 

The  paisanos  of  Tortilla  Flat  are  really  not  quite  human  beings:  they  are 
cunning  little  living  dolls  that  amuse  us  like  pet  guinea-pigs  or  rabbits.  A 
special  convention  had  been  created  to  remove  them  from  kinship  with 
the  author  and  the  reader.  In  The  Grapes  of  Wrath,  on  the  other  hand, 
Mr.  Steinbeck  has  summoned  all  his  resources  to  make  the  reader  feel  his 
human  relationship  with  the  family  of  dispossessed  farmers;  yet  the  effect 
of  this,  too,  is  not  quite  real.  The  characters  of  The  Grapes  of  Wrath  are 
animated  and  put  through  their  paces  rather  than  brought  to  life;  they  are 
like  excellent  character  actors  giving  very  conscientious  performances  in  a 
fairly  well-written  play.  Their  dialect  is  well  done,  but  they  talk  stagily; 
and,  in  spite  of  Mr.  Steinbeck's  attempts  to  make  them  figure  as  heroic 
human  symbols,  you  cannot  help  feeling  that  they,  too,  do  not  quite  exist 
seriously  for  him  as  people.  It  is  as  if  human  sentiments  and  speeches  had 
been  assigned  to  a  flock  of  lemmings  on  their  way  to  throw  themselves  into 
the  sea.  One  remembers  the  short  story  called  Johnny  Bear.  Johnny  Bear 
is  another  of  Steinbeck's  idiots:  he  has  exactly  the  physique  of  a  bear  and 
seems  in  almost  every  way  subhuman;  but  he  is  endowed  with  an  uncanny 
gift  for  reproducing  with  perfect  mimicry  the  conversations  he  overhears, 
though  he  understands  nothing  of  their  human  meaning.  « 20 

And  it  is  illuminating  to  go  back  from  The  Grapes  of  Wrath  to  one  of 
the  earliest  of  Steinbeck's  novels,  To  a  God  Unknown.  Here  he  is  dealing 
quite  frankly  with  the  destructive  and  reproductive  forces  as  the  central 
principles  of  all  nature.  The  hero  is  told  by  one  of  the  other  characters  that 
he  has  "never  known  a  person":  "You  aren't  aware  of  persons,  Joseph;  only 
people.  You  can't  see  units,  Joseph,  only  the  whole."  He  finds  himself, 
almost  unconsciously  and  in  contravention  of  Christianity,  practising  a  primi- 
tive nature  cult,  to  which,  in  time  of  terrible  drought,  he  sacrifices  first  his 
wife,  then  himself,  as  blood  offerings  that  bring  the  rain.  This  story,  though 
absurd,  has  a  certain  interest,  and  it  evidently  represented  on  Steinbeck's 
part  an  honorably  sincere  attempt  to  find  expression  for  the  way  the  world 
looked  to  him  and  his  conception  of  the  powers  that  animate  it.  When  you 
husk  away  the  mawkish  verbiage  from  the  people  of  his  later  novels,  you 
get  a  very  similar  impression  of  humanity  as  perceived  not  in  "units"  but 
as  a  "whole"  and  a  vision  equally  grim  of  its  cycles  of  extinction  and 
renewal.  «2i 


156 


EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN    ITS    OWN    TERMS 


Not,  however,  that  Mr.  Steinbeck's  picture  of  human  beings  as  lemmings, 
as  grass  that  is  left  to  die,  hasn't  its  partial  validity.  It  has  even  its  special 
pertinence  to  the  world  as  we  see  it  in  our  time.  In  our  day,  Shakespeare's 
angry  ape,  drest  in  his  little  brief  authority,  seems  to  make  of  all  the  rest  of 
mankind  angry  apes  or  cowering  rodents.  The  one  thing  that  was  imagined 
with  intensity  in  Aldous  Huxley's  last  novel  was  the  eighteenth-century 
exploiter  of  the  slave  trade  degenerating  into  a  fetal  anthropoid.  Many  parts 
of  the  world  are  today  being  flooded  with  migrants  like  the  Joads,  deprived 
of  the  dignity  of  a  human  society,  forbidden  the  dignity  of  human  work, 
and  made  to  flee  from  their  houses  like  prairie-dogs  driven  before  a  prairie 
fire.  «22 

Aldous  Huxley  has  a  good  deal  to  say,  as  our  American  Humanists  did, 
about  the  importance  of  distinguishing  clearly  between  the  human  and  the 
animal  levels;  and,  like  the  Humanists,  he  has  been  frightened  back  into 
one  of  those  synthetic  moral  cults  which  do  duty  for  our  evaporated  religions. 
The  doctor  in  In  Dubious  Battle  deprecates  even  those  elements  of  religion 
that  have  entered  into  the  labor  cause;  and  he  takes  no  stock  in  the  utopian- 
ism  of  the  Communists.  When  he  is  depressed  by  the  barbarity  of  the  con- 
flict and  is  reminded  by  the  neophyte  Jim  that  he  "ought  to  think  only  of 
the  end:  out  of  all  this  struggle  a  good  thing  is  going  to  grow,"  he  answers 
that  in  his  "little  experience  the  end  is  never  very  different  in  its  nature 
from  the  means.  ...  It  seems  to  me  that  man  has  engaged  in  a  blind  and 
fearful  struggle  out  of  a  past  he  can't  remember,  into  a  future  he  can't 
foresee  nor  understand.  And  man  has  met  and  defeated  every  obstacle, 
every  enemy  except  one.  He  cannot  win  over  himself.  How  mankind  hates 
itself."  "We  don't  hate  ourselves,"  says  Jim.  "We  hate  the  invested  capital 
that  keeps  us  down."  "The  other  side  is  made  of  men,  Jim,  men  like  you. 
Man  hates  himself.  Psychologists  say  a  man's  self-love  is  balanced  neatly 
with  self -hate.  Mankind  must  be  the  same.  We  fight  ourselves  and  we  can 
only  win  by  killing  every  man."  «  23 

The  philosophy  of  Mr.  Steinbeck  is  obviously  not  enough  for  us  either 
in  its  earlier  or  its  later  form.  He  has  nothing  to  oppose  this  vision  of  man's 
hating  and  destroying  himself  except  an  irreducible  faith  in  life;  and  the  very 
tracts  he  writes  for  the  social  struggle  let  us  see  through  to  the  biological 
realism  which  is  his  natural  habit  of  mind.  Yet  I  prefer  his  approach  to  the 
animal-man  to  the  mysticism  of  Mr.  Huxley;  and  I  believe  that  we  shall  be 
more  likely  to  find  out  something  of  value  for  the  control  and  ennoblement 
of  life  by  studying  human  behavior  in  this  spirit  than  by  the  code  of  self- 
contemplation  which  seems  to  grow  so  rootlessly  and  palely  in  the  decay  of 
scientific  tradition  which  this  latest  of  the  Huxleys  represents.  «24 

JOHN   STEINBECK        157 


For  the  rest,  Mr.  Steinbeck  has  invention,  observation,  a  certain  color  of 
style  which  for  some  reason  does  not  possess  what  is  called  magic.  None 
of  his  novels  seems  to  me  precisely  first-rate.  He  has  provided  a  panorama 
of  California  farm-life  and  California  landscape  which  is  unique  in  our 
literature;  and  there  are  passages  in  some  ways  so  brilliant  that  we  are 
troubled  at  being  forced  to  recognize  that  there  is  something  artistically 
bad  about  them.  Who  has  ever  caught  so  well  such  a  West  Coast  scene 
as  that  in  To  a  God  Unknown  in  which  we  visit  the  exalted  old  man  with 
the  burros  who  has  built  his  hut  high  on  the  cliff  so  that  he  can  look  down 
on  the  straight  pillars  of  the  redwoods  and  off  at  the  sea  far  below,  and 
know  that  he  is  the  last  man  in  the  western  world  to  see  the  sun  go  down. 
What  is  bad  here  is  the  animal  sacrifice  which  the  old  man  performs  at  this 
moment  and  which  reminds  us  of  the  ever-present  problem  of  the  mixture 
of  seriousness  and  trashiness  in  the  writing  of  Mr.  Steinbeck.  I  am  not  sure 
that  Tortilla  Flat,  by  reason  of  the  very  limitations  imposed  by  its  folk-tale 
convention,  is  not  artistically  his  most  successful  production.  «  25 

Yet  there  remains  behind  the  journalism,  the  theatricalism,  and  the  tricks 
of  his  other  books  a  mind  which  does  seem  first-rate  in  its  unpanicky 
scrutiny  of  life.  <  26 


Questions 

Is  Edmund  Wilson's  general  purpose 
evaluation?     What    exactly    is    he 
evaluating?    State   in   the   form   of   a 
declarative  sentence  his  specific  purpose. 

2.  Describe  the  reading  audience  for 
whom  you  think  this  critical  essay  is 
intended.  Is  Wilson's  a  style  that  would 
appeal  to  this  reading  audience?    To 
what   audiences   might   it  not   appeal? 
How    would    the    style    have    to    be 
changed  if  Wilson  were  writing  for  peo- 
ple generally  uninterested  in  books? 

3.  What  are  Wilson's  standards  for 
good  novel  writing?    To  what  extent 
does  he  make  these  standards  explicit? 
What  proportion  of  the  essay  is  devoted 
to  a  discussion  of  standards?  What  pro- 
portion to  an  application  of  the  stand- 


ards? Does  he  give  you  enough  specific 
material  from  Steinbeck's  novels  to 
make  his  contentions  seem  sound?  What 
kinds  of  specific  material  do  you  find 
(e.g.,  plots,  characters,  symbols,  ex- 
cerpts)? 

4.  The  main  proposition  of  a  criti- 
cism is  almost  always  a  value  judgment. 
At  what  point  in  the  essay  do  you  find 
this  unifying  statement  of  value?  What 
are  the  main  divisions  of  the  essay?  How 
would  these  main  divisions  and  the  ma- 
terial in  them  have  had  to  be  changed 
if  Wilson's  purpose  had  been  to  show 
that  Steinbeck  is  a  better  writer  than 
Erskine  Caldwell?   to  show  that  Stein- 
beck improved  steadily  as  he  continued 
to  write? 

5.  Do  you  think  that  this  essay  does 
well  what  it  sets  out  to  do? 


158        EVALUATING   A   WORK   IN   ITS   OWN  TERMS 


EVALUATING   A   WORK 
AS  LITERATURE 


WHEN  you  evaluate  a  factual  work 
in  its  own  terms,  you  judge  its 
efficiency  in  performing  its  task.  When 
you  evaluate  the  truth  of  a  factual  work, 
you  test  its  accuracy.  A  third  kind  of 
evaluation  tests  the  value  of  a  factual 
work  as  literature.  Literary  evaluations 
depend  upon  tastes,  and  tastes,  of 
course,  differ.  If  you  have  disagreed 
with  someone  about  the  value  of  a 
movie  or  a  novel,  your  discussion  has 
shown  how  your  tastes  in  imaginative 
literature  contrast  with  the  tastes  of 
your  opponent.  Similarly,  your  tastes 
may  cause  you  to  judge  factual  writings 
differently  from  the  ways  some  other 
readers  judge  them.  Nevertheless,  you 
will  probably  find  that  even  those  stand- 
ards of  judgment  which  differ  from 
yours  make  a  good  deal  of  sense. 

The  simplest  way  for  a  reader  to 
judge  the  literary  value  of  a  piece  of 
factual  prose  is  by  noticing  its  effect 
upon  him.  The  reader  may  ask  simply, 
"Does  it  give  me  valuable  information, 
interest  me,  excite  me?"  and  decide  that 
it  is  good  or  bad  according  to  his 
answer.  Such  an  evaluation,  in  a  sense, 
is  final,  since  each  reader  knows  best, 
of  course,  how  he  himself  reacts  while 
reading.  Furthermore,  practically  all  of 
us  naturally  use  such  a  test.  On  second 
thought,  however,  most  of  us  will  not 
be  satisfied  to  stop  with  this  test— a  test 
which,  used  alone,  involves  only  our 
personal  reactions. 

Most  of  us,  therefore,  will  start  by 
taking  this  test  for  granted,  and  will 
take  a  further  step;  that  is,  we  will  try 


to  formulate  and  discuss  our  reasons  for 
reacting  favorably  or  unfavorably  to  a 
piece  of  writing.  Such  a  procedure  re- 
lieves us  of  the  need  to  talk  about  our- 
selves alone  and  allows  us  to  talk  about 
important  aspects  of  the  work  as  well. 
Let  us  consider  now  what  these  aspects 
of  the  work  may  be. 

Some  readers  may  say,  "What  I  de- 
mand of  a  factual  piece  ol  writing  if 
I  am  to  like  it  is  truth."  Such  readers 
believe  that  literary  excellence  and 
truthfulness  of  some  sort  or  other  are 
one  and  the  same  thing,  and  they  make 
tests  much  like  those  you  applied  in 
comparing  Hitler's  remarks  with  those 
of  Shapiro  (pp.  109-119).  Of  course, 
if  you  use  the  truth  of  a  work  as  a 
measure,  however,  you  will  probably 
want  to  distinguish  between  the  kind  of 
truth  it  reveals  and  other  kinds  of  truth. 
You  may,  for  instance,  value  works  in 
terms  of  the  usefulness  of  the  truth  they 
unfold.  You  may  prize  originality,  and 
value  works  expressing  unfamiliar  truths 
above  those  which  express  familiar 
truths.  Or  you  may  rate  great  truths 
above  lesser  ones.  Regardless,  the  ele- 
ment of  truth  in  a  work  will  be  particu- 
larly important  to  you 

Some  readers  may  say,  "If  a  work  of 
any  sort  does  well  the  chore  it  sets  out 
to  do,  it  is— to  my  way  of  judging— a 
good  work."  Such  persons  feel  that  a 
literary  evaluation  does  not  differ  greatly 
from  the  evaluation  of  a  work  in  its  own 
terms  (p.  119).  They  may,  to  be  sure, 
distinguish  between  the  complexity  of 
the  chore  performed,  and  they  may  dis- 


EVALUATING   A    WORK   AS   LITERATURE        159 


tinguish  between  poor,  merely  satis- 
factory, and  brilliant  performance  of  the 
chore.  But  if  you  use  this  yardstick,  you 
will  be  chiefly  interested  in  seeing  how 
the  author  has  adapted  his  method  to 
his  material  and  to  the  audience  which 
he  is  addressing. 

Still  other  readers  may  judge  works 
by  criteria  which  differ  from  any  which 
have  so  far  been  discussed.  They  may 
be  interested,  for  instance,  in  some  as- 
pect of  the  author's  technique.  They 
may  be  interested  in  the  overall  organi- 
zation. More  often,  they  may  be  inter- 
ested in  the  author's  style.  "I  am  most 
pleased  and  impressed,"  some  readers 
may  say,  "by  an  author  who  uses  words, 
phrases,  and  sentences  in  an  appealing 
fashion."  If  you  use  this  kind  of  test, 
you  will  naturally  attend  to  details  in 
the  author's  manner  of  expression.  You 
will  have  preferences  among  kinds  of 
words— concrete  or  abstract,  emotive  or 
neutral,  figurative  or  literal,  homely  or 
learned.  Or  perhaps  you  will  take  pleas- 
ure in  finding  that  an  author  uses  words 
of  several  kinds  to  secure  variety,  em- 
phasis, and  contrast.  You  will  have 
preferences  among  kinds  of  sentences- 
simple  or  complicated,  lengthy  or  brief, 
normally  ordered  or  inverted— or  per- 
haps you  will  admire  an  author  who  can 
use  several  kinds  according  to  the  kind 
of  job  he  wants  the  sentences  to  per- 
form. You  may  be  interested  in  the 
author's  handling  of  sound— rhythmical 
or  unrhythmical,  melodious  or  harsh, 
and  so  forth. 

Another  group  of  readers  may  be 
strongly  influenced  in  their  judgment  by 
the  personality  of  the  author  of  a  piece 
of  factual  prose.  "I  can't  care  much," 
such  readers  will  say,  "for  a  piece  of 
factual  prose  which  doesn't  give  me 
some  sense  of  its  author's  personality. 


And  naturally  I  like  most  the  work  of 
an  author  whose  personality— at  least  as 
it  appears  in  the  work— is  somehow  ap- 
pealing." An  appealing  personality,  to 
be  sure,  may  be  one  of  many  kinds- 
humorous  or  full  of  righteous  anger, 
friendly  and  intimate  or  majestically 
remote,  full  of  common  sense  or  unusual 
learning,  and  so  on.  But  if  you  are  in- 
terested in  this  element,  you  will  not 
be  satisfied  with  any  factual  prose  which 
does  not  acquaint  you  with  a  personality 
which,  for  some  reason,  you  like  or 
admire. 

These  are  perhaps  the  chief  single 
tests.  Naturally,  though,  many  readers 
—those  who  probably  get  the  most  en- 
joyment out  of  reading— apply  not  one 
of  these  measuring  sticks  in  isolation  but 
two  or  more  in  combination.  If,  for  in- 
stance, you  say,  "Of  course  I  want  a 
piece  of  factual  prose  to  do  its  job  well; 
in  addition  I  want  it  to  express  great 
truths  in  an  appealing  style,"  you  have 
three  criteria:  the  efficiency  of  the 
work,  the  kind  of  truth  it  expresses,  and 
its  style.  If  you  say,  "A  great  work,  in 
my  opinion,  is  one  which  embodies  the 
expression  of  a  great  thought  by  a  great 
man,"  you  combine  an  interest  in  the 
truth  of  a  work  with  an  interest  in  its 
author's  personality. 

The  usefulness  to  others  of  your 
evaluation  of  any  given  work  will  de- 
pend upon  two  things:  (1)  their  agree- 
ment or  disagreement  with  your  general 
criterion  or  criteria,  and  (2)  their  opin- 
ion of  the  way  you  apply  your  measure- 
ment to  a  given  work.  In  other  words, 
your  evaluation  of  a  work  includes  two 
steps,  the  formulation  of  your  principle 
—your  major  premise— and  the  applica- 
tion of  your  principle  to  a  particular 
work— your  minor  premise.  Both  steps 
are  important  in  a  satisfactory  evalua- 


160 


EVALUATING    A    WORK   AS   LITERATURE 


tion.  And  the  second  step  requires  that 
you  look  in  detail  at  the  piece  of  writ- 
ing  itself  and  that  you  find  evidence 
there  to  support  your  claim  that  the 
work  does  its  job  well,  that  it  expresses 
a  great  truth,  that  it  is  written  in  an 
appealing  style,  that  it  expresses  an  at- 
tractive  personality,  or  that  it  does  two 
or  more  of  these  things. 

Some  of  these  standards,  and  some  of 
the  applications  of  these  standards,  will 
be  better  than  others,  naturally,  most 
of  us  will  agree,  modestly,  that  our  own 
standards  and  our  use  of  them  are  supe- 
rior,  There  will  be  none,  perhaps, 
about  which  everybody  will  agree.  But 
one  statement  which  most  of  us  will  ap- 
prove  is  that  it  is  desirable  for  us  as 
readers  to  have  defensible  literary 


standards,  and  to  apply  them  con- 
sciously  and  intelligently  when  judging 
the  literary  values  of  a  work. 

The  first  two  of  the  following  selec- 
tions  do  not  require  you  to  make  any 
judgments  as  to  literary  excellence  but 
to  note  how  other  critics  make  judg- 
ments.  The  last  three  selections,  how- 
ever,  require  you  to  make  your  own 
judgments.  After  reading  all  of  these 
selections  and  answering  the  questions 
on  them  you  might  profitably  return 
to  the  earlier  selections  in  this  part  of 
the  book,  Part  Two,  and  re-evaluate 
them,  this  time  for  their  literary  excel- 
lence.  You  may  be  interested  in  see- 
ing  how  closely  your  appraisals  reached 
by  this  method  correspond  to  evalua- 
tions  you  reached  by  other  methods. 


PERCY    HOLMES    BOYNTON 


IF  PEOPLE  were  puzzled  to  follow  the  drift  of  Emerson's  lectures—  and  they 
often  were—  it  was  because  most  of  them  were  so  vague  in  outline.  They 
literally  did  drift.  There  were  two  or  three  explanations  for  this  defect.  One 
was  that  Emerson  seldom  set  himself  the  task  of  "composing"  a  complete 
essay.  His  method  of  writing  was  to  put  down  in  his  morning  hours  at  the 
desk  the  ideas  that  came  to  him.  As  thoughts  on  subjects  dear  to  him  flitted 
through  his  mind  he  captured  some  of  them  as  they  passed.  These  were 
related,—  like  the  moon  and  the  tides  and  the  best  times  for  digging  clams,— 
but  when  he  assembled  various  paragraphs  into  a  lecture  he  took  no  pains 
to  establish  "theme  coherence"  by  explaining  the  connections  that  were  quite 
clear  in  his  own  mind.  It  happened  further,  as  the  years  went  on,  that  in 
making  up  a  new  discourse  he  would  select  paragraphs  from  earlier  manu- 
scripts, relying  on  them  to  hang  together  with  a  confidence  that  was  some- 
times misplaced.  And  auditors  of  his  lectures  in  the  last  years  recall  how, 
as  he  passed  from  one  page  to  the  next,  a  look  of  doubt  and  slight  amusement 
would  sometimes  confess  without  apology  to  an  utter  lack  of  connection  even 
between  the  parts  of  a  sentence.  «  i 

From  A  History  of  American  Literature  by  Percy  Holmes  Boynton.    Reprinted  by 
permission  of  the  publishers,  Ginn  and  Company. 


EMERSON'S  PROSE      161 


In  his  sentences  and  his  choice  of  words,  however,  there  were  perfect 
simplicity  and  clearness.  Here  is  a  passage  to  illustrate,  drawn  by  the  simplest 
of  methods— opening  the  first  volume  of  Emerson  at  hand  and  taking  the 
first  paragraph.  It  happens  to  be  in  the  essay  on  "Compensation." 

Commit  a  crime,  and  the  earth  is  made  of  glass.  Commit  a  crime,  and  it  seems 
as  if  a  coat  of  snow  fell  on  the  ground,  such  as  reveals  in  the  wood  the  track  of 
every  partridge  and  fox  and  squirrel  and  mole.  You  cannot  recall  the  spoken  word, 
you  cannot  wipe  out  the  foot-track,  you  cannot  draw  up  the  ladder,  so  as  to  leave 
no  inlet  or  clew.  Some  damning  circumstance  always  transpires.  The  laws  and 
substances  of  nature— water,  snow,  wind,  gravitation— become  penalties  to  the  thief. 
«2 

In  this  passage  of  ninety  words  more  than  seventy  are  words  of  one  syl- 
lable, and  only  one  of  the  other  eighteen— transpires— can  baffle  the  reader 
or  listener  even  for  a  moment.  The  general  idea  in  Emerson's  mind  is 
expressed  by  a  series  of  definite  and  picturesque  comparisons.  "Be  sure  your 
sin  will  find  you  out,"  he  said.  "You  commit  the  wicked  deed,  creep,  dodge, 
run  away,  come  to  your  hiding  place,  climb  the  ladder,  and  hope  for  escape. 
But  nature  or  God— has  laid  a  trap  for  you.  Your  footprints  are  on  the  new- 
fallen  snow;  human  eyes  follow  them  to  the  tell-tale  ladder  leading  to  your 
window;  and  you  are  caught.  The  laws  of  the  universe  have  combined 
against  you  in  the  snowfall,  the  impress  of  your  feet,  and  the  weight  of  the 
ladder  which  you  could  not  raise."  « 3 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  great  difference  in  the  language  used  by  Emerson 
and  that  in  the  paraphrase,  but  in  the  way  the  sentences  are  put  together 
Emerson's  method  of  composing  is  once  more  illustrated.  Emerson  suggests; 
the  paraphrase  explains.  Emerson  assumes  that  the  reader  is  alert  and 
knowing;  the  paraphraser,  that  he  is  a  little  inattentive  and  a  little  dull. 
Lowell  has  summed  up  the  whole  matter:  "A  diction  at  once  so  rich  and 
homely  as  his  I  know  not  where  to  match  in  these  days  of  writing  by  the 
page;  it  is  like  home-spun  cloth-of-gold.  The  many  cannot  miss  the  meaning, 
and  only  the  few  can  find  it."  This  is  another  way  of  saying,  "Anybody  can 
understand  him  sentence  by  sentence,  but  the  wiser  the  reader  the  more 
he  can  understand  of  the  meaning  as  a  whole.*'  «  4 

Questions  !?y  ParaPhrasing   the   Paragraph   from 

*-  "Compensation"?    Comment  upon  the 

WHAT  does  Boynton  say  about  the  value  of  the  demonstration, 
overall  organization  of  Emerson's          4.    What  preparation  has  there  been 

essays?  Does  he  approve  or  disapprove?  for  Lowell's  statement  about  Emerson's 

2.  How   does    Boynton   prove   that  diction? 

"In   his   sentences   and   his   choice   of          5.    What  would  appear  to  be  Boyn- 

words  .  .  .  there  were  perfect  simplicity  ton's    criteria    for    judging    Emerson? 

and  clearness"?  Is  the  proof  sound?  What    is    your    attitude    toward    such 

3.  What  does  Boynton  try  to  prove  criteria? 

162        EVALUATING   A   WORK   AS   LITERATURE 


DWIGHT  MACDONALD 


The  Bible  in  modern  undress  l 


IF  THE  Revisers  had  changed  K.J.V.  only  where  modern  scholarship  found 
its  translation  defective,  one  would  hardly  notice  the  alterations.  But 
what  they  are  really  translating  is  not  the  original  Greek  and  Hebrew  but  the 
English  of  the  King  James  Version,  and  the  language  they  have  put  it  into  is 
modern  expository  prose,  direct  and  clear,  and  also  flat,  insipid,  and  medio- 
cre. To  accomplish  this  alchemy  in  reverse,  they  have  had  to  do  a  number  of 
things.  They  have,  first  of  all,  modernized  the  usage.  "Thou,"  "ye'"  "thy," 
and  "thine"  are  replaced  by  "you"  and  "your";  the  obsolete  verb  endings 
"-est"  and  "-eth"  are  dropped;  inverted  word  order  is  generally  avoided; 
"unto"  becomes  "to,"  "whither"  "where,"  "whatsoever"  "whatever,"  and  so  on. 
This  was  done  not  for  comprehensibility,  since  any  literate  person  knows 
what  the  old  forms  mean,  but  as  part  of  the  policy  of  making  the  Bible  more 
"accessible"  to  the  modern  reader  or  listener.  And,  indeed,  R.S.V.  does  slip 
more  smoothly  into  the  modern  ear,  but  it  also  slides  out  more  easily;  the 
very  strangeness  and  antique  ceremony  of  the  old  forms  make  them  linger  in 
the  mind.  The  1901  American  Standard  Version  kept  the  old  usage,  and 
I  think  rightly.  For  there  are  other  considerations,  too.  One  is  the  loss  of 
familiarity.  It  is  extraordinary  what  a  difference  modernization  makes;  even 
passages  otherwise  undisturbed  have  a  blurred,  slightly  off-register  effect. 
The  Hebrew  Old  Testament  is  an  archaic  document,  far  more  primitive  even 
than  Homer,  and  the  old  usage  seems  more  appropriate.  "Thus  saith  the 
Lord"  is  more  Lordly  than  "Thus  says  the  Lord,"  "Praise  ye  the  Lord!"  is 
more  exalted  than  "Praise  the  Lord!"  The  Ten  Commandments  lose  when 
the  awesome  "Thou  shalt  not"  is  stepped  down  to  the  querulous  "You  shall 
not";  the  prophet  Nathan's  terrible  denunciation  to  King  David,  'Thou  art 
the  man!,"  collapses  in  the  police-report  "You  are  the  man!,"  and  God's 
solemn  words  to  Adam,  "Dust  thou  art,  and  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return,"  are 
flattened  in  the  conversational  "You  are  dust,  and  to  dust  you  shall  return." 
A  better  case  can  be  made  for  modernizing  the  New  Testament's  usage,  since 
it  was  written  in  the  everyday  Greek  of  the  common  people.  But  the  Common 
Man  of  the  first  century  A.D.  was  a  considerably  more  poetic  and  ( if  he  was 
a  Christian)  devout  creature  than  his  similar  of  the  twentieth  century,  and 


1  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author.   Copr.  1953  The  New  Yorker  Magazine,  Inc. 

This  is  part  of  a  long  review  of  the  Revised  Standard  Version  of  the  Bible  (referred 
to  as  R.S.V. ),  prepared  by  a  committee  of  scholars  and  published  in  1952.  This  new 
translation  was  intended  to  supplant  the  King  James  Version  (called  K.J.V. ),  first  pub- 
lished in  1611  and  revised  in  1885  and  1901.  After  treating  changes  in  translation  for 
greater  accuracy  and  revisions  for  greater  clarity,  Mr.  MacDonald  turns,  in  the  passage 
which  follows,  to  other  kinds  of  changes. 

THE   BIBLE   IN   MODERN   UNDRESS        163 


the  religious  passion  of  Jesus  and  Paul,  transcending  modern  experience, 
needs  an  exalted  idiom  to  be  adequately  conveyed.  "Verily,  verily  I  say  unto 
you"  gets  it  better  than  "Truly,  truly  I  say  to  you";  Jesus's  "Suffer  the  little 
children  to  come  unto  me"  (Mark  10:14)  is  more  moving  than  R.S.V/s  "Let 
the  children  come  to  me,"  which  sounds  like  a  mother  at  a  picnic.  «  I 

The  Revisers  state  that  the  old  usage  has  been  preserved  in  "language 
addressed  to  God  or  in  exalted  poetic  apostrophe."  The  first  exemption  has 
been  respected—why  God's  own  language  should  not  also  be  permitted  some 
antique  elevation  I  cannot  see—but  the  second  often  has  not.  Surely  the 
Psalms  are  "exalted  poetic  apostrophe,"  yet  in  the  Nineteenth  Psalm,  "Day 
unto  day  uttereth  speech,  and  night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge"  is  dimin- 
ished to  "Day  to  day  pours  forth  speech,  and  night  to  night  declares  knowl- 
edge." Even  the  sacred  (one  would  think)  Twenty-third  Psalm  comes  out 
a  bit  fuzzy:  "He  makes  me  lie  down"  for  the  rhythmic  "He  maketh  me  to  lie 
down,"  and  instead  of  the  triumphant  "Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley 
of  the  shadow  of  death"  the  tamer  "Even  though  I  walk."  The  most  damag- 
ing effect  of  modernizing  the  usage  is  the  alteration  of  rhythm,  which  is  all- 
important  in  a  book  so  often  read  aloud;  quite  aside  from  literary  grace, 
the  ceremonial  effect  of  the  Bible  is  enhanced  by  the  interesting,  varied,  and 
suitable  rhythms  of  K.J.V.  But  to  (partially)  avoid  inversion,  the  Revisers 
render  "Male  and  female  created  He  them"  (Genesis  1:27)  "Male  and  female 
He  created  them,"  breaking  the  rhythm's  back  simply  by  changing  the  posi- 
tion of  two  words.  In  K.J.V.,  Ecclesiastes  moves  to  a  slow,  mourning  music: 

What  profit  hath  a  man  of  all  his  labor  which  he  taketh  under  the  sun?  One 
generation  passeth  and  another  generation  cometh,  but  the  earth  abideth  for- 
ever. .  .  .  For  there  is  no  remembrance  of  the  wise  more  than  of  the  fool  for  ever, 
seeing  that  which  now  is  in  the  days  to  come  shall  all  be  forgotten.  And  how 
dieth  the  wise  man?  As  the  fool. 

This  now  steps  along  to  a  brisker,  less  complex,  and  also  less  authoritative 
measure: 

What  does  a  man  gain  by  all  the  toil  at  which  he  toils  under  the  sun?  A  genera- 
tion goes  and  a  generation  comes,  but  the  earth  remains  forever.  .  .  .  For  of  the 
wise  man  as  of  the  fool  there  is  no  enduring  remembrance,  seeing  that  in  the  days 
to  come  all  will  have  been  long  forgotten.  How  the  wise  man  dies  just  like  the  fool! 

Ruth's  familiar  and  moving  "Whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go"  loses  its  cadenced 
charm  when  it  is  transmuted  into  "Where  you  go,  I  will  go."  So,  too,  Philip- 
pians  4:8  ("Finally,  brethren,  whatsoever  things  are  true,  whatsoever  things 
are  honest,  whatsoever  things  are  just")  is  robbed  of  its  earnest  gravity 

164        EVALUATING   A   WORK   AS   LITERATURE 


when  it  is  speeded  up  by  replacing  "whatsoever"  with  "whatever,"  just  as 
Matthew  11:28  ("Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden")  be- 
comes inappropriately  brisk  when  it  is  modernized  to  "Come  to  me,  all  who 
labor."  I  won't  comment  on  changing  Luke  16:3  from  "I  cannot  dig;  to  beg 
I  am  ashamed"  to  "I  am  not  strong  enough  to  dig,  and  I  am  ashamed  to 
beg."  «  2 

In  this  modernization  there  is  an  understandable,  if  misguided,  principle 
at  work.  But  many  changes  seem  to  derive  not  from  principle  but  merely 
from  officiousness,  from  the  restlessness  that  causes  people  to  pluck  imaginary 
or  microscopic  bits  of  fluff  off  coat  lapels.  Too  frequently  some  great  and 
familiar  phrase  is  marred  or  obliterated  for  the  sake  of  a  trivial  change  in 
the  sense,  or  none  at  all.  "Den  of  thieves"  is  now  "den  of  robbers,"  "Let 
the  dead  bury  their  dead"  is  now  "Leave  the  dead  to  bury  their  own  dead," 
"maid"  becomes  "maiden"  in  "the  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid,"  hypocrites  are 
"whitewashed  tombs"  instead  of  the  familiar  "whited  sepulchres,"  "O  death 
where  is  thy  sting,  O  grave  where  is  thy  victory?"  yields  to  the  just-out-of- 
focus  "O  death  where  is  thy  victory,  O  death  where  is  thy  sting?"  and 
Jesus's  "Can  the  blind  lead  the  blind?  Shall  they  not  both  fall  into  the 
ditch?"  is  capriciously  rephrased  into  "Can  a  blind  man  lead  a  blind  man? 
Will  they  not  both  fall  into  a  pit?"  «  3 

More  numerous  are  the  changes  that  involve  a  slight  change  in  sense.  But 
granting  that  Joseph  really  wore  not  "a  coat  of  many  colors"  but  "a  long  robe 
with  sleeves,"  that  the  Gaderene  swine  were  really  the  Gerasene  swine  and 
Calvary  was  more  properly  called  The  Skull,  that  "the  children  of  Israel"  is 
less  accurate  than  "the  people  of  Israel"  and  that  these  children,  or  people, 
refrained  from  putting  their  new  wine  into  old  wineskins  and  not  old  bottles, 
that  the  Old  Testament  desert  actually  blossomed  not  like  a  rose  but  like  a 
crocus,  that  Job  really  put  the  price  of  wisdom  above  pearls  and  not  above 
rubies,  that  the  silver  cord  was  "snapped"  rather  than  "loosed,"  that  the 
widow  gave  not  her  "mites"  but  "two  copper  coins,"  that  the  writing  on 
Belshazzar's  wall  was  not  "Mene  mene  tekel  upharsin"  but  "Mene  mene  tekel 
and  parsin,"  that  the  Psalmist  saw  the  wicked  man  "towering  like  a  cedar" 
instead  of  "spreading  himself  like  a  green  bay  tree,"  that  Adam  was  not  "of 
the  earth,  earthy"  but  "from  the  earth,  a  man  of  dust,"  and  that  "my  cup 
overflows"  and  "by  the  mouth  of  babes  and  infants"  are  more  up-to-date 
locutions  than  "my  cup  runneth  over"  and  "out  of  the  mouth  of  babes  and 
sucklings"— granting  all  this,  it  is  still  doubtful  that  such  trivial  gains  in 
accuracy  are  not  outweighed  by  the  loss  of  such  long-cherished  beauty  of 
phrasing.  Might  not  the  Revisers  have  let  well  enough,  and  indeed  a  good 
deal  better  than  well  enough,  alone?  «  4 

Other  doubts  swarm.  I  can't  understand  why  "The  spirit  of  God  moved 

THE  BIBLE  IN   MODERN   UNDRESS        165 


upon  the  face  of  the  waters"  had  to  be  changed  to  "was  moving  over  the  face 
of  the  waters"  or  why  the  Nineteenth  Psalm  had  to  be  altered  from  'The 
heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God"  to  "The  heavens  are  telling  the  glory  of 
God/'   I  don't  know  why  "there  shall  be  weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth" 
(Matthew  22:13)  had  to  become  "there  men  will  weep  and  gnash  their 
teeth"  or  why  Paul's  magnificent  eloquence  (in  K.J.V.,  at  least)  has  to  be 
hamstrung  by  pettifogging  and  needless  alterations.  For  example,  in  I  Corin- 
thians 13:1,  "Though  I  speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,  and 
have  not  charity,  I  am  become  as  sounding  brass  or  a  tinkling  cymbal"  is 
mutilated  to  "a  noisy  gong  or  a  clanging  cymbal,"  and  in  Ephesians  6:12, 
the  familiar  grandeur  of  "For  we  wrestle  not  against  flesh  and  blood  but 
against  principalities,  against  powers,  against  the  rulers  of  the  darkness 
of  this  world,  against  spiritual  wickedness  in  high  places"  is  revised  to  "For 
we  are  not  contending  against  flesh  and  blood  but  against  the  principalities, 
against  the  powers,  against  the  world  rulers  of  this  present  darkness,  against 
the  spiritual  hosts  of  wickedness  in  the  heavenly  places."    Substituting 
"noisy  gong"  for  "sounding  brass"  and  the  weak,  abstract  "contending"  for 
the  vivid  "wrestle"  seems  to  me  malicious  mischief,  if  not  assault  and  bat- 
tery. «  5 

They  have  even  rewritten  the  Lord's  Prayer.  "As  we  forgive  our  debtors" 
is  changed  to  "as  we  also  have  forgiven  our  debtors,"  a  bit  of  lint-picking 
that  might  have  been  forgone  in  the  interest  of  tradition— and  euphony.  "For 
Thine  is  the  kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory,  forever.  Amen"  is 
omitted  ( though  given  in  a  footnote )  because  they  believe  it  a  corruption  of 
the  original  text.  But,  after  all,  the  fact  that  Bernini's  colonnades  were  not 
part  of  the  original  plan  of  St.  Peter's  is  hardly  a  reason  for  doing  away  with 
them.  Some  of  the  manuscripts  discovered  last  spring  in  that  Dead  Sea  cave 
may  turn  out  to  be  more  ancient  and  uncorrupted  than  anything  discovered 
up  to  now.  They  may  also  turn  out  to  differ  importantly  from  what  has  been 
known  for  the  last  thousand  years  as  "The  Bible."  Maybe  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments are  a  late  interpolation.  But  if  they  are,  I  should  think  that  even 
the  Revisers  would  hesitate  to  give  the  public  this  Bible,  pure  and  uncor- 
rupted though  it  be,  in  place  of  the  familiar  text.  «  6 

The  raison  d'etre  of  R.S.V.,  however,  is  not  scholarly  but  stylistic;  to  pro- 
duce a  more  "readable"  Bible.  This  being  an  age  much  more  matter-of-fact 
than  the  seventeenth  century— or  the  first  century,  for  that  matter— an  age 
more  used  to  skimming  rapidly  over  a  large  quantity  of  journalistic  prose 
than  to  dwelling  intensively  on  a  few  poetic  works,  to  make  the  Bible 
"readable"  means  to  have  it  "make  sense"  to  a  reader  who  wants  to  know 
simply  What's  It  All  About.  Poetic  intensity  or  prophetic  exaltation  inter- 
feres with  this  easy,  rapid  assimilation  partly  because  such  language  is 


166 


EVALUATING   A   WORK  AS   LITERATURE 


idiosyncratic  and  partly  because  it  strikes  down  to  depths  of  response  which 
it  takes  time  and  effort  for  the  reader  to  reach.  Literature,  and  especial!) 
religious  literature,  is  not  primarily  concerned  with  being  clear  and  reason- 
able; it  is  connotative  rather  than  direct,  suggestive  rather  than  explicit, 
decorative  and  incantatory  rather  than  functional.  To  make  the  Bible  read- 
able in  the  modern  sense  means  to  flatten  out,  tone  down,  and  convert  into 
tepid  expository  prose  what  in  K.J. V.  is  wild,  full  of  awe,  poetic,  and  passion- 
ate. It  means  stepping  down  the  voltage  of  K.J.V.  so  it  won't  blow  any  fuses, 
The  Revisers  have  admirably  and  horribly  succeeded;  babes  and  sucklings 
(or  infants)  can  play  with  R.S.V.  without  the  slightest  danger  of  electrocu- 
tion. «  7 

In  K.J.V.,  God  describes  the  battle  horse  to  Job:  "Hast  thou  given  the 
horse  strength?  Hast  thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder?  .  .  .  The  glory 
of  his  nostrils  is  terrible.  .  .  .  He  saith  among  the  trumpets,  Ha,  Ha."  R.S.V. 
steps  it  down  to  "Do  you  give  the  horse  his  might?  Do  you  clothe  his  neck 
with  strength?  .  .  .  His  majestic  snorting  is  terrible.  .  .  .  When  the 
trumpet  sounds,  he  says,  'Aha!' "  The  trick  is  turned  by  replacing  the  meta- 
phorical "thunder"  with  the  literal  "strength,"  by  converting  the  thrilling 
"glory  of  his  nostrils"  into  the  prosaic  "majestic  snorting"  (a  snort  can  be 
many  things,  but  never  majestic),  and  toning  down  the  wild  "Ha,  Ha"  into 
the  conversational  "Aha!"  A  like  fate  has  overtaken  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount.  Comparing  this  as  rendered  in  K.J.V.  and  in  R.S.V.  is  like  hearing 
a  poet  read  his  verses  while  someone  stands  by  and  paraphrases.  The  exalted 
has  become  flat,  the  pungent  bland,  the  rhythm  crippled,  phrases  dear  for 
centuries  to  English-speaking  people  have  disappeared  or  are  maimed. 
For  example: 

But  let  your  communication  be  "Yea,  Yea,"  "Nay,  Nay." 
Let  what  you  say  be  simply,  "Yes"  or  "No." 

Behold  the  fowls  of  the  air. 
Look  al  the  birds  of  the  air. 

And  why  take  ye  thought  for  raiment?  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  how  they 
grow;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin;  and  yet  I  say  unto  you  that  even  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these. 

And  why  are  you  anxious  about  clothing?  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  how 
they  grow;  they  neither  toil  nor  spin;  yet  I  tell  you,  even  Solomon,  etc.  .  .  . 

Enter  ye  in  at  the  strait  gate:  for  wide  is  the  gate  and  broad  is  the  way  that  lead- 
eth  to  destruction,  and  many  there  be  which  go  in  thereat;  because  strait  is  the 
gate  and  narrow  is  the  way  which  leadeth  unto  life,  and  few  there  be  that  find  it. 

Enter  by  the  narrow  gate:  for  the  gate  is  wide  and  the  way  is  easy  that  leads  to 

THE   BIBLE  IN   MODERN   UNDRESS        167 


destruction,  and  those  who  enter  by  it  are  many.   For  the  gate  is  narrow  and  the 
way  is  hard  that  leads  to  life,  and  those  who  find  it  are  few. 

Wherefore  by  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them. 
Thus  you  will  know  them  by  their  fruits.  «  8 

The  Song  of  Solomon  is  now  slightly  off  key.  "Our  vines  have  tender 
grapes"  has  become  "Our  vineyards  are  in  blossom"— the  Revisers  have  a 
weakness  for  Spelling  It  Out.  Instead  of  "Thy  navel  is  like  a  round  goblet, 
which  wanteth  not  liquor"  we  get  "Your  navel  is  a  rounded  bowl  that  never 
lacks  mixed  wine,"  which  disturbingly  suggests  a  cocktail  party;  the  lyrical 
"How  fair  and  how  pleasant  art  thou,  O  love,  for  delights!"  is  changed  into 
the  mawkish  and  stumbling  "How  fair  and  pleasant  you  are,  O  loved  one, 
delectable  maiden!"  Repetition,  another  poetic  (and  hieratic)  device,  is 
generally  avoided,  perhaps  because  it  is  felt  to  be  of  no  expository  value. 
The  K.J.V.  Lord  cries  out,  "I  have  seen,  I  have  seen  the  affliction  of  my 
people"  (Acts  7:34),  but  the  R.S.V.  Lord  merely  states,  "I  have  surely  seen 
the  ill-treatment  of  my  people."  The  ominous  and  brooding  effect,  in  the 
description  of  hell  in  Mark  9,  of  repeating  in  verses  44,  46,  and  48,  the  great 
line  "Where  their  worm  dieth  not  and  the  fire  is  not  quenched"  is  escaped 
by  omitting  verses  44  and  46.  «  ? 

There  is  an  attempt  at  poetry;  a  fancy  "literary"  word  is  often  used  in 
place  of  a  homely  one.  Now,  as  Wordsworth  observed,  a  simple  word  is 
always  more  poetic  than  a  "poetic"  one.  A  stylistic  virtue  of  K.J.V.  is  the 
tact  with  which  it  uses  stately,  sonorous  Latin-root  abstract  words  and 
humble,  concrete  Anglo-Saxon  words,  each  in  its  appropriate  place.  If  the 
Revisers  pull  to  earth  K.J.V/s  swelling  Latin  passages,  they  also  give  a  bogus 
elevation,  a  false  refinement  to  its  direct,  homely  passages;  if  they  tone  down 
some  strings,  they  tone  up  others,  adjusting  them  all  to  produce  a  dead 
monotone.  Thus  "dirt"  becomes  "mire"  (Psalms  18:42),  "clothes"  "mantle" 
(Matthew  24:18),  "I  brake  the  jaws  of  the  wicked"  "I  broke  the  fangs  of  the 
unrighteous"  (Job  29:17),  in  each  case  a  more  archaic  word  being  put  in 
place  of  a  modern  (but  homely)  one.  In  K.J.V.  sin  "lieth"  at  the  door,  but  it 
is  "couching"  in  R.S.V.;  the  blind  "see"  and  the  hungry  "are  filled"  in  K.J.V., 
but  in  R.S.V.  they  "receive  their  sight"  and  "are  satisfied";  K.J.V.  renders 
I  Samuel  4:22:  "The  glory  is  departed  from  Israel,  for  the  ark  of  God  is 
taken/'  but  this  is  too  stark  for  R.S.V.,  which  changes  it  to  "the  ark  of  God 
has  been  captured."  Often  the  Revisers  inflate  the  simplicity  and  under- 
statement of  K.J.V.  into  prose  resembling  cotton  candy.  The  lovely  phrase 
in  Ecclesiastes  12:5,  "Man  goeth  to  his  long  home,"  with  its  sombre,  long- 
drawn-out  "o"s  and  its  austere  melancholy,  is  Spelled  Out  into  "Man  goes 

168        EVALUATING   A  WORK   AS   UTEBATUHE 


to  his  eternal  home,"  which  sounds  like  a  mortician's  ad.  K.J.V.  often  uses 
concrete  action  words  to  metaphorically  suggest  an  abstract  meaning,  but 
R.S.V.  prefers  less  vivid  abstractions.  In  her  perceptive  article  in  the  Ladies' 
Home  Journal  on  the  two  versions,  Dorothy  Thompson  gave  a  perfect  ex- 
ample of  this.  Psalms  42:1  reads,  in  K.J.V.,  "As  the  hart  panteth  after  the 
water  brooks,  so  panteth  my  soul  after  Thee,  O  God/'  R.S.V.  makes  it  "As  a 
hart  longs  for  flowing  streams,  so  longs  my  soul  for  Thee,  O  God!"  As  Miss 
Thompson  remarked,  a  hart  pants  but  does  not  long,  or  if  he  does,  he  can, 
being  inarticulate,  express  his  emotions  only  in  some  action  like  panting. 
The  passionate  vigor  of  K.J.V.  depends  on  the  hart's  being  an  animal,  not 
a  sentimental  human  being  in  a  deerskin.  If  however,  there  is  a  chance  for  a 
good,  safe  cliche— another  method  of  making  the  Bible  more  "readable"— 
R.S.V.  reverses  this  process;  "When  he  thought  thereon,  he  wept"  becomes 
"He  broke  down  and  wept,"  "All  things  have  I  seen  in  the  days  of  my  vanity" 
becomes  "In  my  vain  life  I  have  seen  everything,"  and  "They  were  pricked 
in  their  heart"  becomes  "They  were  cut  to  the  heart."  «  10 

R.S.V.  has  also  departed  from  simplicity  in  certain  matters  of  "taste," 
mostly  involving  sex.  If  only  to  avoid  adolescent  giggles  in  church,  some 
Elizabethan  terms  must  be  avoided  in  this  degenerate  and  refined  age— as 
in  I  Samuel  25:22,  in  which  the  expression  "any  that  pisseth  against  the 
wall"  is  discreetly  omitted— but  Nice  Nellie  is  altogether  too  prominent. 
Thus  "whore"  is  rendered  "harlot,"  although  the  former  term  is  still  current 
while  the  latter  is  archaic  ( but,  for  that  very  reason,  Nicer ) .  Thus  the  wise 
and  the  foolish  virgins  have  become  "maidens,"  as  well  as  more  archaic  and 
less  sexy,  costing  us,  incidentally,  still  another  familiar  expression.  "My 
bowels  boiled  "  is  now  "My  heart  is  in  turmoil,"  "sore  boils"  are  "loathesome 
sores,"  "dung  hill"  is  "ash  heap."  The  Revisers  even  fear  "belly."  "Fill  his 
belly  with  the  east  wind"  becomes  "fill  himself"  and  Psalms  22:10  is  changed 
from  "I  was  cast  upon  Thee  from  the  womb;  Thou  art  my  God  from  my 
mother's  belly"  to  "Upon  Thee  was  I  cast  from  my  birth,  and  since  my  mother 
bore  me  Thou  hast  been  my  God,"  which  is  also  a  good  example  of  Spelling 
It  Out.  "  'Belly,'"  says  H.  W.  Fowler  in  "Modern  English  Usage,"  "is  a  good 
word  now  almost  done  to  death  by  genteelism."  «  1 1 

"The  King  James  Bible,"  write  the  Revisers,  apropos  the  failure  of  the  1885 
and  the  1901  revisions  to  replace  it,  "has  still  continued  to  hold  its  place 
upon  the  lecterns  of  the  majority  of  churches.  .  .  .  Congregations  have 
gone  on  loving  it  best  because  it  seemed  to  them  incomparably  beautiful." 
One  wonders  how  they  could  think  their  version  preserves  this  beauty. 
K.J.V.'s  "dignity  and  profundity,"  they  go  on,  "are  the  result  of  the  utmost 
clarity,  directness,  and  simplicity.  These  qualities  have  been  earnestly 
sought  in  R.S.V."  But  K.J.V.  also  has  very  different  qualities— strange,  wild, 

THE    BIBLE   IN    MODERN    UNDRESS         169 


romantic,  complex  turns  of  style,  since  Elizabethan  English  was  as  much  in 
the  rococo  as  in  the  classic  mode.  This  is  especially  true  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment. Clarity,  directness,  and  simplicity  are  hardly  an  adequate  definition 
of  the  qualities  of  poetry.  Milton's  "simple,  sensuous,  and  passionate"  is 
more  adequate;  R.S.V.  usually  achieves  the  first,  rarely  the  second  (rhythm 
being  the  chief  sensuous  element  in  poetry),  and  almost  never  the  third. 
"Poetry  differs  from  prose  in  the  concrete  colors  of  its  diction.  It  is  not 
enough  for  it  to  furnish  a  meaning  to  philosophers.  It  must  also  appeal  to 
emotions  with  the  charm  of  direct  impression,  flashing  through  regions 
where  the  intellect  can  only  grope.  Poetry  must  render  what  is  said,  not 
what  is  merely  meant."  So  writes  the  prince  of  modern  translators,  Ezra 
Pound  who  might  have  made  a  much  better  job  of  the  new  Bible  than 
the  Dean  of  the  Yale  Divinity  School  and  his  learned  but  unliteratc  col- 
leagues. «  12 

"Our  conversation  [compared  to  that  of  the  Elizabethans]  is  direct  and 
tense;  our  narrative  .  .  .  swift  and  unadorned,"  the  Revisers  state.  "Our 
words  are  likely  to  be  shorter  and  our  sentences,  too.  .  .  .  Therefore  in  this 
translation,  it  has  been  a  constant  purpose  to  make  every  word  and  sentence 
clear,  to  avoid  involved  constructions,  and  to  make  the  current  of  the  central 
thought  flow  in  such  a  straight  sure  channel  that  the  minds  of  the  listeners 
will  be  carried  forward  unmistakably  and  not  dropped  into  verbal  whirl- 
pools by  the  way.  .  .  .  The  style  is,  as  nearly  as  possible,  such  as  the  rank 
and  file  of  Bible  readers  today  will  understand  with  as  little  difficulty  as 
possible  ...  so  as  to  permit  the  attention  of  the  hearer  or  reader  to  center 
on  the  message  and  not  be  diverted  by  the  language."  But  style  is  not  mere 
decoration,  and  it  is  precisely  the  function  of  language  to  "divert"  the  reader; 
form,  in  a  work  of  art  like  K.J.V.,  cannot  be  separated  from  content,  nor  can 
the  central  current  be  separated  from  "verbal  whirlpools."  It  is  true  that 
today  K.J.V.  is  harder  to  read  than  R.S.V.  This  difficulty,  though,  is  not  a 
defect  but  the  inevitable  accompaniment  of  virtues  that  R.S.V.  has  had  to 
remove  in  order  to  remove  the  difficulty.  The  difficulty  in  reading  K.J.V. 
is  simply  that  it  is  high  art,  which  will  always  demand  more  from  the  reader, 
for  it  makes  its  appeal  on  so  many  planes.  "Ulysses"  and  "The  Waste  Land," 
while  modern  works,  are  more  difficult  in  this  sense  than  an  eighteenth- 
century  newspaper.  It  is  the  price  of  artistic  quality,  and  the  Revisers  are 
unwilling  to  pay  it.  Probably  the  main  obstacle  in  K.J.V.  today  is  its  archaic 
style— the  obsolete  grammatical  usage,  the  inversions^  and  all  the  other  de- 
vices of  Elizabethan  English.  But  our  culture  is  lucky— or  was  until  R.S.V. 
came  along— in  having  in  K.J.V.  a  great  literary  monument  to  which,  because 
it  also  happens  to  have  a  religious  function,  practically  everybody,  no  mat- 
ter how  unliterary  or  meagrely  educated,  was  at  some  time  exposed,  in 
church  or  Sunday  school  or  at  home.  «  13 


170 


EVALUATING    A    WORK    AS    LITERATURE 


Questions 

IN  THE  first  paragraph,  what  does  the 
author  mean  by  the  phrase,  "to 
accomplish  this  alchemy  in  reverse"? 
How  does  he  claim  the  revisers  have 
done  this?  Do  the  examples  which  he 
gives  in  paragraphs  1  and  2  justify  his 
claims? 

2.  In  paragraph  3,  the  author  men- 
tions   "officiousness."     What    does    he 
mean    by    this?     Through    how    many 
paragraphs  does  his  discussion  of  this 
extend?    How  valid   are   his   attitudes 
in  these  paragraphs? 

3.  Further  along  in  the  essay,  Mac- 
Donald  complains  that  the  poetic  qual- 
ities found  in  the  K.J.V.  have  vanished 
from  the  R.S  V.    What  qualities  do  you 
think  he  has  in  mind?   Are  these  prop- 


erly called  "poetic"?   Are  his  criticisms 
under  this  heading  sound? 

4.  What  are  the  author's  chief  cri- 
teria?   Do  you  approve  or  disapprove 
of  them?   Why? 

5.  Judging  by  the  standard  of  effi- 
ciency (see  pp.  159-160),  how  do  you 
rate    for    literary    excellence    the    pas- 
sages by    (a)    Shapiro    (p.    113),    (b) 
Sandburg  (p.  141),  Morison  and  Com- 
mager    (p     135)?    How   do   you   rate 
these  same  pieces  as  literature  using  the 
standard  of  truth? 

6.  Are    any    of   the   passages    men- 
tioned   in    question    5    "great"    prose? 
Good  prose?  Justify  your  answer. 

7.  What  elements  of  distinction  do 
you  find  in  Edmund  Wilson's  essay  (p. 
151)?  What  passages  would  you  cite  to 
justify  your  claims? 


THE    COLUMBIA    ENCYCLOPEDIA 


Fort  Laramie  National  Monument 


FORT  LARAMIE  NATIONAL  MONUMENT,  214.41  acres,  E  Wyo.,  SE  of  Casper. 
Fort  Laramie,  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Laramie  c.2  mi.  above  its  junction 
with  the  North  Platte,  was  founded  (1834)  as  a  trading  post  by  Sublette 
and  Campbell.  It  came  into  the  possession  of  the  American  Fur  Company 
in  1836.  In  1849  it  became  a  U.S.  military  post,  which  in  subsequent  years 
was  a  major  stopping  place  on  the  OVERLAND  TRAIL.  The  fort  was  garri- 
soned until  1890.  In  1938  it  was  made  a  national  monument.  See  L.  R.  Hafen 
and  F.  M.  Young,  Fort  Laramie  and  the  Pageant  of  the  West  ( 1938).  «  * 


Questions 

WHAT  is  the  purpose  of  the  author 
of  this  article  from  The  Columbia 
Encyclopedia?  To  what  extent  do  you 


think  he  accomplishes  his  purpose? 

2.  By  what  standards  of  literary  ex- 
cellence can  this  be  called  good  writ- 
ing? by  what  standards,  undistin- 
guished writing? 


Reprinted  with  permission  from  The  Columbia  Encyclopedia,  Columbia  University 
Press. 


PORT   LARAMIE   NATIONAL   MONUMENT        171 


L.  R.  HAFEN  and  F.  M.  YOUNG  Fort  Laramie  in  1846 

THE  EMIGRATION  that  passed  Fort  Laramie  in  1846  numbered  about  half 
that  of  the  preceding  year.  Among  these  homeseekers  were  such 
prominent  persons  as  ex-Governor  L.  W.  Boggs  and  his  family  from  Missouri; 
W.  H.  Russell,  later  to  be  Father  of  the  Pony  Express;  and  Edwin  Bryant, 
journalist  of  this  year's  migration.1  «  I 

At  the  Laramie  river  the  advance  wagons  found  a  raft  made  of  logs  tied 
together  with  buffalo  hide  on  which  they  were  able  to  ferry  their  wagons 
across  the  stream.2  «  2 

Mr.  Bryant  visited  Fort  Laramie  and  recorded  for  us  his  observations. 
"On  three  sides  of  the  court,  next  to  the  walls,"  he  writes,  "are  various  offices, 
store-rooms,  and  mechanical  shops.  The  other  side  is  occupied  by  the  main 
building  of  the  fort,  two  stories  in  height."  He  noted  two  brass  swivels  de- 
fending the  gate.  «  3 

Attempts  had  been  made  at  growing  corn,  wheat  and  potatoes,  he  learned, 
but  these  experiments  had  met  with  little  success.  The  Indians  were  averse 
to  all  agriculture  and  had  on  one  or  two  occasions  destroyed  the  growing 
corn  and  vegetables.  But  the  Fur  company  employees  were  raising  some 
cattle  and  poultry  and  provided  milk  and  butter  for  their  own  use.  Mr. 
Bryant  was  invited  to  dine  at  the  fort,  the  dinner  consisting  of  boiled  beef, 
biscuit  and  milk.  Bordeau,  the  thirty-year-old  principal  of  the  establish- 
ment, explained  that  this  was  their  usual  fare,  when  they  had  flour.  But  in  the 
absence  of  bread  they  lived  on  fresh  buffalo  meat,  venison,  salt  beef  and 
milk.3  «4 

One  of  the  companies  of  this  year,  the  Donner  party,  was  destined  to  be 
remembered  because  of  its  fate.  On  reaching  Fort  Bridger  it  took  the  Hast- 
ings Cutoff  south  of  Great  Salt  Lake.  Being  compelled  to  make  a  new  road 
it  was  so  delayed  that  it  was  caught  in  the  snows  of  the  high  Sierras.  Of 
the  eighty-one  in  the  party,  only  forty-five  survived  the  terrible  ordeals  of 
that  fateful  winter.4  «  B 

There  was  much  excitement  and  preparation  for  war  among  the  Sioux 
in  the  summer  of  1846.  "The  Whirlwind,"  Oglala  chief,  was  leader  in  these 
plans,  which  were  directed  against  the  Shoshones  (Snakes).  Inasmuch  as 

Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  The  Arthur  H.  Clark  Company,  from  Doctor 
LcRoy  Hafen's  Fort  Laramie  and  the  Pageant  of  the  West.  Copyright,  1938,  by  The 
Arthur  H.  Clark  Company. 

1  Edwin  Bryant,  Rocky  Mountain  Adventures.  See  also  Niles  Register,  LXX,  211  (June 
6,  1846). 

2  Luella  Dickenson,  Reminiscences  of  a  Trip  Across  the  Plains  in  1846  (1904),  16. 
8  Bryant,  op.  cit.,  109. 

4  C.  F.  McGlashan,  History  of  the  Donner  Party,  gives  a  good  general  account. 

172        EVALUATING   A   WORK   AS    LITERATURE 


war  would  interfere  greatly  with  the  trade,  Bordeau  exerted  himself  in  be- 
half of  peace.  He  gave  presents  to  the  chief  and  impressed  upon  him  the 
losses  that  resulted  from  war.  Whisky  obtained  at  Fort  Bernard  by  some 
of  the  cooperating  bands  caused  jealousies  and  rivalries  to  develop  which 
disrupted  the  campaign  against  the  Snakes.0  «  6 

The  Indians  must  have  devoted  themselves  more  to  buffalo  hunting  than 
to  war  during  the  winter,  for  the  Fort  Laramie  traders  were  able  to  procure 
from  them  1100  packs  of  robes.  There  was,  however,  at  least  one  Indian 
battle—between  the  Sioux  and  the  Pawnees  at  the  forks  of  the  Platte  in  late 
January,  1847— in  which  32  Pawnees  and  one  Sioux  were  killed.6  «  7 

5  Francis  Parkman,  The  Oregon  Trail,  113,  129-130. 

6  Publications  of  the  Nebraska  State  Historical  Society,  xx,  172. 

Questions  3'  what  is  the  PurPose  of  the  foot~ 

*-  notes?    Do  the  footnotes  affect  any  of 

WHAT  is  the  purpose  of  the  authors  your     judgments     about     the     literary 

in    this    excerpt    from    their    his-  worth  of  the  passage?    Do  you  think 

torical   account?    To    what   degree   do  footnotes    inevitably    detract    from    the 

they  achieve  their  purpose?  literary  excellence  of  a  piece  of  writing 

2.  By  what  standards  of  literary  ex-  or  do  you  think  that  they  are  an  irrele- 

cellence  can  this  be  called  good  writ-  vant  consideration  when  you  are  criti- 

ing?  undistinguished  writing?  cizing  writing  for  its  literary  qualities? 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN  Fort  Laramie 


E3KING  back,  after  the  expiration  of  a  year,  upon  Fort  Laramie  and  its 
inmates,  they  seem  less  like  a  reality  than  like  some  fanciful  picture 
of  the  olden  time;  so  different  was  the  scene  from  any  which  this  tamer  side 
of  the  world  can  present.  Tall  Indians,  enveloped  in  their  white  buffalo- 
robes,  were  striding  across  the  area  or  reclining  at  full  length  on  the  low 
roofs  of  the  buildings  which  enclosed  it.  Numerous  squaws,  gayly  bedizened 
sat  grouped  in  front  of  the  rooms  they  occupied;  their  mongrel  offspring, 
restless  and  vociferous,  rambled  in  every  direction  through  the  fort;  and 
the  trappers,  traders,  and  engages  of  the  establishment  were  busy  at  their 
labor  or  their  amusements.  «  I 

We  were  met  at  the  gate,  but  by  no  means  cordially  welcomed.  Indeed, 
we  seemed  objects  of  some  distrust  and  suspicion,  until  Henry  Chatillon 
explained  that  we  were  not  traders,  and  we,  in  confirmation,  handed  to  the 
bourgeois  a  letter  of  introduction  from  his  principals.  He  took  it,  turned 
it  upside  down,  and  tried  hard  to  read  it;  but  his  literary  attainments  not 

FORT   LARAMIE         173 


being  adequate  to  the  task,  he  applied  for  relief  to  the  clerk,  a  sleek,  smiling 
Frenchman,  named  Monthalon.  «  2 

The  letter  read,  Bordeaux  (the  bourgeois)  seemed  gradually  to  awaken 
to  a  sense  of  what  was  expected  of  him.  Though  not  deficient  in  hospitable 
intentions,  he  was  wholly  unaccustomed  to  act  as  master  of  ceremonies. 
Discarding  all  formalities  of  reception,  he  did  not  honor  us  with  a  single 
word,  but  walked  swiftly  across  the  area,  while  we  followed  in  some  admira- 
tion to  a  railing  and  a  flight  of  steps  opposite  the  entrance.  He  signed  to  us 
that  we  had  better  fasten  our  horses  to  the  railing;  then  he  walked  up  the 
steps,  tramped  along  a  rude  balcony,  and,  kicking  open  a  door,  displayed 
a  large  room,  rather  more  elaborately  furnished  than  a  barn.  For  furniture 
it  had  a  rough  bedstead,  but  no  bed;  two  chairs,  a  chest  of  drawers,  a  tin 
pail  to  hold  water,  and  a  board  to  cut  tobacco  upon.  A  brass  crucifix  hung  on 
the  wall,  and  close  at  hand  a  recent  scalp,  with  hair  full  a  yard  long,  was  sus- 
pended from  a  nail.  I  shall  again  have  occasion  to  mention  this  dismal  trophy, 
its  history  being  connected  with  that  of  our  subsequent  proceedings.  «  3 

This  apartment,  the  best  in  Fort  Laramie,  was  that  usually  occupied  by 
the  legitimate  bourgeois,  Papin,  in  whose  absence  the  command  devolved 
upon  Bordeaux.  The  latter,  a  stout,  bluff  little  fellow,  much  inflated  by  a 
sense  of  his  new  authority,  began  to  roar  for  buffalo-robes.  These  being 
brought  and  spread  upon  the  floor,  formed  our  beds;  much  better  ones  than 
we  had  of  late  been  accustomed  to.  «  4 

Our  arrangements  made,  we  stepped  out  to  the  balcony  to  take  a  more 
leisurely  survey  of  the  long-looked-for  haven  at  which  we  had  arrived  at 
last.  Beneath  us  was  the  square  area  surrounded  by  little  rooms,  or  rather 
cells,  which  opened  upon  it.  These  were  devoted  to  various  purposes,  but 
served  chiefly  for  the  accommodation  of  the  men  employed  at  the  fort,  or 
of  the  equally  numerous  squaws  whom  they  were  allowed  to  maintain  in  it. 
Opposite  to  us  rose  the  blockhouse  above  the  gateway;  it  was  adorned  with 
the  figure  of  a  horse  at  full  speed,  daubed  upon  the  boards  with  red  paint, 
and  exhibiting  a  degree  of  skill  which  might  rival  that  displayed  by  the 
Indians  in  executing  similar  designs  upon  their  robes  and  lodges.  A  busy 
scene  was  enacting  in  the  area.  The  wagons  of  Vaskiss,  an  old  trader,  were 
about  to  set  out  for  a  remote  post  in  the  mountains,  and  the  Canadians  were 
going  through  their  preparations  with  all  possible  bustle,  while  here  and 
there  an  Indian  stood  looking  on  with  imperturbable  gravity.  «  5 

Fort  Laramie  is  one  of  the  posts  established  by  the  "American  Fur  Com- 
pany/' which  wellnigh  monopolizes  the  Indian  trade  of  this  region.  Here 
its  officials  rule  with  an  absolute  sway;  the  arm  of  the  United  States  has 
little  force;  for  when  we  were  there,  the  extreme  outposts  of  her  troops 
were  about  seven  hundred  miles  to  the  eastward.  The  little  fort  is  built  of 
bricks  dried  in  the  sun,  and  externally  is  of  an  oblong  form,  with  bastions  of 

174        EVALUATING  A   WORK   AS   LITERATURE 


clay,  in  the  form  of  ordinary  blockhouses,  at  two  of  the  corners.  The  walls 
are  about  fifteen  feet  high,  and  surmounted  by  a  slender  palisade.  The  roofs 
of  the  apartments  within,  which  are  built  close  against  the  walls,  serve  the 
purpose  of  a  banquette.  «  6 

Within,  the  fort  is  divided  by  a  partition:  on  one  side  is  the  square  area, 
surrounded  by  the  store-rooms,  offices,  and  apartments  of  the  inmates;  on 
the  other  is  the  corral,  a  narrow  place,  encompassed  by  the  high  clay  walls, 
where  at  night,  or  in  presence  of  dangerous  Indians,  the  horses  and  mules 
of  the  fort  are  crowded  for  safe  keeping.  The  main  entrance  has  two  gates, 
with  an  arched  passage  intervening.  A  little  square  window,  high  above 
the  ground,  opens  laterally  from  nn  adjoining  chamber  into  this  passage; 
so  that  when  the  inner  gate  is  closed  and  barred,  a  person  without  may  still 
hold  communication  with  those  within,  through  this  narrow  aperture.  This 
obviates  the  necessity  of  admitting  suspicious  Indians,  for  purposes  of  trad- 
ing, into  the  body  of  the  fort;  for  when  danger  is  apprehended,  the  inner 
gate  is  shut  fast,  and  all  traffic  is  carried  on  by  means  of  the  window.  This 
precaution,  though  necessary  at  some  of  the  company's  posts,  is  seldom  re- 
sorted to  at  Fort  Laramie;  where,  though  men  are  frequently  killed  in  the 
neighborhood,  no  apprehensions  are  felt  of  any  general  designs  of  hostility 
from  the  Indians.  «  7 

We  did  not  long  enjoy  our  new  quarters  undisturbed.  The  door  was 
silently  pushed  open,  and  two  eyeballs  and  a  visage  as  black  as  night  looked 
in  upon  us;  then  a  red  arm  and  shoulder  intruded  themselves,  and  a  tall 
Indian,  gliding  in,  shook  us  by  the  hand,  grunted  his  salutation,  and  sat 
down  on  the  floor.  Others  followed,  with  faces  of  the  natural  hue,  and  letting 
fall  their  heavy  robes  from  their  shoulders,  took  their  seats,  quite  at  ease, 
in  a  semicircle  before  us.  The  pipe  was  now  to  be  lighted  and  passed  from 
one  to  another;  and  this  was  the  only  entertainment  that  at  present  they 
expected  from  us.  These  visitors  were  fathers,  brothers,  or  other  relatives 
of  the  squaws  in  the  fort,  where  they  were  permitted  to  remain,  loitering 
about  in  perfect  idleness.  «  8 

All  those  who  smoked  with  us  were  men  of  standing  and  repute.  Two  or 
three  others  dropped  in  also;  young  fellows  who  neither  by  their  years  nor 
their  exploits  were  entitled  to  rank  with  the  old  men  and  warriors,  and  who, 
abashed  in  the  presence  of  their  superiors,  stood  aloof,  never  withdrawing 
their  eyes  from  us.  Their  cheeks  were  adorned  with  vermilion,  their  ears 
with  pendants  of  shell,  and  their  necks  with  beads.  Never  yet  having  signal- 
ized themselves  as  hunters,  or  performed  the  honorable  exploit  of  killing 
a  man,  they  were  held  in  slight  esteem,  and  were  diffident  and  bashful  in 
proportion.  Certain  formidable  inconveniences  attended  this  influx  of  visi- 
tors. They  were  bent  on  inspecting  everything  in  the  room;  our  equipments 
and  our  dress  alike  underwent  their  scrutiny;  for  though  the  contrary  has 

FORT   LARAMIE        175 


been  asserted,  few  beings  have  more  curiosity  than  Indians  in  regard  to 
subjects  within  their  ordinary  range  of  thought.  «  9 

As  to  other  matters,  indeed,  they  seem  utterly  indifferent.  They  will  not 
trouble  themselves  to  inquire  into  what  they  cannot  comprehend,  but  are 
quite  contented  to  place  their  hands  over  their  mouths  in  token  of  wonder, 
and  exclaim  that  it  is  "great  medicine."  With  this  comprehensive  solution, 
an  Indian  never  is  at  a  loss.  He  never  launches  into  speculation  and  con- 
jecture; his  reason  moves  in  its  beaten  track.  His  soul  is  dormant;  and  no 
exertions  of  the  missionaries,  Jesuit  or  Puritan,  of  the  old  world  or  of  the 
new,  have  as  yet  availed  to  arouse  it.  «  10 

As  we  were  looking,  at  sunset,  from  the  wall,  upon  the  desolate  plains 
that  surround  the  fort,  we  observed  a  cluster  of  strange  objects,  like  scaffolds, 
rising  in  the  distance  against  the  red  western  sky.  They  bore  aloft  some 
singular-looking  burdens;  and  at  their  foot  glimmered  something  white,  like 
bones.  This  was  the  place  of  sepulture  of  some  Dahcotah  chiefs,  whose 
remains  their  people  are  fond  of  placing  in  the  vicinity  of  the  fort,  in  the 
hope  that  they  may  thus  be  protected  from  violation  at  the  hands  of  their 
enemies.  Yet  it  has  happened  more  than  once,  and  quite  recently,  that 
war-parties  of  the  Crow  Indians,  ranging  through  the  country,  have  thrown 
the  bodies  from  the  scaffolds,  and  broken  them  to  pieces,  amid  the  yells  of 
the  Dahcotah,  who  remained  pent  up  in  the  fort,  too  few  to  defend  the 
honored  relics  from  insult.  The  white  objects  upon  the  ground  were  buffalo 
skulls,  arranged  in  the  mystic  circle  commonly  seen  at  Indian  places  of 
sepulture  upon  the  prairie.  «  i ' 

Questions  *n  answering  the  last  question,   list  a 

number  of  criteria  for  literary  excellence 

WHAT  is  Parkman's  purpose  in  this  and  show  how  the  selections  differ  in 

excerpt  from  The  Oregon  Trail?  excellence  according  to  each  criterion. 

How  well  does  he  achieve  his  purpose?  4.  Discuss  the  relationship  between 

2.  By  what  standards  of  literary  ex-  the  author's  purpose  and   the  literary 
cellence  can  this  be  called  good  writ-  excellence  of  his  writing,  basing  your 
ing?  undistinguished  writing?  discussion  on  the  relationships  you  ob- 

3.  Compare    the     three     selections.  serve  in  these  three  passages. 

(The  Hafen  and  Young  selection,  inci-  5.  Someone  has  defined  literature  as 

dentally,  deals  with  the  history  of  Fort  "human  experience  so  focused  and  pre- 

Laramie   for   the   year    that   Parkman  sented  that  we  may  readily  participate 

stopped  there  on  his  trip  to  the  West.)  in    the    experience    and    more    readily 

How  do  the  selections  differ  in  purpose?  than  in  everyday  life  perceive  its  espe- 

in  the  information  they  provide?  in  the  cial  qualities  and  meaning."    Using  this 

pictorial  quality  of  the  details?  in  sen-  definition  as  a  measuring  stick,  which 

tence  structure?  in  diction?  in  sentence  of  the  three  passages  do  you  think  best 

flow  and  rhythm?  in  literary  excellence?  deserves  to  be  called  literature?   Why? 


176 


EVALUATING    A    WORK    AS    UTKRATUHL 


part  3 

Problems  of 

the  modern   world 


Introduction 

THE  selections  in  Part  Three  of  this 
book  deal  with  important  problems 
and  issues  of  the  world  today.  You  will 
find  that  these  articles  vary  in  excel- 
lence according  to  any  of  the  evaluative 
tests  which  you  have  learned  to  apply 
to  factual  prose.  They  embody  varied 
forms;  in  literary  excellence  they  range 
from  competent  to  superb;  and  each 
group  sets  foith  contrasting  or  conflict- 
ing attitudes.  In  an  important  sense, 
therefore,  they  typify  the  range  of  the 
factual  reading  available  to  anyone  in- 
terested in  current  affairs. 

A  word   about   the   arrangement   of 


these  selections:  The  divisions  treat  in 
turn  education;  language;  literature  and 
the  arts;  religion  and  ethics;  mass 
media;  environment;  and  government. 
Each  of  these  divisions  is  introduced 
by  an  autobiographical  passage  which 
tells  of  the  personal  discovery  by  some 
writer  of  the  matter  dealt  with  in  that 
group.  Some  of  these  contacts  are 
shocking,  some  are  full  of  delight,  some 
are  a  mingling  of  pain  and  pleasure,  one 
is  comical.  All,  however,  show  insights 
into  experience  of  the  sort  that  makes 
problems  important  to  us  as  individ- 
uals Thereafter,  in  each  division,  au- 
thors argue  for  or  explain  varying 
points  of  view. 


EDUCATION 


IN  1786,  Thomas  Jefferson  wrote,  "I 
think  by  far  the  most  important  bill 
in  our  whole  code  is  that  for  the  diflu- 
sion  of  knowledge  among  the  people. 
No  other  sure  foundation  can  be  devised 
for  the  preservation  of  freedom  and  hap- 
piness." Thomas  Jefferson  expressed  an 
attitude  with  which  Americans  still  en- 
thusiastically agree.  But  there  always 
have  been,  and  probably  always  will  be, 
arguments  about  the  piecise  means  and 
ends  of  "the  diffusion  of  knowledge." 
The  passage  which  introduces  this  sec- 


tion tells  how  Lincoln  Steffens,  a  well- 
known  journalist  and  commentator  on 
American  politics,  made  a  very  impor- 
tant personal  discovery  about  education. 
Thereafter,  the  section  draws  together 
the  varying  formulas  set  forth  by  three 
opposite-minded  educators,  Robert 
Maynard  Hutchins,  Professor  John 
Dewey,  and  Professor  Ernest  Earnest. 
These  educators,  among  them,  advo- 
cate the  chief  solutions  which  are  of- 
fered to  the  problem  being  posed  by 
college  leaders  today. 


178 


EDUCATION 


LINCOLN  STEFFENS  I  become  a  student 

A  personal  discovery 

IT  is  POSSIBLE  to  get  an  education  at  a  university.  It  has  been  done;  not 
often,  but  the  fact  that  a  proportion,  however  small,  of  college  students 
do  get  a  start  in  interested,  methodical  study,  proves  my  thesis,  and  the  two 
personal  experiences  I  have  to  offer  illustrate  it  and  show  how  to  circumvent 
the  faculty,  the  other  students,  and  the  whole  college  system  of  mind-fixing. 
My  method  might  lose  a  boy  his  degree,  but  a  degree  is  not  worth  so  much 
as  the  capacity  and  the  drive  to  learn,  and  the  undergraduate  desire  for  an 
empty  baccalaureate  is  one  of  the  holds  the  educational  system  has  on  stu- 
dents. Wise  students  some  day  will  refuse  to  take  degrees,  as  the  best  men 
( in  England,  for  instance )  give,  but  do  not  themselves  accept,  titles. 

My  method  [used  at  the  University  of  California,  1885-1889]  was  hit  on 
by  accident  and  some  instinct.  I  specialized.  With  several  courses  pre- 
scribed, I  concentrated  on  the  one  or  two  that  interested  me  most,  and 
letting  the  others  go,  I  worked  intensively  on  my  favorites.  In  my  first  two 
years,  for  example,  I  worked  at  English  and  political  economy  and  read  phi- 
losophy. At  the  beginning  of  my  junior  year  I  had  several  cinches  in  history. 
Now  I  liked  history;  I  had  neglected  it  partly  because  I  rebelled  at  the  way 
it  was  taught,  as  positive  knowledge  unrelated  to  politics,  art,  life,  or  any- 
thing else.  The  professors  gave  us  chapters  out  of  a  few  books  to  read,  con, 
and  be  quizzed  on.  Blessed  as  I  was  with  a  "bad  memory,"  I  could  not 
commit  to  it  anything  that  I  did  not  understand  and  intellectually  need. 
The  bare  record  of  the  story  of  man,  with  names,  dates,  and  irrelative  events, 
bored  me.  But  I  had  discovered  in  my  readings  of  literature,  philosophy,  and 
political  economy  that  history  had  light  to  throw  upon  unhistorical  questions. 
So  I  proposed  in  my  junior  and  senior  years  to  specialize  in  history,  taking 
all  the  courses  required  and  those  also  that  I  had  flunked  in.  With  this  in 
mind  I  listened  attentively  to  the  first  introductory  talk  of  Professor  William 
Gary  Jones  on  American  constitutional  history.  He  was  a  dull  lecturer,  but 
I  noticed  that,  after  telling  us  what  pages  of  what  books  we  must  be  pre- 
pared in,  he  mumbled  off  some  other  references  "for  those  that  may  care  to 
dig  deeper." 

When  the  rest  of  the  class  rushed  out  into  the  sunshine,  I  went  up  to  the 
professor  and,  to  his  surprise,  asked  for  this  memorandum.  He  gave  it  to  me. 
Up  in  the  library  I  ran  through  the  required  chapters  in  the  two  different 
books,  and  they  differed  on  several  points.  Turning  to  the  other  authorities, 

From  The  Autobiography  of  Lincoln  Steffens,  copyright,  1931,  by  Harcourt,  Brace  and 
Company,  Inc.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 

I  BECOME   A  STUDENT        179 


I  saw  that  they  disagreed  on  the  same  facts  and  also  on  others.  The  librarian, 
appealed  to,  helped  me  search  the  book-shelves  till  the  library  closed,  and 
then  I  called  on  Professor  Jones  for  more  references.  He  was  astonished, 
invited  me  in,  and  began  to  approve  my  industry,  which  astonished  me.  I 
was  not  trying  to  be  a  good  boy;  I  was  better  than  that:  I  was  a  curious  boy. 
He  lent  me  a  couple  of  his  books,  and  I  went  off  to  my  club  to  read  them. 
They  only  deepened  the  mystery,  clearing  up  the  historical  question,  but 
leaving  the  answer  to  be  dug  for  and  written. 

The  historians  did  not  know!  History  was  not  a  science,  but  a  field  for 
research,  a  field  for  me,  for  any  young  man,  to  explore,  to  make  discoveries 
in  and  write  a  scientific  report  about.  I  was  fascinated.  As  I  went  on  from 
chapter  to  chapter,  day  after  day,  finding  frequently  essential  differences  of 
opinion  and  of  fact,  I  saw  more  and  more  work  to  do.  In  this  course,  Ameri- 
can constitutional  history,  I  hunted  far  enough  to  suspect  that  the  Fathers 
of  the  Republic  who  wrote  our  sacred  Constitution  of  the  United  States  not 
only  did  not,  but  did  not  want  to,  establish  a  democratic  government,  and 
I  dreamed  for  a  while— as  I  used  as  a  child  to  play  I  was  Napoleon  or  a 
trapper— I  promised  myself  to  write  a  true  history  of  the  making  of  the 
American  Constitution.  I  did  not  do  it;  that  chapter  has  been  done  or  well 
begun  since  by  two  men:  Smith  of  the  University  of  Washington  and  Beard 
(then)  of  Columbia  (afterward  forced  out,  perhaps  for  this  very  work). 
I  found  other  events,  men,  and  epochs  waiting  for  students.  In  all  my  other 
courses,  in  ancient,  in  European,  and  in  modern  history,  the  disagreeing  au- 
thorities carried  me  back  to  the  need  of  a  fresh  search  for  (or  of )  the  original 
documents  or  other  clinching  testimony.  Of  course  I  did  well  in  my  classes. 
The  history  professor  soon  knew  me  as  a  student  and  seldom  put  a  question 
to  me  except  when  the  class  had  flunked  it.  Then  Professor  Jones  would 
say,  "Well,  Steffens,  tell  them  about  it." 

Fine.  But  vanity  wasn't  my  ruling  passion  then.  What  I  had  was  a  quick- 
ening sense  that  I  was  learning  a  method  of  studying  history  and  that  every 
chapter  of  it,  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  the  end,  is  crying  out  to  be 
rewritten.  There  was  something  for  Youth  to  do;  these  superior  old  men  had 
not  done  anything,  finally. 

Years  afterward  I  came  out  of  the  graft  prosecution  office  in  San  Francisco 
with  Rudolph  Spreckels,  the  banker  and  backer  of  the  investigation.  We 
were  to  go  somewhere,  quick,  in  his  car,  and  we  couldn't.  The  chauffeur 
was  trying  to  repair  something  wrong.  Mr.  Spreckels  smiled;  he  looked 
closely  at  the  defective  part,  and  to  my  silent,  wondering  inquiry  he  an- 
swered: "Always,  when  I  see  something  badly  done  or  not  done  at  all,  I  see 
an  opportunity  to  make  a  fortune.  I  never  kick  at  bad  work  by  my  class: 
there's  lots  of  it  and  we  suffer  from  it.  But  our  failures  and  neglects  are 
chances  for  the  young  fellows  coming  along  and  looking  for  work." 

180     EDUCATION 


Nothing  is  done.  Everything  in  the  world  remains  to  be  done  or  done 
over.  "The  greatest  picture  is  not  yet  painted,  the  greatest  play  isn't  written 
(not  even  by  Shakespeare),  the  greatest  poem  is  unsung.  There  isn't  in  all 
the  world  a  perfect  railroad,  nor  a  good  government,  nor  a  sound  law." 
Physics,  mathematics,  and  especially  the  most  advanced  and  exact  of  the 
sciences,  are  being  fundamentally  revised.  Chemistry  is  just  becoming  a 
science;  psychology,  economics,  and  sociology  are  awaiting  a  Darwin,  whose 
work  in  turn  is  awaiting  an  Einstein.  If  the  rah-rah  boys  in  our  colleges 
could  be  told  this,  they  might  not  all  be  such  specialists  in  football,  petting 
parties,  and  unearned  degrees.  They  are  not  told  it,  however;  they  are  told 
to  learn  what  is  known.  This  is  nothing,  philosophically  speaking. 

Somehow  or  other  in  my  later  years  at  Berkeley,  two  professors,  Moses 
and  Howison,  representing  opposite  schools  of  thought,  got  into  a  contro- 
versy, probably  about  their  classes.  They  brought  together  in  the  house  of  one 
of  them  a  few  of  their  picked  students,  with  the  evident  intention  of  letting 
us  show  in  conversation  how  much  or  how  little  we  had  understood  of  their 
respective  teachings.  1  don't  remember  just  what  the  subject  was  that  they 
threw  into  the  ring,  but  we  wrestled  with  it  till  the  professors  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  Then  they  broke  in,  and  while  we  sat  silent  and  highly  enter- 
tained, they  went  at  each  other  hard  and  fast  and  long.  It  was  after  midnight 
when,  the  debate  over,  we  went  home.  I  asked  the  other  fellows  what  they 
had  got  out  of  it,  and  their  answers  showed  that  they  had  seen  nothing  but 
a  fine,  fair  fight.  When  I  laughed,  they  asked  me  what  I,  the  D.S.,1  had  seen 
that  was  so  much  more  profound. 

I  said  that  I  had  seen  two  highly-trained,  well-educated  Masters  of  Arts 
and  Doctors  of  Philosophy  disagreeing  upon  every  essential  point  of  thought 
and  knowledge.  They  had  all  there  was  of  the  sciences;  and  yet  they  could 
not  find  any  knowledge  upon  which  they  could  base  an  acceptable  con- 
clusion. They  had  no  test  of  knowledge;  they  didn't  know  what  is  and  what 
is  not.  And  they  have  no  test  of  right  and  wrong;  they  have  no  basis  for 
even  an  ethics. 

Well,  and  what  of  it?  They  asked  me  that,  and  that  I  did  not  answer.  I 
was  stunned  by  the  discovery  that  it  was  philosophically  true,  in  a  most 
literal  sense,  that  nothing  is  known;  that  it  is  precisely  the  foundation  that  is 
lacking  for  science;  that  all  we  call  knowledge  rested  upon  assumptions 
which  the  scientists  did  not  all  accept;  and  that,  likewise,  there  is  no  scien- 
tific reason  for  saying,  for  example,  that  stealing  is  wrong.  In  brief:  there  was 
no  scientific  basis  for  an  ethics.  No  wonder  men  said  one  thing  and  did 
another;  no  wonder  they  could  settle  nothing  either  in  life  or  in  the  acad- 
emies. 

1  "Damned  Stinker,"  a  nickname  given  by  the  other  students  to  Steffens  because  of  his 
activities  as  commander  of  the  cadet  corps  in  the  military  department. 

I  BECOME   A   STUDENT        181 


I  could  hardly  believe  this.  Maybe  these  professors,  whom  I  greatly 
respected,  did  not  know  it  all.  I  read  the  books  over  again  with  a  fresh  eye, 
with  real  interest,  and  I  could  see  that,  as  in  history,  so  in  other  branches  of 
knowledge,  everything  was  in  the  air.  And  I  was  glad  of  it.  Rebel  though 
I  was,  I  had  got  the  religion  of  scholarship  and  science;  I  was  in  awe  of  the 
authorities  in  the  academic  world.  It  was  a  release  to  feel  my  worship  cool 
and  pass.  But  I  could  not  be  sure.  I  must  go  elsewhere,  see  and  hear  other 
professors,  men  these  California  professors  quoted  and  looked  up  to  as  their 
high  priests.  I  decided  to  go  as  a  student  to  Europe  when  I  was  through 
with  Berkeley,  and  I  would  start  with  the  German  universities. 

My  father  listened  to  my  plan,  and  he  was  disappointed.  He  had  hoped 
I  would  succeed  him  in  his  business;  it  was  for  that  that  he  was  staying  in  it. 
When  I  said  that,  whatever  I  might  do,  I  would  never  go  into  business,  he 
said,  rather  sadly,  that  he  would  sell  out  his  interest  and  retire.  And  he  did 
soon  after  our  talk.  But  he  wanted  me  to  stay  home  and,  to  keep  me,  offered 
to  buy  an  interest  in  a  certain  San  Francisco  daily  paper.  He  had  evidently 
had  this  in  mind  for  some  time.  I  had  always  done  some  writing,  verse  at  the 
poetical  age  of  puberty,  then  a  novel  which  my  mother  alone  treasured. 
Journalism  was  the  business  for  a  boy  who  liked  to  write,  he  thought,  and  he 
said  I  had  often  spoken  of  a  newspaper  as  my  ambition.  No  doubt  I  had 
in  the  intervals  between  my  campaigns  as  Napoleon.  But  no  more.  I  was 
now  going  to  be  a  scientist,  a  philosopher.  He  sighed;  he  thought  it  over,  and 
with  the  approval  of  my  mother,  who  was  for  every  sort  of  education,  he  gave 
his  consent. 


ROBERT    MAYNARD    HUTCHINS 

The  autobiography  of  an  uneducated  man 

I  WAS  BORN  in  the  usual  way  forty-three  years  ago  and  brought  up  in  a  way 
that  was  not  unusual  for  persons  born  at  that  time.  We  had  morning 
prayers  with  a  Bible  reading  every  day.  We  went  to  church  twice  on  Sunday. 
The  result  of  the  first  is  that  I  was  amazed  three  weeks  ago  when  in  a  class 
I  was  teaching  I  found  a  senior  at  the  University  of  Chicago  who  had  never 
heard  of  Joshua.  The  result  of  the  second  is  that  it  is  very  hard  for  me  to  go 
to  church  now  and  that  I  find  myself  singing,  humming,  or  moaning  third- 

From  Education  for  Freedom  by  Robert  M.  Hutchins,  1943.   Reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  Louisiana  State  University  Press. 

182      EDUCATION 


rate  hymns  like  "Blest  Be  the  Tie  That  Binds"  while  shaving,  while  waiting 
on  the  platform  to  make  a  speech,  or  in  other  moments  of  abstraction  or  crisis. 

We  had  at  that  time  many  advantages  that  have  been  denied  to  college 
students  in  recent  years,  but  that  may  be  restored  to  their  successors.  We 
had  no  radios,  and  for  all  practical  purposes  no  automobiles,  no  movies,  and 
no  slick-paper  magazines.  We  had  to  entertain  ourselves.  We  could  not  by 
turning  a  small  knob  or  paying  a  small  fee  get  somebody  else  to  do  it  for  us. 
It  never  occurred  to  us  that  unless  we  could  go  somewhere  or  do  something 
our  lives  were  empty.  We  had  nowhere  to  go,  and  no  way  to  get  there.  Our 
recreations  were  limited  to  two:  reading  and  physical  exercise.  The  first 
meant  reading  anything  you  could  lay  your  hands  on.  The  second  meant 
playing  tennis. 

You  will  notice  that  the  circumstances  under  which  I  was  brought  up 
gave  me  some  knowledge  of  one  great  book,  the  Bible,  and  the  habit  of  read- 
ing. The  habit  of  physical  exercise  I  was  fortunately  forced  to  abandon  at 
an  early  date.  You  will  notice,  too,  that  the  educational  system  had  nothing 
to  do  with  any  of  these  accomplishments  or  habits.  I  do  not  remember  that 
I  ever  thought  about  being  educated  at  all.  I  thought  of  getting  through 
school.  This,  as  I  recall  it,  was  a  business  of  passing  examinations  and  meet- 
ing requirements,  all  of  which  were  meaningless  to  me  but  presumably  had 
some  meaning  to  those  who  had  me  in  their  power.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the 
Latin  and  Greek  I  studied  did  me  good.  All  I  can  say  is  that  I  was  not  aware 
of  it  at  the  time.  Nor  did  I  have  any  idea  of  the  particular  kind  of  good  it 
was  intended  to  do  me.  Since  I  had  got  the  habit  of  reading  at  home,  I  was 
perfectly  willing  to  read  anything  anybody  gave  me.  Apart  from  a  few  plays 
of  Shakespeare  nobody  gave  me  anything  good  to  read  until  I  was  a  sopho- 
more in  college.  Then  I  was  allowed  to  examine  the  grammar  and  philology 
of  the  Apology  of  Socrates  in  a  Greek  course.  And  since  I  had  had  an  unusual 
amount  of  German,  I  was  permitted  to  study  Faust. 

My  father  once  happened  to  remark  to  me  that  he  had  never  liked  mathe- 
matics. Since  I  admired  my  father  very  much,  it  became  a  point  of  honor 
with  me  not  to  like  mathematics  either.  I  finally  squeezed  through  Solid 
Geometry.  But  when,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  I  entered  Oberlin  College,  I 
found  that  the  authorities  felt  that  one  hard  course  was  all  anybody  ought 
to  be  asked  to  carry.  You  could  take  either  mathematics  or  Greek.  Of  course 
if  you  took  Greek  you  were  allowed  to  drop  Latin.  I  did  not  hesitate  a 
moment.  Languages  were  pie  for  me.  It  would  have  been  unfilial  to  take 
mathematics.  I  took  Greek,  and  have  never  seen  a  mathematics  book  since. 
I  have  been  permitted  to  glory  in  the  possession  of  an  unmathematical  mind. 

My  scientific  attainments  were  of  the  same  order.  I  had  a  course  in  physics 
in  prep  school.  Every  Oberlin  student  had  to  take  one  course  in  science, 

THE    AUIOBIOGRAPHY    OF   AN    UNEDUCATED   MAN         183 


because  every  Oberlin  student  had  to  take  one  course  in  everything— in 
everything,  that  is,  except  Greek  and  mathematics.  After  I  had  blown  up  all 
the  retorts  in  the  chemistry  laboratory  doing  the  Marsh  test  for  arsenic,  the 
chemistry  teacher  was  glad  to  give  me  a  passing  grade  and  let  me  go. 

My  philosophical  attainments  were  such  as  may  be  derived  from  a  ten 
weeks'  course  in  the  History  of  Philosophy.  I  do  not  remember  anything 
about  the  course  except  that  the  book  was  green  and  that  it  contained  pic- 
tures of  Plato  and  Aristotle.  I  learned  later  that  the  pictures  were  wholly 
imaginary  representations  of  these  writers.  I  have  some  reason  to  believe 
that  the  contents  of  the  books  bore  the  same  relation  to  their  doctrines. 

So  I  arrived  at  the  age  of  eighteen  and  the  end  of  my  sophomore  year. 
My  formal  education  had  given  me  no  understanding  of  science,  mathe- 
matics, or  philosophy.  It  had  added  almost  nothing  to  my  knowledge  of 
literature.  I  had  some  facility  with  languages,  but  today  I  cannot  read  Greek 
or  Latin  except  by  guesswork.  What  is  perhaps  more  important,  I  had  no 
idea  what  I  was  doing  or  why.  My  father  was  a  minister  and  a  professor. 
The  sons  of  ministers  and  the  sons  of  professors  were  supposed  to  go  to 
college.  College  was  a  lot  of  courses.  You  toiled  your  way  through  those 
which  were  required  and  for  the  rest  wandered  around  taking  those  that 
seemed  most  entertaining.  The  days  of  the  week  and  the  hours  of  the  day  at 
which  courses  were  offered  were  perhaps  the  most  important  factor  in  deter- 
mining the  student's  course  of  study. 

I  spent  the  next  two  years  in  the  Army.  Here  I  developed  some  knowledge 
of  French  and  Italian.  I  learned  to  roll  cigarettes,  to  blow  rings,  and  to 
swear.  I  discovered  that  there  was  a  world  far  from  Oberlin,  Ohio,  devoted 
to  wine,  women,  and  song;  but  I  was  too  well  brought  up  even  to  sing. 

The  horrors  of  war  are  all  that  they  are  supposed  to  be.  They  are  even 
worse;  for  the  worst  horror  can  never  be  written  about  or  communicated*  It 
is  the  frightful  monotony  and  boredom  which  is  the  lot  of  the  private  with 
nothing  to  think  about.  Since  my  education  had  given  me  nothing  to  think 
about,  I  devoted  myself,  as  the  alternative  to  suicide,  to  the  mastery  of  all 
the  arts  implied  in  the  verb  "to  soldier."  I  learned  to  protract  the  perform- 
ance of  any  task  so  that  I  would  not  be  asked  to  do  another.  By  the  end  of 
the  war  I  could  give  the  impression  that  I  was  busy  digging  a  ditch  without 
putting  my  pick  into  the  ground  all  day.  I  have  found  this  training  very  useful 
in  my  present  capacity.  But  on  the  whole,  aside  from  the  physiological 
benefits  conferred  upon  me  by  a  regular,  outdoor  life,  I  write  off  my  years  in 
the  Army  as  a  complete  blank.  The  arts  of  soldiering,  at  least  at  the  buck- 
private  level,  are  not  liberal  arts.  The  manual  of  arms  is  not  a  great  book. 

When  the  war  was  over,  I  went  to  Yale.  I  thought  I  would  study  history, 
because  I  could  not  study  mathematics,  science,  or  philosophy;  and  history 

184        EDUCATION 


was  about  all  there  was  left.  I  found  that  the  Yale  history  department  was 
on  sabbatical  leave.  But  I  found,  too,  that  you  could  take  your  senior  year 
in  the  Law  School  with  credit  for  the  bachelor's  degree.  So  I  decided  to  stay 
two  years  in  the  Yale  College  doing  all  of  my  last  year's  work  in  the  Law 
School. 

Yale  was  dissatisfied  with  my  year  of  blowing  up  retorts  in  the  Oberlin 
chemistry  laboratory.  Yale  said  I  had  to  take  another  science;  any  science 
would  do.  Discussion  with  my  friends  revealed  the  fact  that  the  elementary 
course  in  biology  was  not  considered  difficult  even  for  people  like  me.  I  took 
that  and  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  the  laboratory  cutting  up  frogs.  I  don't 
know  why.  I  can  tell  you  nothing  now  about  the  inside  of  a  frog.  In  addi- 
tion to  the  laboratory  we  had  lectures.  All  I  remember  about  them  is  that 
the  lecturer  lectured  with  his  eyes  closed.  He  was  the  leading  expert  in  the 
country  on  the  paramecium.  We  all  believed  that  he  lectured  with  his  eyes 
closed  because  he  had  to  stay  up  all  night  watching  the  paramecia  reproduce. 
Beyond  this  experience  Yale  imposed  no  requirements  on  me,  and  I  wan- 
dered aimlessly  around  until  senior  year. 

In  that  year  I  did  all  my  work  in  the  Law  School,  except  that  I  had  to  obey 
a  regulation  of  obscure  origin  and  purpose  which  compelled  every  Yale  Col- 
lege student  working  in  the  Law  School  to  take  one  two-hour  course  in  the 
College.  I  took  a  two-hour  course  in  American  Literature  because  it  was  the 
only  two-hour  course  in  the  College  which  came  at  twelve  o'clock.  A  special 
advantage  of  this  course  was  that  the  instructor,  who  was  much  in  demand 
as  a  lecturer  to  popular  audiences,  often  had  to  leave  at  12:20  to  make  the 
12:29  for  New  York. 

I  see  now  that  my  formal  education  began  in  the  Law  School.  My  formal 
education  began,  that  is,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
I  knew  then  that  I  was  getting  an  education.  I  am  sure  the  professors  did 
not  know  they  were  giving  me  one.  They  would  have  been  shocked  at  such 
an  insinuation.  They  thought  they  were  teaching  me  law.  They  did  not 
teach  me  any  law.  But  they  did  something  far  more  important:  they  intro- 
duced me  to  the  liberal  arts. 

It  is  sad  but  true  that  the  only  place  in  an  American  university  where  the 
student  is  taught  to  read,  write,  and  speak  is  the  law  school.  The  principal, 
if  not  the  sole,  merit  of  the  case  method  of  instruction  is  that  the  student  is 
compelled  to  read  accurately  and  carefully,  to  state  accurately  and  carefully 
the  meaning  of  what  he  has  read,  to  criticize  the  reasoning  of  opposing  cases, 
and  to  write  very  extended  examinations  in  which  the  same  standards  of 
accuracy,  care,  and  criticism  are  imposed.  It  is  too  bad  that  this  experience 
is  limited  to  very  few  students  and  that  those  few  arrive  at  the  stage  where 
they  may  avail  themselves  of  it  at  about  age  twenty-two.  It  is  unfortunate 

THE    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    AN    UNEDUCATED   MAN         185 


that  the  teachers  have  no  training  in  the  liberal  arts  as  such.  The  whole 
thing  is  on  a  rough-and-ready  basis,  but  it  is  grammar,  rhetoric,  and  logic 
just  the  same,  and  a  good  deal  better  than  none  at  all. 

One  may  regret,  too,  that  the  materials  upon  which  these  disciplines  are 
employed  are  no  more  significant  than  they  are.  No  case  book  is  a  great 
book.  Not  more  than  two  or  three  judges  in  the  history  of  Anglo-American 
law  have  been  great  writers.  One  who  is  immersed  long  enough  in  the  tur- 
gidities  of  some  of  the  masters  of  the  split  infinitive  who  have  graced  the 
American  bench  may  eventually  come  to  write  like  them. 

One  may  regret  as  well  that  no  serious  attempt  is  made  in  the  law  schools 
to  have  the  student  learn  anything  about  the  intellectual  history  of  the  intel- 
lectual content  of  the  law.  At  only  one  law  school  that  I  know  of  is  it  thought 
important  to  connect  the  law  with  ethics  and  politics.  In  most  law  schools 
there  is  a  course  in  Jurisprudence.  At  Yale  in  my  day  it  was  an  elective  one- 
semester  course  in  the  last  year,  and  was  ordinarily  taken  by  about  ten 
students.  Still,  the  Yale  Law  School  did  begin  my  formal  education.  Though 
it  was  too  little  and  too  late,  it  was  something,  and  I  shall  always  be  grateful 
for  it. 

After  I  graduated  from  college  and  ended  my  first  year  of  law  I  took  a 
year  and  a  half  off  and  taught  English  and  History  in  a  preparatory  school. 
This  continued  my  education  in  the  liberal  arts.  I  did  not  learn  any  history, 
because  the  school  was  solely  interested  in  getting  boys  through  the  College 
Board  Examinations.  We  taught  from  textbooks,  usually  the  most  compact 
we  could  find,  for  we  were  reasonably  sure  that  if  the  boys  had  memorized 
what  was  in  the  textbook  they  could  pass  the  examinations.  We  did  not 
allow  them  to  read  anything  except  the  textbook  for  fear  of  confusing  their 
minds. 

But  in  teaching,  and  especially  in  teaching  English  Composition,  I  dis- 
covered that  there  were  rules  of  reading,  writing,  and  speaking,  and  that  it 
was  worthwhile  to  learn  them,  and  even  to  try  to  teach  them.  I  came  to 
suspect,  for  the  first  time,  that  my  teachers  in  school  had  had  something  in 
mind.  I  began  to  fall  into  a  dangerous  heresy,  the  heresy  that  since  the  best 
way  to  learn  something  is  to  teach  it,  the  only  way  to  learn  anything  is  to 
teach  it.  I  am  sure  that  in  what  is  called  "the  curriculum"  of  the  conventional 
school,  college,  or  university  the  only  people  who  are  getting  an  education 
are  the  teachers.  They  work  in  more  or  less  coherent,  if  somewhat  narrow, 
fields,  and  they  work  in  more  or  less  intelligible  ways.  The  student,  on  the 
other  hand,  works  through  a  multifarious  collection  of  disconnected  courses 
in  such  a  way  that  the  realms  of  knowledge  are  likely  to  become  less  and 
less  intelligible  as  he  proceeds.  In  such  an  institution  the  only  way  to  learn 
anything  is  to  teach  it.  The  difficulty  with  this  procedure  is  that  in  the 

186         EDUCATION 


teacher's  early  years,  at  least,  it  is  likely  to  make  the  education  of  his  students 
even  worse  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been. 

After  continuing  my  education  in  the  liberal  arts  in  this  rather  unpleasant 
and  inefficient  way,  I  returned  to  Yale  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  became  an 
officer  of  the  University,  and  finished  my  law  work  out  of  hours.  Just  before 
I  was  about  to  graduate  from  the  Law  School  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  a  man 
who  was  scheduled  to  teach  in  the  School  that  summer  got  appendicitis,  and 
a  substitute  had  to  be  found.  Since  I  was  already  on  the  pay  roll  and  every- 
body else  was  out  of  town,  I  became  a  member  of  the  faculty  ot  the  Law 
School. 

Here  I  continued  my  education  in  the  liberal  arts,  this  time  unconsciously, 
for  I  was  no  more  aware  than  the  rest  of  the  faculty  that  the  liberal  arts  were 
what  we  were  teaching.  At  the  end  of  my  first  year  of  this  the  man  who  was 
teaching  the  law  of  Evidence  resigned,  and,  because  of  my  unusual  qualifi- 
cations, I  was  put  in  his  place.  My  qualifications  were  that  I  had  never 
studied  the  subject,  in  or  out  of  law  school,  and  that  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
disciplines  on  which  the  law  of  Evidence  is  founded,  namely  psychology  and 
logic. 

The  law  of  Evidence  bothered  me.  I  couldn't  understand  what  made  it  go. 
There  is  a  rule,  for  example,  that  evidence  of  flight  from  the  scene  of  a  crime 
is  admissible  as  tending  to  show  guilt.  After  painful  research  the  only  foun- 
dation I  could  find  for  this  was  the  statement,  emanating,  I  grant,  from  the 
very  highest  source,  that  the  wicked  flee  when  no  man  pursueth,  but  the 
righteous  are  as  bold  as  a  lion. 

There  is  a  rule  which  admits,  as  worthy  the  attention  of  the  jury,  utterances 
made  immediately  after  a  blow  on  the  head,  or  after  any  sudden  shock,  such 
as  having  somebody  say  "boo"  to  you.  As  far  as  I  could  discover,  this  doc- 
trine rested  on  the  psychological  principle,  long  held  incontrovertible,  that 
a  blow  on  the  head  or  having  somebody  say  4<boo"  to  him  prevents  even  the 
habitual  liar,  momentarily  but  effectually,  from  indulging  in  the  practice  of 
his  art.  Since  I  was  supposed  to  lead  my  students  to  the  knowledge  of  what 
the  rules  ought  to  be,  and  not  merely  of  what  they  were,  I  wanted  to  find 
out  whether  the  wicked  really  do  flee  when  no  man  pursueth,  whether  the 
righteous  really  are  as  bold  as  a  lion,  and  whether  you  really  can  startle  a  liar 
out  of  his  disregard  for  the  truth. 

It  was  obviously  impossible  to  conduct  controlled  experiments  on  these 
interesting  questions.  I  could  not  think  about  them,  because  I  had  had  no 
education.  The  psychologists  and  logicians  I  met  could  not  think  about 
them,  because  they  had  had  no  education  either.  I  could  think  about  legal 
problems  as  legal.  They  could  think  about  psychological  problems  as  psy- 
chological. I  didn't  know  how  to  think  about  legal  problems  as  psycho- 

THE   AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   AN    UNEDUCATED   MAN         187 


logical;  they  didn't  know  how  to  think  about  psychological  problems  as  legal. 
Finally,  I  heard  that  there  was  a  young  psychologist,  logician,  and  philoso- 
pher at  Columbia  by  the  name  of  Adler  who  was  actually  examining  the 
bible  of  all  Evidence  teachers,  the  seven  volumes  of  Wigmore  on  Evidence. 
A  man  who  was  willing  to  make  such  sacrifices  deserved  investigation,  and 
I  got  in  touch  with  Mr.  Adler  right  away. 

I  found  that  Mr.  Adler  was  just  as  uneducated  as  I  was,  but  that  he  had 
begun  to  get  over  it,  and  to  do  so  in  a  way  that  struck  me  as  very  odd.  He 
had  been  teaching  for  several  years  in  John  Erskine's  Honors  Course  in  the 
Great  Books  at  Columbia.  I  paid  no  attention  and  went  on  trying  to  find  out 
how  I  could  put  a  stopwatch  on  the  return  of  power  to  lie  after  a  blow  on 
the  head. 

I  now  transport  you  forward  four  years,  from  1925— to  1929.  I  am  Presi- 
dent of  the  University  of  Chicago.  Mr.  Adler  is  a  member  of  the  faculty  of 
the  University  of  Chicago.  We  had  fled  from  New  Haven  and  New  York, 
and  we  must  have  been  guilty,  for  we  had  fled  when  I  assure  you  no  man 
had  any  idea  of  pursuing  us.  By  this  time  Mr.  Adler  had  had  four  more 
years  with  the  Great  Books  at  Columbia.  He  looked  on  me,  my  work,  my 
education,  and  my  prospects  and  found  us  not  good.  He  had  discovered 
that  merely  reading  was  not  enough.  He  had  found  out  that  the  usefulness 
of  reading  was  some  way  related  to  the  excellence  of  what  was  read  and  the 
plan  for  reading  it.  I  knew  that  reading  was  a  good  thing,  but  had  hitherto 
been  under  the  impression  that  it  didn't  make  any  difference  what  you  read 
or  how  it  was  related  to  anything  else  you  read.  I  had  arrived  at  the  age  of 
thirty,  you  will  remember,  with  some  knowledge  of  the  Bible,  of  Shakespeare, 
of  Faust,  of  one  dialogue  of  Plato,  and  of  the  opinions  of  many  semi-literate 
and  a  few  literate  judges,  and  that  was  about  all.  Mr.  Adler  further  repre- 
sented to  me  that  the  sole  reading  matter  of  university  presidents  was  the 
telephone  book.  He  intimated  that  unless  I  did  something  drastic  I  would 
close  my  educational  career  a  wholly  uneducated  man.  He  broadly  hinted 
that  the  president  of  an  educational  institution  ought  to  have  some  educa- 
tion. For  two  years  we  discussed  these  matters,  and  then,  at  the  age  of 
thirty-two,  my  education  began  in  earnest. 

For  eleven  years  we  have  taught  the  Great  Books  in  various  parts  of  the 
University:  in  University  High  School,  in  the  College,  in  the  Humanities 
Division,  in  the  Law  School,  in  the  Department  of  Education,  in  University 
College,  the  extension  division,  four  hours  a  week  three  quarters  of  the  year. 
All  this  and  the  preparation  for  it  has  had  to  be  carried  on  between  board 
meetings,  faculty  meetings,  committee  meetings,  conferences,  trips,  speeches, 
money-raising  efforts,  and  attempts  to  abolish  football,  to  award  the  B.A.  at 
the  end  of  the  sophomore  year,  arid  otherwise  to  wreck  the  educational  sys- 


188 


EDUCATION 


tern.  Thanks  to  the  kind  co-operation  of  the  students,  I  have  made  some 
progress  with  my  education.  In  my  more  optimistic  moments  I  flatter  myself 
that  I  have  arrived  at  about  the  stage  which  I  think  the  American  sophomore 
should  have  reached.  But  this  is  an  exaggeration.  The  American  sopho- 
more, to  qualify  for  the  bachelor's  degree,  should  not  be  ignorant  of  mathe- 
matics and  science. 

Now  what  I  want  to  know  is  why  I  should  have  had  to  wait  until  age 
forty-three  to  get  an  education  somewhat  worse  than  that  which  any  sopho- 
more ought  to  have.  The  liberal  arts  are  the  arts  of  freedom.  To  be  free  a 
man  must  understand  the  tradition  in  which  he  lives.  A  great  book  is  one 
which  yields  up  through  the  liberal  arts  a  clear  and  important  understanding 
of  our  tradition.  An  education  which  consisted  of  the  liberal  arts  as  under- 
stood through  great  books  and  of  great  books  understood  through  the  liberal 
arts  would  be  one  and  the  only  one  which  would  enable  us  to  comprehend 
the  tradition  in  which  we  live.  It  must  follow  that  if  we  want  to  educate  our 
students  for  freedom,  we  must  educate  them  in  the  liberal  arts  and  in  the 
great  books.  And  this  education  we  must  give  them,  not  by  the  age  of 
forty-three,  but  by  the  time  they  are  eighteen,  or  at  the  latest  twenty. 

We  have  been  so  preoccupied  with  trying  to  find  out  how  to  teach  every- 
body to  read  anything  that  we  have  forgotten  the  importance  of  what  is  read. 
Yet  it  is  obvious  that  if  we  succeeded  in  teaching  everybody  to  read,  and 
everybody  read  nothing  but  pulp  magazines,  obscene  literature,  and  Mein 
Kampf,  the  last  state  of  the  nation  would  be  worse  than  the  first.  Literacy 
is  not  enough. 

The  common  answer  is  that  the  great  books  are  too  difficult  for  the 
modern  pupil.  All  I  can  say  is  that  it  is  amazing  how  the  number  of  too 
difficult  books  has  increased  in  recent  years.  The  books  that  are  now  too 
difficult  for  candidates  for  the  doctorate  were  the  regular  fare  of  grammar- 
school  boys  in  the  Middle  Ages  and  the  Renaissance.  Most  of  the  great  books 
of  the  world  were  written  for  ordinary  people,  not  for  professors  alone.  Mr. 
Adler  and  I  have  found  that  the  books  are  more  rather  than  less  effective 
the  younger  the  students  are.  Students  in  University  High  School  have 
never  heard  that  these  books  are  too  hard  for  them  and  that  they  shouldn't 
read  them.  They  have  not  had  time  to  get  as  miseducated  as  their  elders. 
They  read  the  books  and  like  them  because  they  think  they  are  good  books 
about  important  matters.  The  experience  at  St.  John's  College,  in  the  Hu- 
manities General  Course  at  Columbia,  in  the  General  Courses  of  the  College 
of  the  University  of  Chicago,  and  the  University  of  Chicago  College  course 
known  as  Reading,  Writing,  and  Criticism  is  the  same. 

Ask  any  foreign  scholar  you  meet  what  he  thinks  about  American  students. 
He  will  tell  you  that  they  are  eager  and  able  to  learn,  that  they  will  respond 

THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  UNEDUCATED  MAN        189 


to  the  best  that  is  offered  them,  but  that  they  are  miserably  trained  and 
dreadfully  unenlightened.  If  you  put  these  two  statements  together  you  can 
come  to  only  one  conclusion,  and  that  is  that  it  is  not  the  inadequacy  of  the 
students  but  the  inadequacy  of  the  environment  and  the  irresolution  of 
teachers  that  is  responsible  for  the  shortcomings  of  American  education. 

So  Quintilian  said:  "For  there  is  absolutely  no  foundation  for  the  complaint 
that  but  few  men  have  the  power  to  take  in  the  knowledge  that  is  imparted 
to  them,  and  that  the  majority  are  so  slow  of  understanding  that  education 
is  a  waste  of  time  and  labor.  On  the  contrary  you  will  find  that  most  are 
quick  to  reason  and  ready  to  learn.  Reasoning  comes  as  naturally  to  man 
as  flying  to  birds,  speed  to  horses  and  ferocity  to  beasts  of  prey:  our  minds 
are  endowed  by  nature  with  such  activity  and  sagacity  that  the  soul  is 
believed  to  proceed  from  heaven.  Those  who  are  dull  and  unteachable  are 
as  abnormal  as  prodigious  births  and  monstrosities,  and  are  but  few  in  num- 
ber. A  proof  of  what  I  say  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  boys  commonly 
show  promise  of  many  accomplishments,  and  when  such  promise  dies  away 
as  they  grow  up,  this  is  plainly  due  not  to  the  failure  of  natural  gifts,  but  to 
lack  of  the  requisite  care.  But,  it  will  be  urged,  there  are  degrees  of  talent. 
Undoubtedly,  I  reply,  and  there  will  be  a  corresponding  variation  in  actual 
accomplishment:  but  that  there  are  any  who  gain  nothing  from  education, 
I  absolutely  deny." 

When  we  remember  that  only  a  little  more  than  1500  years  ago  the 
ancestors  of  most  of  us,  many  of  them  painted  blue,  were  roaming  the  track- 
less forests  of  Caledonia,  Britain,  Germany,  and  transalpine  Gaul,  despised 
by  the  civilized  citizens  of  Rome  and  Antioch,  interested,  in  the  intervals 
of  rapine,  only  in  deep  drinking  and  high  gaming;  savage,  barbarous,  cruel, 
and  illiterate,  we  may  reflect  with  awe  and  expectation  on  the  potentialities 
of  our  race.  When  we  remember,  too,  that  it  is  only  a  little  more  than  fifty 
years  ago  that  the  "average  man"  began  to  have  the  chance  to  get  an  educa- 
tion, we  must  recognize  that  it  is  too  early  to  despair  of  him. 

The  President  of  Dalhousie  has  correctly  said,  "Over  most  of  Europe  the 
books  and  monuments  have  been  destroyed  and  bombed.  To  destroy  Euro- 
pean civilization  in  America  you  do  not  need  to  burn  its  records  in  a  single 
fire.  Leave  those  records  unread  for  a  few  generations  and  the  effect  will  be 
the  same." 

The  alternatives  before  us  are  clear.  Either  we  must  abandon  the  ideal  of 
freedom  or  we  must  educate  our  people  for  freedom.  If  an  education  in  the 
liberal  arts  and  in  the  great  books  is  the  education  for  freedom,  then  we  must 
make  the  attempt  to  give  this  education  to  all  our  citizens.  And  since  it  is 
a  long  job,  and  one  upon  which  the  fate  of  our  country  in  war  and  peace 
may  depend,  we  shall  have  to  start  now. 

190        EDUCATION 


JOHN    DEWEY 


The  democratic  faith  and  education 


NOT  EVEN  THE  MOST  far-seeing  of  men  could  have  predicted,  no  longer 
ago  than  fifty  years,  the  course  events  have  taken.  The  expectations 
that  were  entertained  by  men  of  generous  outlook  are  in  fact  chiefly  notable 
in  that  the  actual  course  of  events  has  moved,  and  with  violence,  in  the  oppo- 
site direction.  The  ardent  and  hopeful  social  idealist  of  the  last  century  or 
so  has  been  proved  so  wrong  that  a  reaction  to  the  opposite  extreme  has 
taken  place.  A  recent  writer  has  even  proposed  a  confraternity  of  pessimists 
who  should  live  together  in  some  sort  of  social  oasis.  It  is  a  fairly  easy 
matter  to  list  the  articles  of  that  old  faith  which,  from  the  standpoint  of  today, 
have  been  tragically  frustrated. 

The  first  article  on  the  list  had  to  do  with  the  prospects  of  the  abolition 
of  war,  It  was  held  that  the  revolution  which  was  taking  place  in  commerce 
and  communication  would  break  down  the  barriers  which  had  kept  the 
peoples  of  the  earth  alien  and  hostile  and  would  create  a  state  of  interde- 
pendence which  in  time  would  insure  lasting  peace.  Only  an  extreme  pessi- 
mist ventured  to  suggest  that  interdependence  might  multiply  points  of 
friction  and  conflict. 

Another  item  of  that  creed  was  the  belief  that  a  general  development  of 
enlightenment  and  rationality  was  bound  to  follow  the  increase  in  knowledge 
and  the  diffusion  which  would  result  from  the  revolution  in  science  that  was 
taking  place.  Since  it  had  long  been  held  that  rationality  and  freedom  were 
intimately  allied,  it  was  held  that  the  movement  toward  democratic  institu- 
tions and  popular  government  which  had  produced  in  succession  the  British, 
American,  and  French  Revolutions  was  bound  to  spread  until  freedom  and 
equality  were  the  foundations  of  political  government  in  every  country  of 
the  globe. 

A  time  of  general  ignorance  and  popular  unenlightenment  and  a  time  of 
despotic  and  oppressive  governmental  rule  were  taken  to  be  practically 
synonymous.  Hence  the  third  article  of  faith.  There  was  a  general  belief 
among  social  philosophers  that  governmental  activities  were  necessarily  more 
or  less  oppressive;  that  governmental  action  tended  to  be  an  artificial  inter- 
ference with  the  operation  of  natural  laws.  Consequently  the  spread  of 
enlightenment  and  democratic  institutions  would  produce  a  gradual  but 
assured  withering  away  of  the  powers  of  the  political  state.  Freedom  was 
supposed  to  be  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  very  nature  of  men  that  given  the 
spread  of  rational  enlightenment  it  would  take  care  of  itself  with  only  a 
minimum  of  political  action  confined  to  insuring  external  police  order. 

From  The  Ant  loch  Review,  June  1944.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Antioch  Re- 
view and  John  Dewey. 

THE  DEMOCRATIC    FAITH   AND   EDUCATION         191 


The  other  article  of  faith  to  be  mentioned  was  the  general  belief  that  the 
vast,  the  almost  incalculable,  increase  in  productivity  resulting  from  the 
industrial  revolution  was  bound  to  raise  the  general  standard  of  living  to  a 
point  where  extreme  poverty  would  be  practically  eliminated.  It  was  be- 
lieved that  the  opportunity  to  lead  a  decent,  self-respecting,  because  self- 
sufficient,  economic  life  would  be  assured  to  everyone  who  was  physically 
and  morally  normal. 

The  course  of  events  culminating  in  the  present  situation  suffice  to  show 
without  any  elaborate  argument  how  grievously  these  generous  expectations 
have  been  disappointed.  Instead  of  universal  peace,  there  are  two  wars 
worldwide  in  extent  and  destructive  beyond  anything  known  in  all  history. 
Instead  of  uniform  and  steady  growth  of  democratic  freedom  and  equality, 
we  have  the  rise  of  powerful  totalitarian  states  with  thorough-going  suppres- 
sion of  liberty  of  belief  and  expression,  outdoing  the  most  despotic  states  of 
previous  history.  We  have  an  actual  growth  in  importance  and  range  of 
governmental  action  in  legislation  and  administration  as  necessary  means  of 
rendering  freedom  on  the  part  of  the  many  an  assured  actual  fact.  Instead 
of  promotion  of  economic  security  and  movement  toward  the  elimination  of 
poverty,  we  have  had  a  great  increase  in  the  extent  and  the  intensity  of 
industrial  crises  with  great  increase  of  inability  of  workers  to  find  employ- 
ment. Social  instability  has  reached  a  point  that  may  portend  revolution  if 
it  goes  on  unchecked. 

Externally  it  looks  as  if  the  pessimists  had  the  best  of  the  case.  But  before 
we  reach  a  conclusion  on  that  point,  we  have  to  inquire  concerning  the 
solidity  of  the  premise  upon  which  the  idealistic  optimists  rested  their  case. 
This  principle  was  that  the  desirable  goals  held  in  view  were  to  be  accom- 
plished by  a  complex  of  forces  to  which  in  their  entirety  the  name  "Nature" 
was  given.  In  practical  effect,  acceptance  of  this  principle  was  equivalent  to 
adoption  of  a  policy  of  drift  as  far  as  human  intelligence  and  effort  were 
concerned.  No  conclusion  is  warranted  until  we  have  inquired  how  far 
failure  and  frustration  are  consequences  of  putting  our  trust  in  a  policy  of 
drift;  a  policy  of  letting  "George"  in  the  shape  of  Nature  and  Natural  Law 
do  the  work  which  only  human  intelligence  and  effort  could  possibly  accom- 
plish. No  conclusion  can  be  reached  until  we  have  considered  an  alterna- 
tive: What  is  likely  to  happen  if  we  recognize  that  the  responsibility  for 
creating  a  state  of  peace  internationally,  and  of  freedom  and  economic 
security  internally,  has  to  be  carried  by  deliberate  cooperative  human  effort? 
Technically  speaking  the  policy  known  as  Laissez-faire  is  one  of  limited 
application.  But  its  limited  and  technical  significance  is  one  instance  of  a 
manifestation  of  widespread  trust  in  the  ability  of  impersonal  forces,  popu- 
larly called  Nature,  to  do  a  work  that  has  in  fact  to  be  done  by  human 
insight,  foresight,  arid  purposeful  planning. 

192         EDUCATION 


Not  all  the  men  of  the  earlier  period  were  of  the  idealistic  type.  The 
idealistic  philosophy  was  a  positive  factor  in  permitting  those  who  prided 
themselves  upon  being  realistic  to  turn  events  so  as  to  produce  consequences 
dictated  by  their  own  private  and  class  advantage.  The  failure  of  coopera- 
tive and  collective  intelligence  and  effort  to  intervene  was  an  invitation  to 
immediate  short-term  intervention  by  those  who  had  an  eye  to  their  own 
profit.  The  consequences  were  wholesale  destruction  and  waste  of  natural 
resources,  increase  of  social  instability,  and  mortgaging  of  the  future  to  a 
transitory  and  brief  present  of  so-called  prosperity.  If  "idealists"  were  mis- 
guided in  what  they  failed  to  do,  "realists"  were  wrong  in  what  they  did. 
If  the  former  erred  in  supposing  that  the  drift  (called  by  them  progress  or 
evolution)  was  inevitably  toward  the  better,  the  latter  were  more  actively 
harmful  because  their  insistence  upon  trusting  to  natural  laws  was  definitely 
in  the  interest  of  personal  and  class  profit. 

The  omitted  premise  in  the  case  of  both  groups  is  the  fact  that  neither 
science  nor  technology  is  an  impersonal  cosmic  force.  They  operate  only  in 
the  medium  of  human  desire,  foresight,  aim,  and  effort.  Science  and  tech- 
nology are  transactions  in  which  man  and  nature  work  together  and  in 
which  the  human  factor  is  that  directly  open  to  modification  and  direction. 
That  man  takes  part  along  with  physical  conditions  in  invention  and  use  of 
the  devices,  implements,  and  machinery  of  industry  and  commerce  no  one 
would  think  of  denying. 

But  in  practice,  if  not  in  so  many  words,  it  has  been  denied  that  man  has 
any  responsibility  for  the  consequences  that  result  from  what  he  invents  and 
employs.  This  denial  is  implicit  in  our  widespread  refusal  to  engage  in 
large-scale  collective  planning.  Not  a  day  passes,  even  in  the  present  crisis, 
when  the  whole  idea  of  such  planning  is  not  ridiculed  as  an  emanation  from 
the  brain  of  starry-eyed  professors  or  of  others  equally  inept  in  practical 
affairs.  And  all  of  this  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  there  is  not  a  successful 
industrial  organization  that  does  not  owe  its  success  to  persistent  planning 
within  a  limited  field— with  an  eye  to  profit— to  say  nothing  of  the  terribly 
high  price  we  have  paid  in  the  way  of  insecurity  and  war  for  putting  our 
trust  in  drift. 

Refusal  to  accept  responsibility  for  looking  ahead  and  for  planning  in  mat- 
ters national  and  international  is  based  upon  refusal  to  employ  in  social 
affairs,  in  the  field  of  human  relations,  the  methods  of  observation,  interpre- 
tation, and  test  that  are  matters  of  course  in  dealing  with  physical  things, 
and  to  which  we  owe  the  conquest  of  physical  nature.  The  net  result  is  a 
state  of  imbalance,  of  profoundly  disturbed  equilibrium  between  our  physi- 
cal knowledge  and  our  social-moral  knowledge.  This  lack  of  harmony  is  a 
powerful  factor  in  producing  the  present  crisis  with  all  its  tragic  features. 
For  physical  knowledge  and  physical  technology  have  far  outstripped  social 

THE    DEMOCRATIC    FAITH    AND    EDUCATION          193 


or  humane  knowledge  and  human  engineering.  Our  failure  to  use  in  matters 
of  direct  human  concern  the  scientific  methods  which  have  revolutionized 
physical  knowledge  has  permitted  the  latter  to  dominate  the  social  scene. 

The  change  in  die  physical  aspect  of  the  world  has  gone  on  so  rapidly  that 
there  is  probably  no  ground  for  surprise  in  the  fact  that  our  psychological 
and  moral  knowledge  has  not  kept  pace.  But  there  is  cause  for  astonishment 
in  the  fact  that  after  the  catastrophe  of  war,  insecurity,  and  the  threat  to 
democratic  institutions  have  shown  the  need  for  new  moral  and  intellectual 
attitudes  and  habits  that  will  correspond  with  the  changed  state  of  the  world, 
there  should  be  a  definite  campaign  to  make  the  scientific  attitude  the  scape- 
goat for  present  evils,  while  a  return  to  the  beliefs  and  practices  of  a  pre- 
scientific  and  pretechnological  age  is  urged  as  the  road  to  our  salvation. 

ii 

THE  ORGANIZED  ATTACK  now  being  made  against  science  and  against 
technology  as  inherently  materialistic  and  as  usurping  the  place  prop- 
erly held  by  abstract  moral  precepts— abstract  because  divorcing  ends  from 
the  means  by  which  they  must  be  realized— defines  the  issue  we  now  have 
to  face.  Shall  we  go  backwards  or  shall  we  go  ahead  to  discover  and  put 
into  practice  the  means  by  which  science  and  technology  shall  be  made  fun- 
damental in  the  promotion  of  human  welfare?  The  failure  to  use  scientific 
methods  in  creating  understanding  of  human  relationships  and  interests  and 
in  planning  measures  and  policies  that  correspond  in  human  affairs  to  the 
technologies  in  physical  use  is  easily  explained  in  historical  terms.  The  new 
science  began  with  things  at  the  furthest  remove  from  human  affairs, 
namely  with  the  stars  of  the  heavens.  From  astronomy  the  new  methods 
went  on  to  win  their  victories  in  physics  and  chemistry.  Still  later  science 
was  applied  in  physiological  and  biological  subject-matter.  At  every  stage, 
the  advance  met  determined  resistance  from  the  representatives  of  estab- 
lished institutions  who  felt  their  prestige  was  bound  up  with  maintenance 
of  old  beliefs  and  found  their  class-control  of  others  being  threatened.  In 
consequence,  many  workers  in  science  found  that  the  easiest  way  in  which 
to  procure  an  opportunity  to  carry  on  their  inquiries  was  to  adopt  an  attitude 
of  extreme  specialization.  The  effect  was  equivalent  to  the  position  that  their 
methods  and  conclusions  were  not  and  could  not  be  "dangerous,"  since  they 
had  no  point  of  contact  with  man's  serious  moral  concerns.  This  position  in 
turn  served  to  perpetuate  and  confirm  the  older  separation  of  man  as  man 
from  the  rest  of  nature  and  to  intensify  the  split  between  the  "material"  and 
the  moral  and  "ideal." 

Thus  it  has  come  about  that  when  scientific  inquiry  began  to  move  from 
its  virtually  complete  victories  in  astronomy  and  physics  and  its  partial  vic- 
tory in  the  field  of  living  things  over  into  the  field  of  human  affairs  and 

194         EDUCATION 


concerns,  the  interests  and  institutions  that  offered  resistance  to  its  earlier 
advance  are  gathering  themselves  together  for  a  final  attack  upon  that  aspect 
of  science  which  in  truth  constitutes  its  supreme  and  culminating  signifi- 
cance. On  the  principle  that  offense  is  the  best  defense,  respect  for  science 
and  loyalty  to  its  outlook  are  attacked  as  the  chief  source  of  all  our  present 
social  ills.  One  may  read,  for  example,  in  current  literature  such  a  con- 
descending concession  as  marks  the  following  passage:  "Of  course,  the  scien- 
tific attitude,  though  often  leading  to  such  a  catastrophe,  is  not  to  be 
condemned/'  the  immediate  context  showing  that  the  particular  "catastro- 
phe" in  mind  consists  of  "errors  leading  to  war  .  .  .  derived  from  an  incor- 
rect theory  of  truth."  Since  these  errors  are  produced  by  belief  in  the 
applicability  of  scientific  method  to  human  as  well  as  physical  facts,  the 
remedy,  according  to  this  writer,  is  to  abandon  "the  erroneous  application 
of  the  methods  and  results  of  natural  science  to  the  problems  of  human  life." 

In  three  respects  the  passage  is  typical  of  the  organized  campaign  now  in 
active  operation.  There  is  first  the  assertion  that  such  catastrophes  as  that 
of  the  present  war  are  the  result  of  devotion  to  scientific  method  and  conclu- 
sions. The  denunciation  of  "natural"  science  as  applied  to  human  affairs 
carries,  in  the  second  place,  the  implication  that  man  is  outside  of  and  above 
nature,  and  the  consequent  necessity  of  returning  to  the  medieval  prescien- 
tific  doctrine  of  a  supernatural  foundation  and  outlook  in  all  social  and  moral 
subjects.  Then  thirdly  there  is  the  assumption,  directly  contrary  to  fact,  that 
the  scientific  method  has  at  the  present  time  been  seriously  and  system- 
atically applied  to  the  problems  of  human  life. 

I  dignify  the  passage  quoted  by  this  reference  to  it  because  it  serves  quite 
as  well  as  a  multitude  of  other  passages  from  reactionaries  would  to  convey 
a  sense  of  the  present  issue.  It  is  true  that  the  results  of  natural  science  have 
had  a  large  share,  for  evil  as  well  as  for  good,  in  bringing  the  world  to  its 
present  pass.  But  it  is  equally  true  that  "natural"  science  has  been  identified 
with  physical  science  in  a  sense  in  which  the  physical  is  set  over  against  the 
human.  It  is  true  that  the  interests  and  institutions  which  are  now  attacking 
science  are  just  the  forces  which  in  behalf  of  a  supernatural  center  of  gravity 
are  those  that  strive  to  maintain  this  tragic  split  in  human  affairs.  Now  the 
issue,  as  is  becoming  clearer  every  day,  is  whether  we  shall  go  backward  or 
whether  we  shall  go  forward  toward  recognition  in  theory  and  practice  of  the 
indissoluble  unity  of  the  humanistic  and  the  naturalistic. 

in 

WHAT  HAS  ALL  THIS  to  do  with  education?  The  answer  to  this  question 
may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  those  who  are  engaged  in  assault 
upon  science  center  their  attacks  upon  the  increased  attention  given  by  our 
schools  to  science  and  to  its  application  in  vocational  training.   In  a  world 

THE  DEMOCRATIC   FAITH   AND  EDUCATION        195 


which  is  largely  what  it  is  today  because  of  science  and  technology  they 
propose  that  education  should  turn  its  back  upon  even  the  degree  of  recog- 
nition science  and  technology  have  received.  They  propose  we  turn  our  face 
to  the  medievalism  in  which  so-called  "liberal"  arts  were  identified  with 
literary  arts:  a  course  natural  to  adopt  in  an  age  innocent  of  knowledge  of 
nature,  an  age  in  which  the  literary  arts  were  the  readiest  means  of  rising 
above  barbarism  through  acquaintance  with  the  achievements  of  Greek- 
Roman  culture.  Their  proposal  is  so  remote  from  the  facts  of  the  present 
world,  it  involves  such  a  bland  ignoring  of  actualities,  that  there  is  a  tempta- 
tion to  dismiss  it  as  idle  vaporing.  But  it  would  be  a  tragic  mistake  to  take 
the  reactionary  assaults  so  lightly.  For  they  are  an  expression  of  just  the 
forces  that  keep  science  penned  up  in  a  compartment  labelled  "materialistic 
and  antihuman."  They  strengthen  all  the  habits  and  institutions  which 
render  that  which  is  morally  "ideal"  impotent  in  action  and  which  leave  the 
"material"  to  operate  without  humane  direction. 

Let  me  return  for  the  moment  to  my  initial  statement  that  the  basic  error 
of  social  idealists  was  the  assumption  that  something  called  "natural  law" 
could  be  trusted,  with  only  incidental  cooperation  by  human  beings,  to 
bring  about  the  desired  ends.  The  lesson  to  be  learned  is  that  human  atti- 
tudes and  efforts  are  the  strategic  center  for  promotion  of  the  generous  aims 
of  peace  among  nations;  promotion  of  economic  security;  the  use  of  political 
means  in  order  to  advance  freedom  and  equality;  and  the  worldwide  cause 
of  democratic  institutions.  Anyone  who  starts  from  this  premise  is  bound  to 
see  that  it  carries  with  it  the  basic  importance  of  education  in  creating  the 
habits  and  the  outlook  that  are  able  and  eager  to  secure  the  ends  of  peace, 
democracy,  and  economic  stability. 

When  this  is  seen,  it  will  also  be  seen  how  little  has  actually  been  done  in 
our  schools  to  render  science  and  technology  active  agencies  in  creating  the 
attitudes  and  dispositions  and  in  securing  the  kinds  of  knowledge  that  are 
capable  of  coping  with  the  problems  of  men  and  women  today.  Externally 
a  great  modification  has  taken  place  in  subjects  taught  and  in  methods  of 
teaching  them.  But  when  the  changes  are  critically  examined  it  is  found  that 
they  consist  largely  in  emergency  concessions  and  accommodation  to  the 
urgent  conditions  and  issues  of  the  contemporary  world.  The  standards  and 
the  controlling  methods  in  education  are  still  mainly  those  of  a  prescien- 
tific  and  pretechnological  age.  This  statement  will  seem  to  many  persons 
to  be  exaggerated.  But  consider  the  purposes  which  as  a  rule  still  govern 
instruction  in  just  those  subjects  that  are  taken  to  be  decisively  "modern," 
namely  science  and  vocational  preparation.  Science  is  taught  upon  the 
whole  as  a  body  of  readymade  information  and  technical  skills.  It  is  not 

196        EDUCATION 


taught  as  furnishing  in  its  method  the  pattern  for  all  effective  intelligent 
conduct.  It  is  taught  upon  the  whole  not  with  respect  to  the  way  in  which 
it  actually  enters  into  human  life,  and  hence  as  a  supremely  humanistic  sub- 
ject, but  as  if  it  had  to  do  with  a  world  which  is  "external"  to  human  con- 
cerns. It  is  not  presented  in  connection  with  the  ways  in  which  it  actually 
enters  into  every  aspect  and  phase  of  present  human  life.  And  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  add  that  still  less  is  it  taught  in  connection  with  what  scientific 
knowledge  of  human  affairs  might  do  in  overcoming  sheer  drift.  Scientific 
method  and  conclusions  will  not  have  gained  a  fundamentally  important 
place  in  education  until  they  are  seen  and  treated  as  supreme  agencies  in 
giving  direction  to  collective  and  cooperative  human  behavior. 

The  same  sort  of  thing  is  to  be  said  about  the  kind  of  use  now  made  in 
education  of  practical  and  vocational  subjects,  so  called.  The  reactionary 
critics  are  busy  urging  that  the  latter  subjects  be  taught  to  the  masses— 
who  are  said  to  be  incapable  of  rising  to  the  plane  of  the  "intellectual"  but 
who  do  the  useful  work  which  somebody  has  to  do,  and  who  may  be  taught 
by  vocational  education  to  do  it  more  effectively.  This  view  is  of  course  an 
open  and  avowed  attempt  to  return  to  that  dualistic  separation  of  ideas 
arid  action,  of  the  "intellectual"  and  the  "practical,"  of  the  liberal  and  servile 
arts,  that  marked  the  feudal  age.  And  this  reactionary  move  in  perpetuation 
of  the  split  from  which  the  world  is  suffering  is  offered  as  a  cure,  a  panacea, 
not  as  the  social  and  moral  quackery  it  actually  is.  As  is  the  case  with  science, 
the  thing  supremely  needful  is  to  go  forward.  And  the  forward  movement 
in  the  case  of  technology  as  in  the  case  of  science  is  to  do  away  with  the 
chasm  which  ancient  and  medieval  educational  practice  and  theory  set  up 
between  the  liberal  and  the  vocational,  not  to  treat  the  void,  the  hole,  con- 
stituted by  this  chasm,  as  if  it  were  a  foundation  for  the  creation  of  free 
society. 

There  is  nothing  whatever  inherent  in  the  occupations  that  are  socially 
necessary  and  useful  to  divide  them  into  those  which  are  "learned"  profes- 
sions and  those  which  are  menial,  servile,  and  illiberal.  As  far  as  such  a 
separation  exists  in  fact  it  is  an  inheritance  from  the  earlier  class  structure 
of  human  relations.  It  is  a  denial  of  democracy.  At  the  very  time  when  an 
important,  perhaps  the  important,  problem  in  education  is  to  fill  education 
having  an  occupational  direction  with  a  genuinely  liberal  content,  we  have, 
believe  it  or  riot,  a  movement,  such  as  is  sponsored  for  example  by  President 
Hutchins,  to  cut  vocational  training  off  from  any  contact  with  what  is  liberat- 
ing by  relegating  it  to  special  schools  devoted  to  inculcation  of  technical 
skills.  Inspiring  vocational  education  with  a  liberal  spirit  and  filling  it  with 
a  liberal  content  is  not  a  Utopian  dream.  It  is  a  demonstrated  possibility  in 

THE   DEMOCRATIC    FAITH    AND   EDUCATION         197 


schools  here  and  there  in  which  subjects  usually  labelled  "practically  useful" 
are  taught  charged  with  scientific  understanding  and  with  a  sense  of  the 
social-moral  applications  they  potentially  possess. 

IV 

IF  LITTLE  is  SAID  in  the  foregoing  remarks  specifically  upon  the  topic  of 
democratic  faith,  it  is  because  their  bearing  upon  a  democratic  outlook 
largely  appears  upon  their  very  face.  Conditions  in  this  country  when  the 
democratic  philosophy  of  life  and  democratic  institutions  were  taking  shape 
were  such  as  to  encourage  a  belief  that  the  latter  were  so  natural  to  man, 
so  appropriate  to  his  very  being,  that  if  they  were  once  established  they 
would  tend  to  maintain  themselves.  I  cannot  rehearse  here  the  list  of  events 
that  have  given  this  naive  faith  a  shock.  They  are  contained  in  every  delib- 
erate attack  upon  democracy  and  in  every  expression  of  cynicism  about  its 
past  failures  and  pessimism  about  its  future— attacks  and  expressions  which 
have  to  be  taken  seriously  if  they  are  looked  at  as  signs  of  trying  to  establish 
democracy  as  an  end  in  separation  from  the  concrete  means  upon  which 
the  end  depends. 

Democracy  is  not  an  easy  road  to  take  and  follow.  On  the  contrary,  it  is 
as  far  as  its  realization  is  concerned  in  the  complex  conditions  of  the  con- 
temporary world  a  supremely  difficult  one.  Upon  the  whole  we  are  entitled 
to  take  courage  from  the  fact  that  it  has  worked  as  well  as  it  has  done.  But 
to  this  courage  we  must  add,  if  our  courage  is  to  be  intelligent  rather  than 
blind,  the  fact  that  successful  maintenance  of  democracy  demands  the  ut- 
most in  use  of  the  best  available  methods  to  procure  a  social  knowledge  that 
is  reasonably  commensurate  with  our  physical  knowledge,  and  the  invention 
and  use  of  forms  of  social  engineering  reasonably  commensurate  with  our 
technological  abilities  in  physical  affairs. 

This  then  is  the  task  indicated.  It  is,  if  we  employ  large  terms,  to  human- 
ize science.  This  task  in  the  concrete  cannot  be  accomplished  save  as  the 
fruit  of  science,  which  is  named  technology,  is  also  humanized.  And  the  task 
can  be  executed  in  the  concrete  only  as  it  is  broken  up  into  vital  applications 
of  intelligence  in  a  multitude  of  fields  to  a  vast  diversity  of  problems  so  that 
science  and  technology  may  be  rendered  servants  of  the  democratic  hope 
and  faith.  The  cause  is  capable  of  inspiring  loyalty  in  thought  and  deed. 
But  there  has  to  be  joined  to  aspiration  and  effort  the  formation  of  free, 
wide-ranging,  trained  attitudes  of  observation  and  understanding  such  as 
incorporate  within  themselves,  as  a  matter  so  habitual  as  to  be  unconscious, 
the  vital  principles  of  scientific  method.  In  this  achievement  science,  educa- 
tion, and  the  democratic  cause  meet  as  one.  May  we  be  equal  to  the  occasion. 
For  it  is  our  human  problem  and  if  a  solution  is  found  it  will  be  through  the 
medium  of  human  desire,  human  understanding,  and  human  endeavor. 

198        EDUCATION 


ERNEST 


EARNEST  Even  A.B.'s  must  eat 


THERE  is  CONSIDERABLE  current  alarm  about  the  future  of  the  Liberal  Arts 
College.  Naturally  this  emotion  is  felt  most  keenly  by  persons  whose 
livelihood  depends  upon  the  continued  existence  of  that  type  of  institution. 
They  usually  defend  their  bread  and  butter  by  eloquent  pleas  for  the  non- 
material  values.  Thus  the  many  articles  in  academic  journals  are  likely  to  be 
labeled  "A  Defense  of  Humanism,"  or  "The  Humanities  and  the  Oppor- 
tunity of  Peace."  And  the  discussions  are  filled  with  phrases  like:  "stimulating 
...  a  critical  and  aesthetic  taste";  "an  appreciative  love  for  what  is  truly  and 
enduringly  beautiful";  "teach  hope,  love,  and  courage";  "recognize  or  re- 
trieve those  eternal  truths  which  are  above  the  stream  of  evolution  and 
change";  ".  .  .  true  education  is  but  a  continuous  process  of  re-examining, 
re-appraising,  and  re-vitalizing  the  interrelationships  of  existence."  And  of 
course  there  is  always  the  old  stand-by:  education  for  democracy. 

Now  I  have  no  quarrel  with  any  or  all  of  these  objectives  except,  perhaps, 
with  their  vagueness.  There  is  always  the  suspicion  that  when  a  use  cannot 
be  found  for  something,  it  will  be  asserted  to  have  "higher  values"— like  an 
impractical  coffee  urn  kept  in  the  china  closet  as  an  objet  dart.  Our  Vic- 
torian ancestors  were  more  prone  to  that  sort  of  thing  than  we  are— though 
the  whatnot  has  come  back  in  decorator-designed  interiors.  The  magazines 
are  beginning  to  speak  of  "the  revival  of  the  style  of  a  more  leisurely  and 
comfortable  age."  There  is  a  suspicious  parallel  between  the  advertising  of 
Victorian  reproductions  of  furniture  and  the  arguments  of  the  humanists. 
Please  don't  ask  for  a  definition  of  humanist  or  humanity;  there  seems  to  be 
no  agreement  on  that  point.  A  working  definition  might  be  humanist:  a  per- 
son who  teaches  some  subject  other  than  science  or  a  vocation;  and  hu- 
manity: a  subject  that  students  must  be  required  to  take  along  with  the  ones 
they  really  want. 

Now  I,  for  one,  do  not  believe  that  a  college  course  in  Lunchroom  Man- 
agement or  Clothing  Selection  is  preferable  to  one  in  aesthetics  or  Greek 
history.  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  the  first  two  are  the  more  practical.  But 
I  do  not  believe  that  any  number  of  eloquent  pleas  for  recapturing  the  "lost 
soul"  of  society  is  going  to  entice  students  into  the  Colleges  of  Liberal  Arts. 
In  fact  any  students  who  are  attracted  by  the  grandiloquent  phrases  are 
likely  to  be  aesthetes,  impractical  idealists,  or  potential  school  teachers. 
Boys  and  girls  from  wealthy  homes  may  come  also,  but  they  come  for  very 
practical  reasons:  four  years  of  pleasant  life,  social  polish,  and  a  certificate 

From  The  American  Scholar^  Autumn  1944.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  American 
Scholar. 

EVEN   A.B/S   MUST   EAT        199 


of  culture  useful  in  certain  social  circles.  As  a  rule  the  Liberal  Arts  College 
is  very  efficient  in  supplying  these  requirements.  Certainly  more  efficient 
than  a  school  offering  training  in  lunchroom  management  or  methods  of 
teaching  shorthand. 

It  is  quite  another  matter  to  educate  one  to  appreciate  "what  is  truly  and 
enduringly  beautiful"  or  to  "recognize  or  retrieve  .  .  .  eternal  truths."  Too 
often  it  is  assumed  that  these  things  can  be  taught  as  entities  unrelated  to 
other  considerations— that  there  is  a  world  in  which  morality,  truth,  and 
beauty  exist  apart  from  the  ethics  of  business,  or  the  truth  of  a  scientific  or 
social  theory,  or  the  beauty  of  a  particular  poem  or  office  building. 

The  advocates  of  liberal  arts  training  will  deny  this.  They  will  argue  that 
a  knowledge  of  philosophy  helps  one  to  understand  the  values  in  contem- 
porary life  (or  more  often  the  alleged  lack  of  values);  that  mathematics 
trains  the  accurate  use  of  the  reason  (an  idea  long  since  exploded  by  psy- 
chologists); that  history  helps  in  an  understanding  of  today 's  politics;  and 
that  literature  and  art  give  one  standards  of  judgment  to  apply  to  contem- 
porary literature  or  art,  or  that  they  do  something  or  other  for  one's  per- 
sonality—something very  fine,  of  course. 

Students  often  pay  lip  service  to  these  doctrines:  they  say  that  they  want 
college  to  give  them  "culture."  But  that  is  almost  always  a  secondary  aim. 
The  vast  majority  of  students  are  in  college  to  become  engineers,  account- 
ants, physicians,  social  workers,  teachers— or  even  chiropodists  and  under- 
takers. If  at  the  same  time  they  can  acquire  the  mystic  quality  called  culture 
by  taking  a  few  courses  in  language,  history,  and  literature  they  are  willing 
to  spare  a  little  time  from  their  real  purpose.  But  few  pre-meds  will  elect 
Fine  Arts  i  if  it  conflicts  with  Biology  127;  and  fewer  civil  engineers  will 
study  Chaucer  when  they  can  get  Strength  of  Materials  instead. 

All  this  may  be  simply  an  indication  of  mistaken  values,  the  symptoms  of 
a  materialistic  national  culture,  the  worship  of  false  gods.  I  believe  that  it 
is  rather  an  indication  of  faulty  methods.  Two  deeply  religious  men  may 
both  desire  the  kingdom  of  heaven;  one  may  try  to  reach  it  by  praying  con- 
tinually, wearing  a  hair  shirt,  and  refusing  to  bathe;  the  other  by  ministering 
to  the  sick.  It  is  quite  possible  that  the  second  man  will  find  very  little  time 
to  examine  his  soul  or  clarify  points  of  theology.  He  therefore  spends  less 
time  on  his  "specialty"  than  does  the  ascetic,  but  he  may  be  more  fully 
obtaining  his  objective. 

The  analogy  may  apply  to  a  liberal  education.  It  is  quite  possible  that 
extreme  specialization  is  not  the  best  preparation  for  most  professions  or 
intellectual  occupations.  It  is  impossible  in  a  paper  of  this  sort  to  support 
this  point  of  view  in  detail.  But  it  is  a  point  of  view  almost  universal  among 
believers  in  a  liberal  education. 


200 


EDUCATION 


However,  I  venture  upon  two  assertions:  one,  that  the  liberal  arts  colleges 
fail  to  implement  this  point  of  view;  and  two,  that  they  fail  to  demonstrate 
its  validity.  To  put  the  case  more  specifically:  I  believe  that  the  liberal  arts 
college  fails  to  relate  its  work  to  the  world  the  students  must  face,  and  that 
it  fails  to  make  the  student  understand  its  aims.  In  colloquial  phraseology, 
the  liberal  arts  college  high-hats  the  vocational  phases  of  education,  and  it 
fails  to  sell  itself  to  its  customers. 

Almost  all  the  defenders  of  a  liberal  education  use  a  tone  of  moral  superior- 
ity. The  phrases  quoted  at  the  beginning  of  this  essay  suggest  an  out-of-this- 
world  point  of  view.  Yet  if  the  liberal  arts  college  is  to  survive,  it  must 
function  in  this  world  and  must  make  that  function  clear.  In  a  democratic 
society,  the  primary  function  demanded  of  a  college  or  university  is  that  it 
prepare  its  students  to  earn  a  living.  The  point  of  view  stated  by  Jacques 
Barzun:  "Vocational  training  has  nothing  to  do  with  education,"  implies  that 
education  is  only  for  a  leisure  class  or  a  scholarly  elite.  Only  at  their  peril 
can  liberal  arts  colleges  cater  to  a  Brahmin  caste.  Most  students  and  parents 
are  certainly  not  going  to  be  less  materialistic  about  their  bread  and  butter 
than  are  the  defenders  of  a  liberal  education. 

It  may  seem  that  this  premise  denies  any  possibility  of  preserving  the 
liberal  arts.  Not  at  all.  I  have  already  pointed  out  that  the  arts  colleges 
insist  on  the  superior  value  of  their  training  as  preparation  for  an  intellectual 
vocation  or  profession.  I  agree  with  this  point  of  view.  In  the  rapidly 
changing  world  of  business,  technology,  and  social  order,  a  narrowly  spe- 
cialized training  is  often  obsolete  before  the  student  graduates.  Many  of 
my  former  college  mates  are  in  fields  of  activity  which  did  not  exist  twenty 
years  ago.  No  vocational  training  then  offered  could  have  helped  them. 
A  contemponuy  radio  news  analyst  would  certainly  find  his  college  work 
in  European  history  more  valuable  than  his  course  in  News  Story  Write-Up. 
History,  language,  literature,  philosophy  have  vocational  value.  More  obvious 
is  the  vocational  aspect  of  social  science  and  psychology.  All  these  are  ele- 
ments in  a  liberal  arts  program. 

Specifically  I  suggest  that  the  liberal  arts  colleges  integrate  their  programs 
with  vocational  fields.  For  instance:  what  courses  should  be  elected  by  a 
student  interested  in  entering  the  diplomatic  field,  or  social  security,  or  a  host 
of  other  governmental  activities  for  which  the  A.B.  course  is  the  best  prepara- 
tion? Few  faculty  advisers  have  this  information.  Students  themselves  are 
often  unaware  that  certain  of  these  fields  exist;  more  have  no  idea  how  to 
prepare  for  them.  So,  instead,  they  take  a  degree  in  marketing  or  dentistry 
or  advertising— anything  with  a  label  indicating  possible  usefulness.  Stu- 
dents are  often  amazed  to  find  that  they  can  enter  law  school  with  an  A.B. 
in  history  and  literature  instead  of  a  B.S.  in  "pre-law." 

EVEN   A.B/S  MUST   EAT        201 


This  brings  us  to  my  second  recommendation:  a  better  publicizing  of  the 
vocational  usefulness  of  a  liberal  arts  education.  Bulletins  and  catalogs  of 
vocational  schools  often  have  much  to  say  about  opportunities  in  the  fields 
they  train  for;  those  of  liberal  arts  colleges  are  extremely  reticent  on  this 
point.  Except  for  occasional  listings  of  requirements  for  medical  school  or 
teaching,  there  is  almost  no  discussion  of  so  crass  a  topic  as  preparing  for  a 
job.  For  instance,  in  a  recent  study  of  training  for  the  field  of  social  security, 
Karl  de  Schweinitz  states  that  the  best  possible  background  is  the  academic 
discipline  and  a  cultural  education.  It  is  significant  that  this  study  was 
made  for  the  Social  Security  Board  and  not  under  the  auspices  of  the 
colleges. 

All  this  may  seem  to  imply  that  the  liberal  arts  colleges  should  turn  them- 
selves into  vocational  schools.  The  answer  is  that  they  are  vocational  schools 
and  always  have  been.  Harvard  College  was  founded  specifically  to  train 
ministers  of  the  gospel.  The  classical  education  of  the  nineteenth  century 
was  regarded  as  the  best  possible  training  for  the  law  and  the  church. 
Today  students  in  liberal  arts  colleges  are  preparing  to  become  biologists, 
psychologists,  sociologists,  teachers,  and  lawyers. 

What  I  suggest,  then,  is  not  a  revision  of  the  curriculum:  no  addition  of 
gadget  courses  to  attract  uncritical  customers.  It  is  simply  that  the  colleges 
accept  the  fact  that  they  have  a  vocational  function  and  that  they  exercise 
that  function  intelligently.  That  means  vocational  guidance  for  students,  not 
in  a  haphazard  way,  but  by  trained  counselors  with  adequate  budgets  for 
research;  it  means  well  run  placement  bureaus;  it  means  making  vocational 
information  readily  available  to  students;  and  it  means  a  constant  and  intelli- 
gent study  of  the  changing  needs  of  the  community.  It  is  shortsighted  if  not 
unethical  to  turn  out  thousands  more  pre-meds  than  the  medical  schools  will 
accept;  to  produce  English  teachers  far  in  excess  of  demand,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  ignore  fields  where  educated  persons  are  desperately  needed. 

But  what  happens  to  "culture"  in  all  this?  Does  it  mean  that  we  forget  all 
about  the  permanently  true  and  beautiful?  My  answer  is  that  "culture"  is 
always  a  by-product  of  something  else.  Shakespeare's  plays  are  now  studied 
chiefly  for  their  cultural  value;  they  were  written  to  attract  patrons  to  the 
box  office.  Architects  have  always  designed  their  buildings  for  specific  utili- 
tarian purposes.  Stiegel  produced  his  famous  glass  for  a  market;  he  went 
bankrupt  when  he  overestimated  the  market.  The  arts  have  always  been 
closely  linked  with  the  business  of  living.  It  is  only  when  they  become  art 
for  art's  sake  that  they  wither.  Similarly,  culture  for  culture's  sake  becomes 
exotic  and  unreal.  If  literature  and  history  and  philosophy  cannot  be  related 
to  the  life  of  the  community,  they  have  no  very  important  values.  In  other 
words,  if  a  psychologist  is  not  a  better  psychologist  because  he  knows  some- 


202 


EDUCATION 


thing  about  the  development  of  human  thought  and  the  expression  of  human 
nature  through  art,  then  there  is  little  hope  for  philosophy,  history,  and 
literature. 

Many  of  the  defenders  of  a  liberal  education  emphasize  its  broader  social 
values:  the  making  of  intelligent  citizens;  the  training  for  life  rather  than 
making  a  living;  the  understanding  of  ethical  and  moral  values.  But  a  mem- 
ber of  a  democratic  society  functions  in  that  society  chiefly  through  his  occu- 
pation. A  man's  contribution  to  his  age  is  above  all  his  contribution  as  a 
physician,  a  manufacturer,  a  chemist,  a  writer,  a  publisher.  A  physician's 
knowledge  or  lack  of  knowledge  of  sociology  will  appear  during  dinner  table 
conversations  and  at  the  polls.  But  it  is  vastly  more  important  in  his  work  as 
a  physician  and  member  of  a  medical  association.  It  is  there  that  his  knowl- 
edge or  lack  of  knowledge  chiefly  affects  society. 

Culture  does  not  function  in  a  vacuum.  The  "lost  soul"  of  society  will  be 
found  not  in  college  courses,  but  in  the  market  place  and  the  laboratory  and 
the  court  of  law.  The  liberal  arts  college  cannot  educate  some  sort  of  myth- 
ical men  of  vision;  it  must  educate  chemists  and  sociologists  and  journalists 
with  vision.  When  it  fully  accepts  this  function,  it  will  no  longer  be  troubled 
by  falling  enrollments.  The  professors  can  cease  to  worry  about  their  own 
bread  and  butter  when  they  recognize  that  even  an  A.B.  must  eat. 


EVEN   A.B.'S   MUST   EAT        203 


LANGUAGE 


THIS  section,  which  deals  with  lan- 
guage, takes  up  a  subject  that  must 
be  an  immediate  and  fundamental  con- 
cern of  all  students  in  college  English 
courses.  The  writers  represented  here 
approach  the  subject  variously.  Robert 
Benchley  simply  reports  humorously  on 
the  kind  of  experience  we  have  all  had 
with  the  h  regularities  of  English  word 
forms.  Somewhat  more  seriously, 
Jacques  Barzun  strikes  out  against  what 
he  terms  the  "infinite  duplication  of 
dufferism"  and  calls  for  greater  purity 


in  the  use  of  language.  Irving  Lee  is 
particularly  concerned  about  people's 
tendency  to  "talk  past  each  other,"  and 
urges  greater  attention  to  the  exact 
communication  of  ideas.  William  H. 
Whyte,  Jr.,  by  indirection  suggests 
that  clear  communication  is  not  neces- 
sarily what  is  achieved  by  the  cur- 
rently casual  style.  Finally,  Somerset 
Maugham,  who  has  thought  much  about 
his  craft,  tells  us  what  he  has  come  to 
believe  are  the  important  achievements 
in  expression  for  a  good  writer. 


ROBERT    BENCHLEY 


Word  torture 

A  personal  tribulation 


IN  HIS  COLUMN  a  short  time  ago  Mr.  O.  O.  Mclntyre  asked  who  could  tell, 
without  looking  it  up,  the  present  tense  of  the  verb  of  which  "wrought" 
is  the  past  participle.  That  was,  let  us  say,  of  a  Thursday.  Today  my  last 
finger-nail  went. 

At  first  I  thought  that  it  was  so  easy  that  I  passed  it  by.  But,  somewhere 
in  the  back  of  that  shaggy-maned  head  of  mine,  a  mischievous  little  voice 
said:  "All  right-what  is  it?" 

'What  is  what?"  I  asked,  stalling. 

"You  know  very  well  what  the  question  was.  What  is  the  present  tense 
of  the  verb  from  which  the  word  'wrought*  comes?" 

I  started  out  with  a  rush.  "I  wright"  I  fairly  screamed.  Then,  a  little 
lower:  "I  wrught."  Then,  very  low:  "I  wrouft."  Then  silence. 

From  After  1903-What?  by  Robert  Benchley.  Copyright,  1938,  by  Robert  Benchley. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  Harper  &  Brothers. 


204 


LANGUAGE 


From  that  day  until  now  I  have  been  muttering  to  myself:  "I  wright— I 
wraft— I  wronjst.  You  wruft— he  wragst— we  wrinjsen."  I'll  be  darned  if  111 
look  it  up,  and  it  looks  now  as  if  111  be  incarcerated  before  I  get  it. 

People  hear  me  murmuring  and  ask  me  what  I  am  saying. 

"I  wrujhst,"  is  all  that  I  can  say  in  reply. 

"I  know,"  they  say,  "but  what  were  you  saying  just  now?*' 

"I  wringst." 

This  gets  me  nowhere. 

While  I  am  working  on  it,  however,  and  just  before  the  boys  come  to  get 
me  to  take  me  to  the  laughing  academy,  I  will  ask  Mr.  Mclntyre  if  he  can 
help  me  out  on  something  that  has  almost  the  same  possibilities  for  brain 
seepage.  And  no  fair  looking  this  up,  either. 

What  is  a  man  who  lives  in  Flanders  and  speaks  Flemish?  A  Flem?  A 
Flan?  A  Floom?  (This  is  a  lot  easier  than  "wrought,"  but  it  may  take  atten- 
tion away  from  me  while  I  am  writhing  on  the  floor. )  And,  when  you  think 
you  have  got  it  the  easy  way,  remember  there  is  another  name  for  him,  too, 
one  that  rhymes  with  "balloon."  I  finally  looked  that  one  up. 

At  present  I'm  working  on  "wrought." 


JACQUES  BARZUN  English  as  she's  not  taught 

A1  AN  educational  conference  held  in  Vancouver  last  summer,  leaders  of 
the  Canadian  school  system  generally  agreed  that  from  half  to  three 
quarters  of  their  students  in  the  first  year  of  college  were  incompetent  in 
grammar,  syntax,  and  analysis  of  thought.  What  was  notable  in  the  discus- 
sion was  that  nearly  every  participant  used  the  English  language  with  un- 
common force  and  precision.  Any  looseness  or  jargon  heard  there  came  from 
the  three  American  guests,  of  whom  I  was  one.  Most  of  our  hosts— Canadian 
teachers,  principals,  supervisors,  and  university  instructors— had  obviously 
gone  through  the  mill  of  a  classical  education;  the  chairman  made  a  mild 
pun  involving  Latin  and  was  rewarded  with  an  immediate  laugh.  Yet  they 
declared  themselves  unable  to  pass  on  their  linguistic  accomplishment  to 
the  present  school  generation,  and  they  wanted  to  know  why. 

Copyright,  1953,  by  the  Atlantic  Monthly  Company,  Boston  16,  Massachusetts.   All 
rights  reserved. 

ENGLISH  AS  SHE'S  NOT  TAUGHT    205 


In  the  United  States  the  same  complaint  and  inquiry  has  been  endemic, 
commonplace,  for  quite  a  while.  You  come  across  it  in  the  papers.  You  hear 
parents,  school  people,  editors  and  publishers,  lawyers  and  ministers,  men 
of  science  and  of  business,  lamenting  the  fact  that  their  charges  or  their  off- 
spring or  their  employees  can  neither  spell  nor  write  "decent  English."  The 
deplorers  blame  the  modern  progressive  school  or  the  comics  or  TV;  they 
feel  that  in  school  and  outside,  something  which  they  call  discipline  is  lack- 
ing, and  they  vaguely  connect  this  lack  with  a  supposed  decline  in  morality, 
an  upsurge  of  "crisis."  Like  everything  else,  bad  English  is  attributed  to  our 
bad  times,  and  the  past  (which  came  to  an  end  with  the  speaker's  gradua- 
tion from  college )  is  credited  with  one  more  virtue,  that  of  literary  elegance. 

The  facts  seem  to  me  quite  different,  the  causes  much  more  tangled,  and 
the  explanation  of  our  linguistic  state  at  once  more  complex  and  less  vague. 
For  many  years  now  I  have  been  concerned  with  the  art  of  writing  and  kept 
busy  at  the  invidious  task  of  improving  other  people's  utterance,  and  I  can- 
not see  that  performance  has  deteriorated.  The  level  is  low  but  it  has  not 
fallen.  As  a  reader  of  history  I  am  steadily  reminded  that  the  writing  of  any 
language  has  always  been  a  hit-and-miss  affair.  Here  is  Amos  Barrett,  our 
chief  source  on  the  battles  of  Concord  and  Lexington:  "It  wont  long  before 
their  was  other  minit  Compneys  .  .  .  We  marched  Down  about  a  mild  or 
a  mild  half  and  we  see  them  acomming  .  .  ."  and  so  on.  An  illiterate  New 
England  farmer?  Not  so,  since  he  could  write;  he  had  been  taught  and  in 
some  way  represents  "the  past."  The  question  he  poses  is,  how  do  people 
write  who  are  not  professionals  or  accomplished  amateurs?  The  answer  is: 
badly,  at  all  times. 

Writing  is  at  the  very  least  a  knack,  like  drawing  or  being  facile  on  the 
piano.  Because  everybody  can  speak  and  form  letters,  we  mistakenly  sup- 
pose that  good,  plain,  simple  writing  is  within  everybody's  power.  Would 
we  say  this  of  good,  straightforward,  accurate  drawing?  Would  we  say  it  of 
melodic  sense  and  correct,  fluent  harmonizing  at  the  keyboard?  Surely  not. 
We  say  these  are  "gifts."  Well,  so  is  writing,  even  the  writing  of  a  bread- 
and-butter  note  or  a  simple  public  notice;  and  this  last  suggests  that  some- 
thing has  happened  within  the  last  hundred  years  to  change  the  relation  of 
the  written  word  to  daily  life. 

Whether  it  is  the  records  we  have  to  keep  in  every  business  and  profes- 
sion or  the  ceaseless  communicating  at  a  distance  which  modern  transport 
and  industry  require,  the  world's  work  is  now  unmanageable,  unthinkable, 
without  literature.  Just  see  how  many  steps  you  can  take  without  being  con- 
fronted with  something  written  or  with  the  necessity  of  writing  something 
yourself.  Having  been  away  for  a  couple  of  weeks  during  the  summer,  I 


206 


LANGUAGE 


find  a  bill  from  the  window  washer,  who  luckily  came  on  a  day  when  the 
cleaning  woman  was  in  the  apartment.  He  has  therefore  scribbled  below  the 
date:  "The  windows  have  been  cleaned  Wed.  12:30  P.M.  Your  maid  was 
their  to  veryfey  the  statements—perfectly  clear  and  adequate.  One  can  even 
appreciate  the  change  of  tenses  as  his  mind  went  from  the  job  just  finished 
to  the  future  when  I  would  be  reading  this  message  from  the  past. 

Call  this  bad  writing  if  you  like,  it  remains  perfectly  harmless.  The  danger 
to  the  language,  if  any,  does  not  come  from  such  trifles.  It  comes  rather  from 
the  college-bred  millions  who  regularly  write  and  who  in  the  course  of  their 
daily  work  circulate  the  prevailing  mixture  of  jargon,  cant,  vogue  words, 
and  loose  syntax  that  passes  for  prose.  And  the  greater  part  of  this  verbiage 
is  published,  circulated,  presumably  read.  A  committee  won't  sit  if  its 
diivelings  are  not  destined  for  print.  Even  an  interoffice  memo  goes  out  in 
sixteen  copies  and  the  schoolchildren's  compositions  appear  verbatim  in  a 
mimeographed  magazine.  Multiply  these  cultural  facts  by  the  huge  number 
of  activities  which  (it  would  seem)  exist  only  to  bombard  us  with  paper, 
and  you  have  found  the  source  of  the  belief  in  a  "decline"  in  writing  ability 
—no  decline  at  all,  simply  the  infinite  duplication  of  dufferism.  This  it  is 
which  leads  us  into  false  comparisons  and  gloomy  thoughts. 

The  apparent  deterioration  of  language  is  a  general  phenomenon  which 
is  denounced  throughout  Western  Europe.  One  had  only  to  read  the  Cata- 
logue of  the  British  Exhibition  of  1951  to  see  the  common  symptoms  in  Eng- 
land. Sir  Ernest  Gowers's  excellent  little  book  of  a  few  years  earlier,  Plain 
Words,  was  an  attempt  to  cure  the  universal  disease  in  one  congested  spot, 
the  Civil  Service,  which  is  presumably  the  most  highly  educated  professional 
group  in  Britain. 

In  France,  the  newspapers,  the  reports  of  Parliamentary  debates,  and  the 
literary  reviews  show  to  what  extent  ignorance  of  forms  and  insensitivity  to 
usage  can  successfully  compete  against  a  training  obsessively  aimed  at  verbal 
competence.  And  by  way  of  confirmation,  M.  Jean  Delorme,  a  native  ob- 
server of  the  language  in  French  Canada,  recently  declared  the  classic  speech 
"infected"  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  too.  As  for  Germany,  a  foreign  col- 
league and  correspondent  of  mine,  a  person  of  catholic  tastes  and  broad 
judgment,  volunteers  the  opinion  that  "people  who  cultivate  good  pure  Ger- 
man are  nowadays  generally  unpopular,  especially  among  the  devotees  of 
newspaper  fiction  and  articles.  The  universal  barbarism  of  language  has 
already  gone  well  into  the  grotesque." 

So  much  for  the  democratic  reality.  But  great  as  has  been  the  effect  of 
enlarged  "literacy,"  it  does  not  alone  account  for  what  is  now  seen  as  lin- 
guistic decadence.  The  educated,  in  fact  the  leaders  of  modern  thought, 

ENGLISH    AS    SHE*S    NOT   TAUGHT         207 


have  done  as  much  if  not  more  to  confuse  the  judgment.  For  what  is  meant 
by  the  misnomer  "pure  speech"  is  simply  a  habit  of  respect  toward  usage, 
which  insures  a  certain  fixity  in  vocabulary,  forms,  and  syntax.  Language 
cannot  stand  still,  but  it  can  change  more  or  less  rapidly  and  violently.  Dur- 
ing the  last  hundred  years,  nearly  every  intellectual  force  has  worked,  in  all 
innocence,  against  language.  The  strongest,  science  and  technology,  did  two 
damaging  things:  they  poured  quantities  of  awkward  new  words  into  the 
language  and  this  in  turn  persuaded  everybody  that  each  new  thing  must 
have  a  name,  preferably  "scientific."  These  new  words,  technical  or  com- 
mercial, were  fashioned  to  impress,  an  air  of  profundity  being  imparted  by 
the  particularly  scientific  letters  k,  x,  and  o  =  Kodak,  Kleenex,  Sapolio.  The 
new  technological  words  that  came  in  were  sinful  hybrids  like  "electrocute" 
and  "triphibian,"  or  misunderstood  phrases  like  "personal  equation,"  "nth 
degree,"  or  "psychological  moment"— brain  addlers  of  the  greatest  potency. 

The  passion  for  jargon  was  soon  at  its  height,  from  which  it  shows  no  sign 
of  descending.  Every  real  or  pseudo  science  poured  new  verbiage  into  the 
street,  every  separate  school  or  -ism  did  likewise,  without  shame  or  restraint. 
We  can  gauge  the  result  from  the  disappearance  of  the  Dictionary  properly 
so  called.  Consult  the  most  recent  and  in  many  ways  the  best  of  them, 
Webster  s  New  World  Dictionary,  and  what  you  find  is  a  miniature  encyclo- 
pedia filled  with  the  explanation  of  initials,  proper  names,  and  entries  like 
"macrosporangium"  or  "abhenry,"  which  are  not  and  never  will  be  words  of 
the  English  language. 

Under  the  spate  of  awe-inspiring  vocables,  the  layman  naturally  felt  that 
he  too  must  dignify  his  doings  and  not  be  left  behind  in  the  race  for  prestige. 
Common  acts  must  suggest  a  technical  process.  Thus  we  get  "contact"  and 
"funnel"  as  workaday  verbs— and  "process"  itself:  "we'll  process  your  appli- 
cation"—as  if  it  were  necessary  to  name  the  steps  or  choices  of  daily  life  with 
scientific  generality.  I  know  a  young  businessman  who  makes  jottings  of  his 
business  thoughts;  when  he  has  enough  on  one  topic  he  folderizcs  them. 

What  is  wrong  with  all  this  is  not  merely  that  it  is  new,  heedless,  vulgar, 
and  unnecessary  (all  signs  of  harmful  vice  in  a  language)  but  that  jargon 
swamps  thought.  The  habit  of  talking  through  cant  words  destroys  the 
power  of  seeing  things  plain.  "HI  contact  you  to  finalize  the  agreement." 
What  does  it  mean?  The  drift  is  plain  enough,  but  compare:  'I'll  call  at  yoiu 
office  to  sign  the  contract."  The  former  raises  no  clear  image  or  expectation, 
the  latter  does.  Moreover,  the  former  smells  of  inflated  ego,  it  fills  the  mouth 
in  a  silly  bumptious  way. 

But  who  cares?  Why  fuss?— good  questions  both.  Nobody  cares  much  be- 
cause—we all  think— it's  the  deed  ( or  the  thing )  that  counts,  not  the  words. 

208         LANGUAGE 


This  conviction,  too,  is  a  product  of  modern  technology,  and  its  effect  is 
great  though  unremarked.  The  power  of  words  over  nature,  which  has 
played  such  a  role  in  human  history,  is  now  an  exploded  belief,  a  dead  emo- 
tion. Far  from  words  controlling  things,  it  is  now  things  that  dictate  words. 
As  soon  as  science  was  able  to  chop  up  the  physical  world  and  recombine  it 
in  new  forms,  language  followed  suit;  and  this  not  only  among  scientists 
making  up  new  vocables,  but  among  the  supposed  guardians  of  the  lan- 
guage, the  poets  and  men  of  letters.  It  is  highly  significant  that  around  1860 
writers  deliberately  began  to  defy  usage  and  turn  syntax  upside  down. 
Lewis  Carroll  and  Edward  Lear  made  good  fun  with  it;  "obscure"  poets 
such  as  Rimbaud  sought  new  depths  of  meaning.  There  was  in  this  a  strong 
impulse  to  destroy  all  convention,  for  Victorian  moralism  had  made  the  idea 
of  conventionality  at  once  suspect  and  hateful.  The  revolt  succeeded  and 
its  spirit  is  still  alive;  novelty-hunting  is  now  a  linguistic  virtue,  or  to  express 
it  differently,  a  common  influence  is  at  work  in  Jabberwocky  and  James 
Joyce,  in  the  scientist's  lingo  and  in  the  advertiser's  "Dynaflow,"  "Hydra- 
matic,"  or  "Frigidaire"— which  end  by  becoming  household  words.  In  short, 
modern  man  is  feeling  his  oats  as  the  manipulator  of  objects  and  he  shows 
it  in  his  manhandling  of  words. 

This  helps  to  explain  why  the  predominant  fault  of  the  bad  English  en- 
countered today  is  not  the  crude  vulgarism  of  the  untaught  but  the  blithe 
irresponsibility  of  the  taught.  The  language  is  no  longer  regarded  as  a  com- 
mon treasure  to  be  hoarded  and  protected  as  far  as  possible.  Rather,  it  is 
loot  from  the  enemy  to  be  played  with,  squandered,  plastered  on  for  one's 
adornment.  Literary  words  imperfectly  grasped,  meanings  assumed  from 
bare  inspection,  monsters  spawned  for  a  trivial  cause— these  are  but  a  few 
of  the  signs  of  squandering.  To  give  examples:  the  hotel  clerk  giving  me  a 
good  room  feels  bound  to  mention  the  well-known  person  whom  "we  last 
hospitalized  in  that  room."  Not  to  lag  behind  Joyce,  the  advertiser  bids  you 
"slip  your  feet  into  these  easy-going  leisuals  and  breathe  a  sigh  of  real  com- 
fort." 

Undoubtedly  these  strange  desires  are  often  born  of  the  need  to  ram  an 
idea  down  unwilling  throats.  We  all  fear  our  neighbor's  wandering  atten- 
tion and  try  to  keep  him  awake  by  little  shocks  of  singularity,  or  again  by  an 
overdose  of  meaning.  Unfortunately,  novelty-hunting  proceeds  from  the 
known  to  the  unknown  by  a  leap  of  faith.  "It  was  pleasant,"  writes  the 
author  of  very  workmanlike  detective  stories,  "to  watch  her  face  and  find 
his  resentment  vitiate  as  he  made  excuses  for  her." 

The  notable  fact  is  that  all  this  occurs  in  printed  books,  written  by  writers, 
published  (usually)  by  first-rate  firms  that  employ  editors.  In  speech,  the 

ENGLISH  AS  SHE*S  NOT  TAUGHT    209 


same  blunders  and  distortions  come  from  educated  people.  It  is  all  very 
well  to  say,  as  one  expert  has  confidently  done,  that  "what  certain  words 
really  mean  is  moving  toward  what  they  seem  to  mean,"  the  implication  be- 
ing that  after  a  while  everything  will  be  in  place.  Actually,  this  leaves  mean- 
ing nowhere,  if  only  because  we're  not  all  moving  in  step.  The  New  Yorker 
spotted  a  movie  theater  sign  on  which  "adultery"  was  used  to  mean  "adult- 
hood." From  an  English  periodical  I  learn  that  some  new  houses  "affront 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street."  If  Mrs.  Malaprop  is  going  to  become  the 
patron  saint  of  English,  what  is  going  to  prevent  "contention"  from  mean- 
ing the  same  thing  as  "contentment"  or  the  maker  of  woodcuts  from  being 
called  a  woodcutter? 

There  is  no  getting  around  it:  meaning  implies  convention,  and  the  dis- 
covery that  meanings  change  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  when  convention  is 
broken  misunderstanding  and  chaos  are  close  at  hand.  Mr.  Churchill  has 
told  how  Allied  leaders  nearly  came  to  blows  because  of  the  single  word 
"table,"  a  verb  which  to  the  Americans  meant  dismiss  from  the  discussion, 
whereas  to  the  English,  on  the  contrary,  it  meant  put  on  the  agenda.  This 
is  an  extraordinary  instance,  and  the  vagaries  of  those  who  pervert  good 
words  to  careless  misuse  may  be  thought  more  often  ludicrous  than  harmful. 
This  would  be  true  if  language,  like  a  great  maw,  could  digest  anything  and 
dispose  of  it  in  time.  But  language  is  not  a  kind  of  ostrich.  Language  is  alive 
only  by  a  metaphor  drawn  from  the  life  of  its  users.  Hence  every  defect  in 
the  language  is  a  defect  in  somebody. 

For  language  is  either  the  incarnation  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings  or  a 
cloak  for  their  absence.  When  the  ordinary  man  who  has  prepared  a  report 
on  sales  up  to  June  30  rumbles  on  about  "the  frame  of  reference  in  which 
the  coordination  campaign  was  conceived,"  he  is  filling  the  air  with  noises, 
not  thoughts. 

For  self -protection,  no  doubt,  the  contemporary  mind  is  opposed  to  all  this 
quibbling.  It  speaks  with  the  backing  of  popular  approval  when  it  says: 
"Stop  it!  You  understand  perfectly  well  what  all  these  people  mean.  Don't 
be  a  dirty  purist  looking  under  the  surface  and  meddling  with  democratic 
self-expression."  To  haggle  over  language  is  quibbling,  of  course.  All  preci- 
sion is  quibbling,  whether  about  decimals  in  mathematics  or  grains  of  drugs 
in  prescriptions— fairly  important  quibbles.  The  question  is  whether  in  lan- 
guage the  results  justify  the  quibble.  Well,  the  public  is  here  the  best  judge, 
and  it  is  evident  that  as  a  consumer  of  the  written  word,  the  public  is  always 
complaining  that  it  cannot  understand  what  it  is  asked  to  read:  the  govern- 
ment blanks,  the  instructions  on  the  bottle  or  gadget,  the  gobbledygook  of 
every  trade,  the  highbrow  jargon  of  the  educators,  psychiatrists,  and  social 
workers,  and— one  must  also  add— the  prose  of  literary  critics.  The  great 

210    LANGUAGE 


cry  today  is  for  improved  communication,  mass  communication,  the  arts  of 
communication,  and  yet  under  the  pretext  of  being  free  and  easy  and  above 
quibbling,  those  who  do  the  most  talking  and  writing  indulge  themselves  in 
the  very  obscurities  and  ambiguities  that  cause  the  outcry. 

They  are  abetted,  moreover,  by  another  offspring  of  the  scientific  spirit, 
the  professional  student  of  language.  In  his  modern  embodiment,  the  lin- 
guist takes  the  view  that  whatever  occurs  in  anybody's  speech  is  a  fact  of 
language  and  must  not  be  tampered  with,  but  only  caught  in  flight  and 
pinned  on  a  card.  This  is  "scientific  detachment,"  and  it  has  gone  so  far 
that  under  its  influence  in  many  schools  all  the  categories  of  grammar,  syn- 
tax, and  rhetoric  have  been  discarded.  The  modern  way  to  learn  English 
or  a  foreign  language  is  to  absorb  a  phrase-by-phrase  enumeration  of  all 
that  might  conceivably  be  said  in  ordinary  talk— a  directory  instead  of  a 
grammar. 

This  brings  us  back  to  our  first  difficulty,  how  to  teach  the  millions  the 
use  of  their  mother  tongue  in  composition.  We  have  made  nearly  every- 
body literate  in  the  sense  of  able  to  read  and  write  words.  But  that  is  not 
writing.  Even  those  who  profess  disdain  for  the  literary  art  and  the  literary 
quibbles  respond  automatically  to  good  writing,  which  they  find  unex- 
pectedly easy  to  read  and  retain,  mysteriously  "pleasant"  as  compared  with 
their  neighbors'  matted  prose.  The  linguists  themselves  pay  lip  service  to 
"effective"  speech,  approving  the  end  while  forbidding  discrimination  among 
the  means. 

Now  many  thousands  of  people  in  the  United  States  today  exercise  this 
discrimination;  there  is  amid  the  garbage  a  steady  supply  of  good  writing, 
modestly  done  and  published— in  every  newspaper  and  magazine,  over  TV 
and  radio,  in  millions  of  ads  and  public  notices,  in  railroad  timetables,  travel 
booklets,  and  printed  instructions  on  objects  of  daily  use.  Good  writing  is 
good  writing  wherever  it  occurs,  and  some  of  the  impugned  comics  which 
are  supposed  to  defile  the  native  well  of  English  in  our  young  are  far  better 
than  acceptable. 

It  is  therefore  idle  and  erroneous  to  condemn  "the  newspapers"  or  "the 
radio"  en  masse.  Here  too  one  must  discriminate,  and  the  failure  to  do  so 
is  one  cause  of  the  trouble— the  strange  cultural  trait  whose  origin  I  have 
sketched  and  which  makes  us  at  once  indifferent  to  our  language,  full  of  com- 
plaints about  it,  and  irresponsible  about  mangling  it  still  more.  In  these 
conditions  people  who  write  well  learn  to  do  so  by  virtue  of  a  strong  desire, 
developed  usually  under  necessity:  their  job  requires  lucidity,  precision, 
brevity.  If  they  write  advertising  copy  they  must  not  only  make  it  fit  the 
space  but  make  the  words  yield  the  tone. 

Tone— that  is  the  starting  point  of  any  teaching  in  composition.    What 

ENGLISH   AS   SHE'S   NOT  TAUGHT        211 


effect  are  you  producing  and  at  what  cost  of  words?  The  fewer  the  words, 
and  the  more  transparent  they  are,  the  easier  they  will  be  to  understand. 
The  closer  the  ideas  they  stand  for  and  the  more  natural  their  linkage,  the 
more  easily  will  the  meaning  be  retained.  Simple  in  appearance,  this  formula 
is  yet  extremely  difficult  to  apply,  and  even  more  arduous  to  teach.  You 
cannot  work  on  more  than  one  pupil  at  a  time  and  you  must  be  willing  to 
observe  and  enter  into  his  mind.  On  his  part,  the  discipline  calls  for  a  thor- 
ough immersion  in  the  medium.  He  must  form  the  habit  of  attending  to 
words,  constructions,  accents,  and  etymologies  in  everything  he  reads  or  hears 
—just  as  the  painter  unceasingly  notes  line  and  color  and  the  musician  tones. 
The  would-be  writer  has  the  harder  task  because  words  are  entangled  with 
the  business  of  life  and  he  must  stand  off  from  it  to  look  at  them,  hearing 
at  the  same  time  their  harmonies  and  discords.  It  is  an  endless  duty,  which 
finally  becomes  automatic.  The  ideal  writer  would  mentally  recast  his  own 
death  sentence  as  he  was  reading  it— if  it  was  a  bad  sentence. 

Now  such  a  discipline  cannot  be  imposed  from  without,  and  not  every- 
body needs  it  in  full.  But  its  principle,  which  suffices  for  ordinary  purposes, 
should  be  made  clear  to  every  beginner,  child  or  adult.  Unfortunately,  the 
school  system,  even  when  progressive,  makes  writing  an  irrational  chore 
approached  in  the  mood  of  rebellion.  The  school  does  this  in  two  ways:  by 
requiring  length  and  by  concentrating  on  correctness.  I  know  very  well 
that  correctness  was  supposedly  given  up  long  ago.  The  modern  teacher 
does  not  mention  it.  But  if  the  teacher  marks  spelling  and  grammatical 
errors  and  speaks  of  little  else,  what  is  a  child  to  think?  He  gets  a  mark  with 
the  comment  "imaginative"  or  "not  imaginative  enough"  and  most  often: 
"too  short,"  and  he  is  left  with  no  more  idea  of  composition  than  a  cow  in 
a  field  has  of  landscape  painting.  How  does  one  judge  the  right  length  and 
get  it  out  of  a  reluctant  brain?  Nobody  answers,  except  perhaps  with  the 
word  "creative,"  which  has  brought  unmerited  gloom  to  many  a  cheerful 
child.  Who  can  be  creative  on  demand,  by  next  Tuesday,  and  in  the  requi- 
site amount?  In  all  but  a  few  chatterboxes,  mental  frostbite  is  the  only  result. 

Meanwhile  the  things  that  are  teachable,  the  ways  of  translating  the 
flashes  of  thought  into  consecutive  sentences,  are  neglected.  They  have 
been,  most  often,  neglected  in  the  teachers  themselves.  How  do  they  write 
or  speak,  what  do  they  read?  If  they  read  and  write  educational  literature, 
as  they  often  must  for  advancement,  are  they  fit  to  teach  composition? 
And  what  of  the  teachers  of  other  subjects,  whose  professional  jargon  also 
infects  their  speech,  what  is  their  countervailing  effect  on  a  child  to  whom 
a  good  English  teacher  has  just  imparted  a  notion  of  the  writer's  craft? 
Suppose  the  teacher  of  a  course  on  family  life  has  just  been  reading  Social 

212         LANGUAGE 


Casework  and  his  mind  is  irradiated  with  this:  "Familial  societality  is 
already  a  settled  question  biologically,  structured  in  our  inherited  bodies 
and  physiology,  but  the  answer  to  those  other  questions  are  not  yet  safely 
and  irrevocably  anatomized."  Unless  this  is  immediately  thrown  up  like 
the  mix  vomica  it  is,  it  will  contaminate  everybody  it  touches  from  pupil 
to  public— in  fact  the  whole  blooming  familial  societality. 

The  cure  is  harsh  and  likely  to  be  unpopular,  for  it  must  start  with  self- 
denial.  It  can  be  initiated  by  the  school  but  it  must  not  stop  there.  As  many 
of  us  as  possible  must  work  out  of  our  system,  first,  all  the  vogue  words  that 
almost  always  mean  nothing  but  temporary  vacancy  of  mind—such  words 
as  "basic,"  "major,"  "over-all,"  "personal,"  "values,"  "exciting"  (everything 
from  a  new  handbag  to  a  new  baby);  then  all  the  wormy  expressions  indica- 
tive of  bad  conscience,  false  modesty,  and  genteelism,  as  in:  "Frankly,  I 
don't  know  too  much  about  it"— a  typical  formula  which  tries  through  candor 
and  whining  to  minimize  ignorance  while  claiming  a  kind  of  merit  for  it; 
finally,  all  the  tribal  adornments  which  being  cast  off  may  disclose  the  plain 
man  we  would  like  to  be:  no  frames  of  reference,  field  theories,  or  apper- 
ception protocols;  no  texture,  prior  to,  or  in  terms  of;  and  the  least  amount 
of  coordination,  dynamics,  and  concepts. 

After  the  vocabulary  has  been  cleansed,  the  patient  is  ready  for  what  our 
Canadian  friends  at  the  Vancouver  conference  deplored  the  lack  of  in  the 
modern  undergraduate:  analysis  of  thought.  To  show  what  is  meant  and 
let  criticism  begin  at  home,  I  choose  an  example  from  a  New  York  City 
report  of  1952  entitled  "The  English  Language  Arts."  It  begins:  "Because 
language  arts  or  English  is  so—"  Stop  right  there!  What  are  language  arts? 
—A  perfectly  unnecessary  phrase  of  the  pseudo-scientific  kind  which  tries 
to  "cover."  Besides,  "language  arts  or  English"  is  nonsense:  ever  hear  of 
another  language?  Moreover,  "language  arts  ...  is"  doesn't  sound  like  a 
happy  opening  for  a  report  by  and  to  English  teachers.  Let  us  go  on: 
English  is  so  what?  Well,  "language  arts  or  English  is  so  intimately  con- 
nected with  all  knowledge  and  all  living,  it  is  the  subject  which  most  often 
blasts  the  dikes  separating  it  from  others."  What  do  you  mean,  language 
is  connected  with  living?  And  how  does  English  connect  with  all  knowl- 
edge and  all  living?  Is  the  practical  knowledge  of  the  Russian  engineer  in- 
timately connected  with  English?  Do  the  amoebas  speak  English?  And  if 
this  intimacy  does  exist,  then  what  are  these  dikes  that  separate  English 
from  other  subjects?  Are  these  subjects  not  part  of  "all  knowledge"  with 
which  English  is  connected— or  rather,  of  which  it  too  is  a  part? 

Cruel  work,  but  necessary  if  anything  akin  to  thought  is  to  arise  from 
the  written  word.  The  Neanderthal  glimmer  from  which  the  quoted  sen- 

ENGLJSH  AS  SHE*S  NOT  TAUGHT    213 


tence  sprang  is  irrecoverable  but  its  developed  form  should  run  something 
like  this:  "English,  being  a  medium  of  communication,  cannot  be  confined 
within  set  limits  like  other  subjects;  to  the  peoples  whose  speech  it  is,  all 
theoretical  knowledge,  and  indeed  most  of  life,  is  inseparable  from  its  use." 
And  this  is  so  true  that  it  justifies  the  operation  just  performed  on  the 
specimen  of  non-thought.  For  although  it  is  possible  to  think  without 
words  and  to  communicate  by  signs,  our  civilization  depends,  as  I  said 
before,  on  the  written  word.  Writing  is  embodied  thought,  and  the  thought 
is  clear  or  muddy,  graspable  or  fugitive,  according  to  the  purity  of  the 
medium.  Communication  means  one  thought  held  in  common.  What 
could  be  more  practical  than  to  try  making  that  thought  unmistakable? 

As  for  the  receiver,  the  reader,  his  pleasure  or  grief  is  in  direct  proportion 
to  the  pains  taken  by  the  writer;  to  which  one  can  add  that  the  taking  of 
pains  brings  its  special  pleasure.  I  do  not  mean  the  satisfaction  of  vanity,  for 
after  a  bout  of  careful  writing  one  is  too  tired  to  care;  I  mean  the  new  per- 
ceptions—sensuous or  intellectual  or  comic— to  be  had  all  day  long  in  one's 
encounters  with  language.  Imagine  the  fun  people  miss  who  find  nothing 
remarkable  in  the  sentence  (from  Sax  Rohmer);  "The  woman's  emotions 
were  too  tropical  for  analysis";  or  who,  trusting  too  far  my  disallowance  of 
"contact"  as  a  verb,  miss  the  chance  of  using  it  at  the  hottest,  stickiest  time 
of  year:  "On  a  day  like  this,  I  wouldn't  contact  anybody  for  the  world." 


IRVING  LEE  They  talk  past  each  other 

"It  takes,"  says  Thoreau,  in  the  noblest  and  most  useful  passage  I  remember 
to  have  read  in  any  modern  author,  "two  to  speak  truth— one  to  speak  and  another 
to  hear/'  —Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  "Truth  of  Intercourse,"  Virginibus  Puerisque, 
J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons,  1925,  p.  32. 

How  misunderstanding  happens 

THE  ONE  thing  people  tend  to  take  for  granted  when  talking  to  others 
is  that  they  understand  each  other.  It  is  rare,  indeed,  in  a  meeting  to 
have  someone  hold  up  his  own  argument  long  enough  to  say,  "I  think  you 
said.  .  .  .  Did  you?"  or  "Was  I  right  in  thinking  you  meant  .  .  .  ?"  We 
found  people  ever  so  eager  to  parry  what  a  man  says  without  ever  wonder- 
ing whether  that  is  what  the  man  said. 


From  How  to  Talk  with  People  by  Irving  Lee,  Harper  &  Brothers.   Copyright,  1952, 
by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


214 


LANGUAGE 


In  the  give-and-take  of  talk  things  go  fast,  and  one  is  so  busy  organizing 
his  reply  that  he  doesn't  take  the  time  to  make  sure  he  knows  what  he  is 
replying  to.  This  is  unfortunate  because  it  often  means  that,  instead  of 
talking  with  others,  people  talk  past  or  by-pass  each  other. 

Note  some  by-passings. 

1.  The  British  Staff  prepared  a  paper  which  they  wished  to  raise  as  a  matter  of 
urgency,  and  informed  their  American  colleagues  that  they  wished  to  "table  it." 
To  the  American  staff  "tabling"  a  paper  meant  putting  it  away  in  a  drawer  and 
forgetting  it.   A  long  and  even  acrimonious  argument  ensued  before  both  parties 
realised  that  they  were  agreed  on  the  merits  and  wanted  the  same  thing.1 

2.  I  remember  a  worrisome  young  man  who,  one  day,  came  back  from  the 
X-ray  room  wringing  his  hands  and  trembling  with  fear.    "It  is  all  up  with  me," 
he  said.  "The  X-ray  man  said  I  have  a  hopeless  cancer  of  the  stomach."  Knowing 
that  the  roentgenologist  would  never  have  said  such  a  thing,  I  asked,  "Just  what 
did  he  say?"  and  the  answer  was  on  dismissing  him,  the  roentgenologist  said  to  an 
assistant,  "N.  P."  In  Mayo  clinic  cipher  this  meant  "no  plates,"  and  indicated  that 
the  X-ray  man  was  so  satisfied  with  the  normal  appearance  of  the  stomach  on  the 
X-ray  screen  that  he  did  not  see  any  use  in  making  films.   But  to  the  patient,  watch- 
ing in  an  agony  of  fear  for  some  portent  of  disaster,  it  meant  "nothing  possible": 
in  other  words  that  the  situation  was  hopeless!  2 

3.  A  foreman  told  a  machine  operator  he  was  passing:  "Better  clean  up  around 
here."   It  was  ten  minutes  later  when  the  foreman's  assistant  phoned:  "Say,  boss, 
isn't  that  bearing  Sipert  is  working  on  due  up  in  engineering  pronto?" 

"You  bet  your  sweet  life  it  is.   Why?" 

"He  says  you  told  him  to  drop  it  and  sweep  the  place  up.  I  thought  I'd  better 
make  sure." 

"Listen,"  the  foreman  flared  into  the  phone,  "get  him  right  back  on  that  job. 
It's  got  to  be  ready  in  twenty  minutes." 

.  .  .  What  [the  foreman]  had  in  mind  was  for  Sipert  to  gather  up  the  oily 
waste,  which  was  a  fire  and  accident  hazard.  This  would  not  have  taken  more 
than  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  there  would  have  been  plenty  of  time  to  finish  the 
bearing.  Sipert,  of  course,  should  have  been  able  to  figure  this  out  for  himself— 
except  that  something  in  the  foreman's  tone  of  voice,  or  in  his  own  mental  state  at 
the  time,  made  him  misunderstand  the  foreman's  intent.  He  wasn't  geared  to  what 
the  foreman  had  said.3 

4.  Lady  recently  ordered  some  writing  paper  at  a  department  store  and  asked 
to  have  her  initials  engraved  thereon.  The  salesgirl  suggested  placing  them  in  the 
upper  right-hand  corner  or  the  upper  left-hand  corner,  but  the  customer  said  no, 


i  Winston  Churchill,  "The  Second  World  War,"  Vol.  Ill,  Book  II,  TJie  New  York 
Times,  February  28,  1950,  p.  31. 

a  Walter  C.  Alvarez,  Nervousness,  Indigestion  and  Pain,  Paul  B.  Hoeber,  Inc.,  1943, 
p.  74. 

8  The  Foreman  s  Letter,  National  Foreman's  Institute,  Inc.,  February  8,  1950,  p.  3. 

THEY  TALK  PAST  EACH  OTHER    215 


put  them  in  the  center.  Well,  the  stationery  has  arrived,  every  sheet  marked  with 
her  initials  equidistant  from  right  and  left  and  from  top  and  bottom.4 

5.  In  a  private  conversation  with  Mr.  Molotov,  it  became  apparent  that  another 
difficult  misunderstanding  in  language  had  arisen  between  ourselves  and  the  Rus- 
sians. At  the  San  Francisco  Conference  when  the  question  of  establishing  a  trustee- 
ship system  within  the  United  Nations  was  being  considered,  the  Soviet  delegation 
had  asked  Mr.  Stettinius  what  the  American  attitude  would  be  toward  the  assump- 
tion by  the  Soviet  Union  of  a  trusteeship.  Mr.  Stettinius  replied  in  general  terms, 
expressing  the  opinion  that  the  Soviet  Union  was  "eligible"  to  receive  a  territory 
for  administration  under  trusteeship.  Mr.  Molotov  took  this  to  mean  we  would 
support  a  Soviet  request  for  a  trusteeship.5 

In  each  case  a  word  or  phrase  or  sentence  was  used  one  way  by  the 
speaker  and  interpreted  in  another  way  by  the  listener.  This  is  possible 
because  words  are  versatile.  Except  for  those  intended  for  highly  special- 
ized purposes  ( like  tetrasporangium,  icosahedron,  bisulfite ) ,  it  is  not  unusual 
to  find  most  words  put  to  rather  varied  uses.  A  seventh-grade  class  in  Eng- 
lish was  able  to  make  up  thirty  sentences  in  which  the  word  "set"  was  used 
differently  each  time.  Even  "word"  is  listed  in  sixteen  different  ways  in 
The  American  College  Dictionary. 

The  naive  speaker  of  a  language  usually  has  the  feeling  that,  in  general,  words 
have  a  meaning,  and  he  is  seldom  conscious  of  the  great  "area"  of  meaning  for  all 
except  highly  technical  words.  It  is  in  this  respect  that  the  student's  observation 
first  needs  widening  and  sharpening.  Frequently  we  have  tried  to  "build  vocabu- 
laries" by  adding  more  units  or  words.  But  to  push  first  the  addition  of  more 
vocabulary  units  in  order  to  increase  the  number  of  words  may  interfere  with, 
rather  than  help,  effective  mastery  of  language.  This  is  the  process  that  produces 
a  Mrs.  Malaprop.  Most  frequently  the  student  needs  first  to  know  well  the  various 
areas  of  use  of  the  units  he  is  already  familiar  with;  he  needs  to  be  made  conscious 
of  the  great  diversity  of  uses  or  meanings  for  commonly  used  words.  He  must  be 
made  aware,  for  example,  that  the  statement  "The  children  did  not  count"  can 
mean  that  they  did  not  utter  the  words  for  the  numbers  in  a  series,  or  that  the 
children  were  not  considered.  Ordinarily  we  just  don't  believe  without  consider- 
able careful  examination  that  for  the  five  hundred  most  used  words  in  English 
(according  to  the  Thorndike  Word  Book)  the  Oxford  Dictionary  records  and 
illustrates  from  our  literature  14,070  separate  meanings.8 

At  different  times  the  same  words  may  be  used  differently. 


*  "The  Talk  of  the  Town,"  The  New  Yorker,  January  28,  1950,  p.  21.   Reprinted  by 
permission.    Copyright,  1950,  The  New  Yorker  Magazine,  Inc. 

5  James  F.  Byrnes,  Speaking  Frankly,  Harper  &  Brothers,  1947,  p.  96. 

6  Charles  C.  Fries,  "Using  the  Dictionary,"  Inside  the  ACD,  October  1948,  p.  1. 


216 


LANGUAGE 


When  Francis  Bacon  referred  to  various  people  in  the  course  of  his  Essays  as 
indifferent,  obnoxious,  and  officious,  he  was  describing  them  as  "impartial,7*  "sub- 
missive," and  "ready  to  serve."  When  King  James  II  observed  that  the  new  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral  was  amusing,  awful,  and  artificial,  he  implied  that  Sir  Christopher 
Wren's  recent  creation  was  "pleasing,  awe-inspiring,  and  skilfully  achieved." 
When  Dr.  Johnson  averred  that  Milton's  Lycidas  was  "easy,  vulgar,  and  therefore 
disgusting,"  he  intended  to  say  that  it  was  "effortless,  popular,  and  theiefore  not 
in  good  taste."  7 

The  role  of  experience  also  affects  the  varieties  of  usage.  Brander  Mat- 
thews provided  an  example  from  a  dinner-party  conversation: 

The  second  topic  .  .  .  was  a  definition  of  the  image  called  up  in  our  several 
minds  by  the  word  forest.  Until  that  evening  I  had  never  thought  of  forest  as 
clothing  itself  in  different  colors  and  taking  on  different  forms  in  the  eyes  of  differ- 
ent men;  but  I  then  discovered  that  even  the  most  innocent  word  may  don  strange 
disguises.  To  Hardy  forest  suggested  the  sturdy  oaks  to  be  assaulted  by  the  wood- 
landers  of  Wessex;  and  to  Du  Maurier  it  evoked  the  trim  and  tidy  avenues  of  the 
national  domain  of  France.  To  Black  the  word  naturally  brought  to  mind  the  low 
scrub  of  the  so-called  deer-forests  of  Scotland;  and  to  Cosse  it  summoned  up  a 
view  of  the  green-clad  mountains  that  towered  up  from  the  Scandinavian  fiords. 
To  Howells  it  recalled  the  thick  woods  that  in  his  youth  fringed  the  rivers  of  Ohio; 
and  to  me  there  came  back  swiftly  the  memory  of  the  wild  growths  bristling  up 
unrestrained  by  man,  in  the  Chippewa  Reservation  which  I  had  crossed  fourteen 
years  before  in  my  canoe  trip  from  Lake  Superior  to  the  Mississippi.  Simple  as  the 
word  seemed,  it  was  interpreted  by  each  of  us  in  accord  with  his  previous  personal 
experience.8 

This  conclusion  about  the  range  and  possible  uses  of  a  word  is  easily 
verified.  When  it  is  forgotten,  a  listener  just  as  easily  comes  to  believe  that 
(1)  there  is  but  one  way  to  use  a  word— his— and  (2)  the  speaker  is  doing 
with  his  words  what  the  listener  would  were  the  listener  doing  the  talking. 

Can  you  see  these  beliefs  at  work  in  the  examples  given  above? 

In  short,  what  you  understand  by  any  word  or  statement  may  not  be  what 
someone  else  intends  to  say.  In  a  way,  this  is  so  obvious  that  most  of  us  feel 
no  obligation  to  think  more  about  it.  However,  when  one  is  aware  of  the 
fact  it  does  not  necessarily  follow  that  he  will  act  in  terms  of  it.  And  there 
is  some  evidence  that,  unless  people  can  be  made  sensitive  to  the  possibility 
of  by-passing,  they  make  only  meager  efforts  to  stop  it. 


7  Simeon  Potter,  Our  Language,  Pelican  Books,  1950,  p.  116. 

8  Brander  Matthews,   These  Many  Years:   Recollections  of  a  New  Yorker,  Charles 
Scribner's   Sons,   1917,   pp.   287-288.    Quoted   from  the  essay  by  Allen  Walker   Read, 
"Linguistic  Revision  as  a  Requisite  for  the  Increasing  of  Rigor  in  Scientific  Method,"  read 
at  the  Third,  Congress  on  General  Semantics,  July  22,  1949. 

THEY  TALK  PAST  EACH  OTHER    217 


It  takes  two  to  make  communication 

I  have  no  wish  here  to  give  comfort  to  the  bore  who  gets  so  much  pleasure 
squelching  discussions  with  his  defiant  "Define  your  terms."  His  maneuver 
results  in  shitting  the  burden  in  communication  to  the  other  fellow.  Both 
must  be  brought  into  the  act.  We  would  have  the  listener  work  just  a  bit, 
too.  So  we  urge  him  to  state  his  notion  of  what  was  being  said.  Incidentally, 
that  bore  may  sometimes  be  routed  with  this:  "What  definition  of  my  words 
have  you  in  mind?  Perhaps  we  are  thinking  together  after  all." 

The  "plain-talk"  and  "say-it-in-simple-words"  teachers  have  been  in  vogue 
but  they  haven't  been  especially  helpful.  They,  too,  tend  to  put  the  emphasis 
on  one  side  of  the  communication  line.  Putting  the  burden  for  understand- 
ing on  the  speaker  is  a  kind  of  implied  invitation  to  the  listener  to  sit  back 
and  contentedly  assume  he  has  nothing  to  do  but  wait  his  turn.  And  besides, 
even  the  simple  words  have  uses  which  too  frequently  vary  between  man 
and  man. 

We  once  observed  eight  meetings  of  a  group  of  nine  men,  who  functioned 
as  a  standing  committee  in  a  corporation  having  wide  public  responsibilities. 
Five  had  taken  one  or  more  courses  and  had  studied  some  of  the  books  on 
"talking  plainly."  One  of  the  items  checked  had  to  do  with  "the  assumption 
of  understanding."  Can  men  be  differentiated  according  to  their  readiness 
to  believe  they  know  what  the  other  fellow  is  referring  to?  We  looked  in 
their  replies  for  such  indications  as  questions  for  assurance  that  the  asker 
is  "with"  the  speaker,  qualifications  like  "If  I  understand  what  you  say"  or 
"If  I  knew  what  you  mean  .  .  .  ,"  invitations  like  "Correct  me  if  I'm  off  the 
beam"  or  "Tell  me  whether  I  answered  what  you  intended  to  say.  .  .  ." 

We  were  hardly  prepared  to  find  that  four  of  the  "plain-talk  students" 
did  the  least  amount  of  questioning,  qualifying,  inviting,  etc.  This  may,  of 
course,  be  an  accident.  Before  a  conclusion  worth  much  can  be  drawn  we 
should  have  a  broader  sampling  of  the  population.  And  before  a  cause  can 
be  assigned  with  confidence  much  more  investigation  would  be  needed. 
Nevertheless,  these  particular  men,  knowing  the  ways  to  "plainness"  and 
using  them,  tended  to  think  they  had  done  enough  when  they  spoke  so. 
They  seemed  to  focus  attention  on  their  talking.  They  made  no  comparable 
effort  to  look  to  the  character  of  what  they  heard. 

I  am  not  at  all  arguing  that  this  finding  in  these  particular  cases  means 
that  training  in  plain  talking  makes  for  poor  listening.  I  am  trying  to  sug- 
gest only  that  training  in  the  explicit  effort  at  understanding  may  be  a  diffi- 
cult sort  of  thing  and  may  not  automatically  carry  over  from  other  training. 

Cardinal  Manning  once  said  something  relevant; 

218    LANGUAGE 


I  have  no  doubt  that  I  will  hear  that  I  am  talking  of  what  I  do  not  understand; 
but  in  my  defence  I  think  I  may  say,  I  am  about  to  talk  of  what  I  do  not  under- 
stand for  this  reason:  I  cannot  get  those  who  talk  about  it  to  tell  me  what  they 
mean.  I  know  what  I  mean  by  it,  but  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  I  know  what  they 
mean  by  it;  and  those  who  use  the  same  words  in  different  senses  are  like  men 
that  run  up  and  down  the  two  sides  of  a  hedge,  and  so  can  never  meet. 

It  is  helpful  to  think  of  the  radio  in  this.  The  performer  in  the  studio  can 
talk  his  heart  out,  but  if  the  man  in  the  easy  chair  is  tuned  in  elsewhere  it 
really  makes  no  difference  what  is  being  said.  Unless  the  receiver  is  on  the 
same  wave  length,  the  character  of  what  is  sent  out  hardly  governs  the  com- 
munication process.9 

This  is  riot  to  imply  that  a  speaker  cannot  help  by  putting  what  he  has  to 
say  in  clear,  listenable  language.  Anything  he  does  to  define,  simplify,  am- 
plify, illustrate,  is  all  to  the  good.  But  it  is  only  part  of  the  process.  The 
listener  has  a  job  to  do,  too.  He  must  make  the  effort  to  come  to  terms  with 
the  speaker  to  keep  from  assuming  that  he  inevitably  knows  what  the 
speaker  has  in  mind.  At  the  very  least  he  might  temper  his  arrogance  with 
a  question  now  and  then  just  to  make  sure. 

It  takes  two  to  make  communication. 

Are  you  on  his  communication  line? 

The  preceding  pages  of  this  chapter  were  mimeographed  and  given  to 
three  groups,  one  meeting  for  study  of  the  Bible,  one  considering  matters  of 
policy  in  a  business  corporation,  and  one  working  on  problems  in  the  admin- 
istration of  a  college  fraternity.  Every  member  of  each  group  read  a  por- 
tion out  loud.  We  then  talked  about  the  main  point— it  takes  two  to  make 
communication.  We  agreed  that  this  was  rather  simple  stuff  and  that  we 
would  try  to  talk  with  the  possibility  of  by-passing  in  mind.  We  agreed, 
further,  that  no  one  of  us  would  be  insulted  if  asked  to  clarify  or  "talk  some 
more"  on  any  doubtful  point.  Nor  would  anyone  feel  hesitant  about  trying 
to  get  on  the  same  wave  length  with  anyone  else.  We  gave  each  a  small  card 
with  the  inscription,  "Are  you  on  his  communication  line?" 

What  happened? 

In  each  case  the  business  of  the  meeting  was  slowed  down.  Only  half  as 
many  items  on  the  agenda  could  be  covered.  There  was  a  certain  amount 
of  unfruitful  wrangling  about  small  points.  Some  members  became  tongue- 
tied  in  the  face  of  so  much  freedom.  Others  became  impatient  with  what 

0  This  image  is  well  developed  in  the  article  by  Charles  T.  Estes,  "Speech  and  Human 
Relations  in  Industry,"  The  Quarterly  Journal  of  Speech,  April  1946,  pp.  160-169. 

THEY  TALK  PAST  EACH  OTHER    219 


seemed  a  waste  of  time,  this  trying  to  get  to  the  speaker.  The  first  sessions 
were  always  the  worst.  Most  members  felt  comfortable  only  after  the  second 
or  third. 

And  then  we  came  upon  something  interesting.  A  man  was  being  lis- 
tened to.  He  found  that  others  were  actually  waiting  until  he  finished.  He 
felt  flattered  in  turn  by  the  fact  that  another  was  trying  to  reach  him  rather 
than  argue  at  him.  He  found  himself  trying  to  make  his  points  so  that  his 
hearers  would  have  less  trouble  with  them.  They  were  trying  harder  to  read 
the  cards  he  was  putting  on  the  table.  The  ornery  member,  normally  so 
quick  to  doubt,  stayed  to  question.  The  timid  member  found  that  the  social 
pressure  about  the  participation  was  all  on  his  side. 

We  are  inclined  to  think  that  the  long-run  results  were  worth  the  time 
and  trouble. 

The  purist's  dogma 

In  a  number  of  experimental  discussion  groups  generous  enough  to  sub- 
mit to  such  instruction  there  was  a  curious  resistance  to  this  seemingly 
obvious  doctrine.  I  would  be  asked  questions  like  these:  Do  you  mean  to 
say  that  a  word  doesn't  have  some  definite,  accurate  meaning  of  its  own 
regardless  of  the  person  who  uses  it?  Isn't  there  a  right  or  correct  use  for 
each  word?  If  somebody  fails  to  use  a  word  exactly  isn't  he  violating  some 
rule  in  rhetoric  or  grammar? 

How  did  these  people  come  under  the  spell  of  the  purist's  dogma?  Were 
they  remembering  some  menacing  drillmaster  with  a  word  list  asking  "What 

is  the  meaning  of ?"  Or  had  they  been  badgered  by  vocabulary  tests 

with  entries  like  glabrous  heads:  bald,  over-sized,  hairy,  square,  round;  his 
stilted  manner:  irresolute,  improper,  cordial,  stifflij  formal  with  instructions 
to  circle  the  meaning?  Or  maybe  they  grew  up  when  Alexander  Woollcott 
was  campaigning  against  certain  current  usage.  He  fought  the  use  of  "alibi" 
as  a  synonym  for  excuse;  he  wanted  it  saved  for  its  "elsewhere"  sense.  He 
sneered  when  "flair"  was  used  in  the  sense  of  knack  or  aptitude.  He  wanted 
it  reserved  for  "capacity  to  detect."  He  and  the  traditional  handbooks  had 
a  long  list  of  such  "reservations." 

Or  maybe  they  got  their  moorings  from  the  pronouncements  of  Richard 
Grant  White,  who  once  said,  "There  is  a  misuse  of  words  that  can  be  justi- 
fied by  no  authority,  however  great,  and  by  no  usage,  however  general." 
Or  maybe  they  got  no  further  in  Through  the  Looking  Glass  than 

".  .  .  How  old  did  you  say  you  were?" 

Alice  made  a  short  calculation,  and  said,  "Seven  years  and  six  months/' 


220 


LANGUAGE 


"Wrong!"  Humpty  Dumpty  exclaimed  triumphantly.  "You  never  said  a  word 
like  it!" 

"I  thought  you  meant  'How  old  are  you?'  "  Alice  explained. 
"If  I'd  meant  that,  I'd  have  said  it,"  said  Humpty  Dumpty. 

Regardless  of  the  source,  they  used  this  dogma  as  the  basis  for  a  theory 
of  their  own  about  the  cause  of  misunderstanding.  If  a  speaker  didn't  use 
a  word  correctly  it  was  only  natural  if  a  listener  who  did  know  the  exact 
meaning  was  misled.  Just  get  people  to  use  words  in  their  right  meaning 
and  then  everyone  will  understand  everyone  else. 

Indeed,  this  might  be  a  way— but  how  can  we  do  it?  Who  has  the  author- 
ity to  declare  the  correct  use  and  who  has  the  time  to  learn  it?  There  are 
more  than  600,000  words  in  the  Merriam-Webster  unabridged  dictionary 
and  perhaps  half  as  many  more  in  the  technical  vocabularies  of  medicine, 
engineering,  law,  etc.  And  when  the  dictionary  gives  several  meanings, 
which  is  the  one?  And  just  how  is  anyone  going  to  curb  those  who,  like 
Humpty  Dumpty,  would  have  their  own  ways  with  words: 

".  .  .  Impenetrability!  That's  what  I  say!" 

"Would  you  tell  me  please,"  said  Alice,  "what  that  means?" 

"Now  you  talk  like  a  reasonable  child,"  said  Humpty  Dumpty,  looking  very 
much  pleased.  "I  meant  by  'impenetrability'  that  we've  had  enough  of  that  sub- 
ject, and  it  would  bejust  as  well  if  you'd  mention  what  you  mean  to  do  next,  as  I 
suppose  you  don't  mean  to  stop  here  all  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"That's  a  great  cleoTto  make  one  word  mean,"  Alice  said  in  a  thoughtful  tone. 

"When  I  make  a  word  do  a  lot  of  work  like  that,"  said  Humpty  Dumpty,  "I 
always  pay  it  extra." 

And  what  is  more  crucial,  why  do  we  look  at  words  alone?  Are  words 
not  most  often  used  with  other  words  in  phrases,  clauses,  sentences?  May 
not  the  setting  affect  the  word? 

We  tried  to  get  around  this  ill-advised  zeal  for  exactness  by  suggesting 
that  a  word  might  be  compared  with  a  tool  which  can  be  used  in  a  variety 
of  ways.  Thus,  a  screwdriver  might  be  designed  to  drive  screws,  but  once 
available  it  can  be  used  to  stir  paint,  jimmy  a  tight  window,  or,  lacking  any 
other  weapon,  to  defend  oneself  with.  You  might,  if  you  wish,  insist  that 
the  screw  function  is  the  "right"  or  "correct"  one  and  that  a  pistol  is  a  much 
more  effective  weapon.  But  your  insistence  will  hardly  stop  me  from  using 
the  screwdriver  in  these  other  ways  if  I  find  it  convenient  or  necessary  to 
do  so.  A  carpenter  with  a  full  rack  of  tools  may  have  good  reason  for  re- 
serving each  for  but  one  use,  but  if  some  other  purpose  is  served  there  is 

THEY  TALK  PAST  EACH  OTHER    221 


nothing  in  the  nature  of  the  tool  which  could  prevent  that  other  use.  The 
desire  for  the  restriction,  then,  is  personal  rather  than  functional. 

Within  limits,  especially  in  technical  disciplines,  it  is  possible  to  stand- 
ardize word  usage.  One  is  usually  safe  in  assuming  that  the  workers  in  spe- 
cialized areas  will  conform  to  some  established,  stipulated  word  usages.  In 
the  military  establishment  and  in  legal  affairs,  for  example,  it  is  often  pos- 
sible as  well  as  necessary  to  insist  that  particular  words  be  used  in  particular 
ways. 

Once  outside  the  range  of  the  specialist's  interests,  however,  we  are  wise 
if  we  expect  words  to  be  used  variously.  A  speaker's  concern  at  any  moment 
is  not  to  use  a  word  but  to  make  a  statement.  In  his  eagerness  to  speak  his 
piece  he  is  more  concerned  with  his  continuous  expression  than  with  his 
total  effect.  If  he  happens  to  range  outside  his  listeners'  conventional  usage, 
they  will  get  nowhere  lamenting  his  lexicographical  heresy.  And  if  they  do 
not  get  to  his  usage  they  are  likely  to  assume  that  he  said  what  he  never 
intended  to. 

We  have  come  to  see  wisdom  in  this  advice:  Never  mind  what  words 
mean.  What  did  he  mean? 

It  may  take  time  to  find  out  what  a  man  means.  It  may  demand  a  patient 
listening  and  questioning.  It  may  be  an  unexciting  effort.  But  it  should  help 
to  bring  people  into  an  area  of  awareness  which  they  are  too  often  on  the 
outside  of.  Mr.  Justice  Jackson's  experience  in  a  situatiotrmore  momentous 
than  anything  we  were  exposed  to  adds  to  our  confidence  in  the  advice: 

It  was  my  experience  with  the  Soviet  lawyers  at  Nurnberg  that  the  most  impor- 
tant factor  in  collaboration  with  the  Soviet  was  patiently  and  persistently  to  make 
sure,  when  a  proposition  is  first  advanced,  that  it  is  thoroughly  understood  and 
that  both  sides  are  using  their  words  to  express  the  same  sense.  When  this  was 
done,  the  Soviet  lawyers  kept  their  agreements  with  us  quite  as  scrupulously  as 
American  lawyers  would.  They  may  or  may  not  regard  that  as  a  compliment,  but 
my  intentions  are  good.  But  it  was  my  experience  that  it  took  infinite  patience 
with  them,  as  they  thought  it  took  infinite  patience  with  us,  to  get  to  a  point  where 
there  was  a  real  meeting  of  minds  as  distinguished  from  some  textual  abstract 
formula  which  both  could  accept  only  because  concretely  it  meant  nothing  or 
meant  different  things  to  each.  And  I  have  sometimes  wondered  how  much  mis- 
understanding could  have  been  avoided  if  arrangements  between  the  two  coun- 
tries had  not  often  been  concluded  so  hurriedly,  in  the  stress  of  events,  that  this 
time-consuming  and  dreary  process  of  reducing  generalities  to  concrete  agree- 
ments was  omitted.10 


10  Excerpt  from  address  hy  Mr.  Justice  Robert  H.  Jackson  at  the  Bar  Dinner  of  the 
New  York  County  Lawyers*  Association,  December  8,  1949. 

222    LANGUAGE 


WILLIAM    H.    WHYTE,    JR. 

You,  too,  can  write  the  casual  style 

A  REVOLUTION  has  taken  place  in  American  prose.  No  longer  the  short 
huffs  and  puffs,  the  unqualified  word,  the  crude  gusto  of  the  declara- 
tive sentence.  Today  the  fashion  is  to  write  casually. 

The  Casual  Style  is  not  exactly  new.  Originated  in  the  early  Twenties, 
it  has  been  refined  and  improved  and  refined  again  by  a  relatively  small 
band  of  writers,  principally  for  the  New  Yorker,  until  now  their  manner- 
isms have  become  standards  of  sophistication.  Everybody  is  trying  to  join 
the  club.  Newspaper  columnists  have  forsaken  the  beloved  metaphors  of 
the  sports  page  for  the  Casual  Style,  and  one  of  the  quickest  ways  for  an  ad 
man  to  snag  an  award  from  other  ad  men  is  to  give  his  copy  the  low-key, 
casual  pitch;  the  copy  shouldn't  sing  these  days— it  should  whisper.  Even 
Dr.  Rudolf  Flesch,  who  has  been  doing  so  much  to  teach  people  how  to 
write  like  other  people,  is  counseling  his  followers  to  use  the  Casual  Style. 
Everywhere  the  ideal  seems  the  same:  be  casual. 

But  how?  There  is  very  little  down-to-earth  advice.  We  hear  about  the 
rapier-like  handling  of  the  bromide,  the  keen  eye  for  sham  and  pretension, 
the  exquisite  sense  of  nuance,  the  unerring  ear  for  the  vulgate.  But  not 
much  about  actual  technique.  The  layman,  as  a  consequence,  is  apt  to 
look  on  the  Casual  Style  as  a  mandarin  dialect  which  he  fears  he  could 
never  master. 

Nonsense.  The  Casual  Style  is  within  everyone's  grasp.  It  has  now  be- 
come so  perfected  by  constant  polishing  that  its  devices  may  readily  be 
identified,  and  they  change  so  little  that  their  use  need  be  no  more  difficult 
for  the  novice  than  for  the  expert.  (That's  not  quite  all  there  is  to  it,  of 
course.  Some  apparently  casual  writers,  Thurber  and  E.  B.  White,  among 
others,  rarely  use  the  devices.) 

The  subject  matter,  in  the  first  place,  is  not  to  be  ignored.  Generally 
speaking,  the  more  uneventful  it  is,  or  the  more  pallid  the  writer's  reac- 
tion to  it,  the  better  do  form  and  content  marry.  Take,  for  example,  the 
cocktail  party  at  which  the  writer  can  show  how  bored  everyone  is  with 
everyone  else,  and  how  utterly  fatuous  they  all  are  anyhow.  Since  a  non- 
casual  statement— e.g.,  "The  party  was  a  bore"— would  destroy  the  reason 
for  writing  about  it  at  all,  the  Casual  Style  here  is  not  only  desirable  but 
mandatory. 

Reprinted  from  Harper's  Magazine  by  permission  of  the  author.  Copyright,  1953, 
by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

YOU,    TOO,    CAN   WRITE   THE   CASUAL   STYLE        223 


Whatever  the  subject,  however,  twelve  devices  are  the  rock  on  which  all 
else  is  built.  I  will  present  them  one  by  one,  illustrating  them  with  exam- 
ples from  such  leading  casual  stylists  as  Wolcott  Gibbs,  John  Crosby,  John 
McCarten,  and  (on  occasion)  this  magazine's  "Mr.  Harper."  If  the  reader 
will  digest  what  follows,  he  should  be  able  to  dash  off  a  paragraph  indis- 
tinguishable from  the  best  casual  writing  being  done  today. 

(1)  Heightened    Understatement.    Where   the    old-style   writer   would 
say,  "I  don't  like  it,"  "It  is  not  good,"  or  something  equally  banal,  the  casual 
writer  says  it  is  "something  less  than  good."    He  avoids  direct  statement 
and  strong  words— except,  as  we  will  note,  where  he  is  setting  them  up  to 
have  something  to  knock  down.  In  any  event,  he  qualifies.  "Somewhat"  and 
"rather,"  the  bread-and-butter  words  of  the  casual  writer,  should  become 
habitual  with  you;  similarly  with  such  phrases  as  "I  suppose,"  "it  seems  to 
me,"  "I  guess,"  or  "I'm  afraid."   "Elusive"  or  "elude"  are  good,  too,  and  if 
you  see  the  word  "charm"  in  a  casual  sentence  you  can  be  pretty  sure  that 
"eludes  me,"  or  "I  find  elusive,"  will  not  be  far  behind. 

(2)  The  Multiple  Hedge.    Set  up  an  ostensibly  strong  statement,  and 
then,  with  your  qualifiers,  shoot  a  series  of  alternately  negative  and  posi- 
tive charges  into  the  sentence  until  finally  you  neutralize  the  whole  thing. 
Let's  take,  for  example,  the  clause,  "certain  names  have  a  guaranteed  nos- 
talgic magic."    Challenge  enough  here;  the  names  not  only  have  magic, 
they  have  guaranteed  magic.  A  double  hedge  reverses  the  charge.   "Names 
which  have,  I  suppose  [hedge  1],  a  guaranteed  nostalgic  magic,  though 
there  are  times  that  I  doubt  it  [hedge  2].  .  .  ." 

We  didn't  have  to  say  they  were  guaranteed  in  the  first  place,  of  course, 
but  without  such  straw  phrases  we  wouldn't  have  anything  to  construct  a 
hedge  on  and,  frequently,  nothing  to  write  at  all.  The  virtue  of  the  hedge 
is  that  by  its  very  negative  effect  it  makes  any  sentence  infinitely  expansible. 
Even  if  you  have  so  torn  down  your  original  statement  with  one  or  two 
hedges  that  you  seem  to  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  line,  you  have  only  to 
slip  in  an  anti-hedge,  a  strengthening  word  ( e.g.,  "definitely,"  "unqualified," 
etc.),  and  begin  the  process  all  over  again.  Witness  the  following  quadruple 
hedge:  "I  found  Mr.  Home  entertaining  from  time  to  time  [hedge  1]  on  the 
ground,  I  guess  [hedge  2],  that  the  singular  idiom  and  unearthly  detach- 
ment of  the  British  upper  classes  have  always  [anti-hedge]  seemed  reason- 
ably [hedge  3]  droll  to  me,  at  least  in  moderation  [hedge  4]."  The  .art  of 
plaia.taljk^as  has  been  pointed  out,  does  not  entail  undue  brevity. 

If  youVe  pulled  hedge  on  hedge  and  the  effect  still  remains  too  vigorous, 
simply  wipe  the  slate  clean  with  a  cancellation  clause  at  the  end.  "It  was 
all  exactly  as  foolish  as  it  sounds,"  says  Wolcott  Gibbs,  winding  up  some  570 
casual  words  on  a  subject,  "and  I  wouldn't  give  it  another  thought." 

(3)  Narcissizing  Jour  Prose.  The  casual  style  is  nothing  if  not  personal; 

224    LANGUAGE 


indeed,  you  will  usually  find  in  it  as  many  references  to  the  writer  as  to 
what  he's  supposed  to  be  talking  about.  For  you  do  not  talk  about  the 
subject;  you  talk  about  its  impact  on  you.  With  the  reader  peering  over 
your  shoulder,  you  look  into  the  mirror  and  observe  your  own  responses 
as  you  run  the  entire  range  of  the  casual  writer's  emotions.  You  may  reveal 
yourself  as,  in  turn,  listless  ("the  audience  seemed  not  to  share  my  bore- 
dom"); insouciant  ("I  was  really  quite  happy  with  it");  irritated  ("The 
whole  thing  left  me  tired  and  cross");  comparatively  gracious  ("Being  in 
a  comparatively  gracious  mood,  I  won't  go  into  the  details  I  didn't  like"); 
or  hesitant  ("I  wish  I  could  say  that  I  could  accept  his  hypothesis"). 

(4)  Preparation  for  the  Witticism.   When  the  casual  writer  hits  upon  a 
clever  turn  of  phrase  or  a  nice  conceit,  he  uses  this  device  to  insure  that 
his  conceit  will  not  pass  unnoticed.  Suppose,  for  example,  you  have  thought 
of  something  to  say  that  is  pretty  damn  good  if  you  say  so  yourself.    The 
device,  in  effect,  is  to  say  so  yourself.    If  you  want  to  devastate  a  certain 
work  as  "a  study  of  vulgarity  in  high  places,"  don't  say  this  flat  out.   Earlier 
in  the  sentence  prepare  the  reader  for  the  drollery  ahead  with  something 
like  "what  I  am  tempted  to  call"  or  "what  could  best  be  described  as"  or 
"If  it  had  to  be  defined  in  a  sentence,  it  might  well  be  called.  .  .  ." 

Every  writer  his  own  claque. 

(5)  Deciphered  Notes  Device;  or  Cute-Things-I-Have-Said.    In  this  one 
you  are  your  own  stooge  as  well.   You  feed  yourself  lines.   By  means  of  the 
slender  fiction  that  you  have  written  something  on  the  back  of  an  envelope 
or  the  margin  of  a  program,  you  catch  yourself  good-humoredly  trying  to 
decipher  these  shrewd,  if  cryptic,  little  jottings.   Viz.:  "Their  diagnoses  are 
not  nearly  as  crisp  as  those  I  find  in  my  notes";  ".  .  .  sounds  like  an  in- 
adequate description,  but  it's  all  I  have  on  my  notes,  and  it  may  conceiv- 
ably be  a  very  high  compliment." 

(6)  The  Kicker.    An  echo  effect.    "My  reactions  [included]  an  irritable 
feeling  that  eleven  o'clock  was  past  Miss  Keim's  bedtime,"— and  now  the 
Kicker— "not  to  mention  mij  own!'  This  type  of  thing  practically  writes  itself. 
"She  returns  home.   She  should  never  have  left  home  in  the  first  place. 


(7)  Wit  of  Omission.  By  calling  attention  to  the  fact  that  you  are  not  go- 
ing to  say  it,  you  suggest  that  there  is  something  very  funny  you  could  say  if 
only  you  wanted  to.  "A  thought  occurred  to  me  at  this  point,"  you  may  say, 
when  otherwise  stymied,  "but  I  think  we  had  better  not  go  into  that." 

(8)  The  Planned  Colloquialism.  The  casual  writer  savors  colloquialisms. 
This  is  not  ordinary  colloquial  talk— nobody  is  more  quickly  provoked  than 
the  casual  writer  by  ordinary  usage.  It  is,  rather,  a  playful  descent  into  the 
vulgate.  Phrases  like  "darn,"  "awfully,"  "as  all  getout,"  "mighty,"  and  other 

1  "And  neither  should  I." 

YOU,    TOO,    CAN    WRITE    THE    CASUAL    STYLE          225 


folksy  idioms  are  ideal.  The  less  you  would  be  likely  to  use  the  word 
normally  yourself  the  more  pointed  the  effect.  Contrast  is  what  you  are 
after,  for  it  is  the  facetious  interplay  of  language  levels— a  blending,  as  it 
were,  of  the  East  Fifties  and  the  Sticks— that  gives  the  Casual  Style  its  off- 
hand charm. 

(9)  Feigned  Forgetfulness.    Conversation  gropes;  it  is  full  of  "what  I 
really  meant  was"  and  "maybe  I  should  have  added,"  backings  and  fillings 
and  second  thoughts  of  one  kind  or  another.   Writing  is  different;  theoret- 
ically, ironing  out  second  thoughts  beforehand  is  one  of  the  things  writers 
are  paid  to  do.   In  the  Casual  Style,  however,  it  is  exactly  this  exposure  of 
the  writer  composing  in  public  that  makes  it  so  casual.   For  the  professional 
touch,  then,  ramble,  rebuke  yourself  in  print   ("what  I   really  meant,   I 
guess"),  and  if  you  have  something  you  feel  you  should  have  said  earlier, 
don't  say  it  earlier,  but  say  later  that  you  guess  you  should  have  said  it 
earlier. 

(10)  The    Subject-Apologizer,    or    Pardon-Me-for-Living.     The    Casual 
Stylist  must  always  allow  for  the  possibility  that  his  subject  is  just  as  boring 
to  the  reader  as  it  is  to  him.    He  may  forestall  this  by  seeming  to  have 
stumbled  on  it  by  accident,  or  by  using  phrases  like :  "If  this  is  as  much  news 
to  you  as  it  is  to  me,"  or  "This,  in  case  youVe  been  living  in  a  cave  lately, 

is.  .  .  r 

(11)  The  Omitted  Word.    This  all  began  inodestly  enough  the  day  a 
New  Yorker  writer  dropped  the  articles  "the"  and  "a"  from  the  initial  sen- 
tence of  an  anecdote   (e.g.,  "Man  we  know  told  us";  "Fellow  name  of 
Brown").    Now  even  such  resolutely  lowbrow  writers  as  Robert  Ruark 
affect  it,  and  they  are  applying  it  to  any  part  of  speech  anywhere  in  the 
sentence.  You  can  drop  a  pronoun  ("Says  they're  shaped  like  pyramids"); 
verb  ("You  been  away  from  soap  opera  the  last  couple  of  weeks?");  or 
preposition  ("Far  as  glamour  goes  .  .  ."). 

(12)  The  Right  Word.    In  the  lexicon  of  the  casual  writer  there  are  a 
dozen  or  so  adjectives  which  in  any  context  have,  to  borrow  a  phrase,  a 
guaranteed  charm.    Attrition  is  high— "brittle,"  "febrile,"  "confected,"  for 
example,  are  at  the  end  of  the  run.  Ten,  however,  defy  obsolescence:  antic, 
arch,  blurred,  chaste,  chill,  crisp,  churlish,  disheveled,  dim,  disembodied. 

They  are  good  singly,  but  they  are  even  better  when  used  in  tandem; 
cf.,  "In  an  arch,  antic  sort  of  way";  "In  an  arch,  blurred  sort  of  way";  "In 
an  arch,  crisp  sort  of  way."  And  so  on. 

Finally,  the  most  multi-purpose  word  of  them  all:  "altogether."  Fre- 
quently it  is  the  companion  of  "charming"  and  "delightful,"  and  in  this 
coupling  is  indispensable  to  any  kind  of  drama  criticism.  It  can  also  modify 
the  writer  himself  (e.g.,  "Altogether,  I  think  .  .  .").  Used  best,  however, 
it  just  floats,  unbeholden  to  any  other  part  of  the  sentence. 


LANGUAGE 


Once  you  have  mastered  these  twelve  devices,  you  too  should  be  able  to 
write  as  casually  as  all  getout.  At  least  it  seems  to  me,  though  I  may  be 
wrong,  that  they  convey  an  elusive  archness  which  the  crisp  literary  crafts- 
man, in  his  own  dim  sort  of  way,  should  altogether  cultivate  these  days. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  the  charm  of  the  Casual  Style  is  something  less  than 
clear  to  me,  but  we  needn't  go  into  that.  Fellow  I  know  from  another  maga- 
zine says  this  point  of  view  best  described  as  churlish.  Not,  of  course,  that 
it  matters.  * 


W.    SOMERSET    MAUGHAM      TllICC    BlttlS    fol 

nr  KNEW  that  I  should  never  write  as  well  as  I  could  wish,  but  I  though^ 
I  with  pains  I  could  arrive  at  writing  as  well  as  my  natural  defects  al- 
lowed. On  taking  thought  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  must  aim  at  lucidity,  sim- 
plicity and  euphony.  I  have  put  these  three  qualities  in  the  order  of  the 
importance  I  assigned  to  them. 

I  have  never  had  much  patience  with  the  writers  who  claim  from  the 
reader  an  effort  to  understand  their  meaning.  You  have  only  to  go  to 
the  great  philosophers  to  see  that  it  is  possible  to  express  with  lucidity  the 
most  subtle  reflections.  You  may  find  it  difficult  to  understand  the  thought 
of  Hume,  and  if  you  have  no  philosophical  training  its  implications  will 
doubtless  escape  you;  but  no  one  with  any  education  at  all  can  fail  to  under- 
stand exactly  what  the  meaning  of  each  sentence  is.  Few  people  have  writ- 
ten English  with  more  grace  than  Berkeley.  There  are  two  sorts  of  obscurity 
that  you  find  in  writers.  One  is  due  to  negligence  and  the  other  to  wilfulness. 
People  often  write  obscurely  because  they  have  never  taken  the  trouble  to 
learn  to  write  clearly.  This  sort  of  obscurity  you  find  too  often  in  modern 
philosophers,  in  men  of  science,  and  even  in  literary  critics.  Here  it  is  indeed 
strange.  You  would  have  thought  that  men  who  passed  their  lives  in  the 
study  of  the  great  masters  of  literature  would  be  sufficiently  sensitive  to  the 
beauty  of  language  to  write  if  not  beautifully  at  least  with  perspicuity.  Yet 
you  will  find  in  their  works  sentence  after  sentence  that  you  must  read  twice 
to  discover  the  sense.  Often  you  can  only  guess  at  it,  for  the  writers  have 
evidently  not  said  what  they  intended. 

Another  cause  of  obscurity  is  that  the  writer  is  himself  not  quite  sure  of 
his  meaning.  He  has  a  vague  impression  of  what  he  wants  to  say,  but  has 
not,  either  from  lack  of  mental  power  or  from  laziness,  exactly  formulated  it 

From  The  Summing  Up  by  W.  Somerset  Maugham.  Copyright  1938  by  W.  Somerset 
Maugham.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Doubleday  &  Company,  Inc. 

THREE  AIMS   FOR   WRITERS        227 


in  his  mind  and  it  is  natural  enough  that  he  should  not  find  a  precise  expres- 
sion for  a  confused  idea.  This  is  due  largely  to  the  fact  that  many  writers 
think,  not  before,  but  as  they  write.  The  pen  originates  the  thought.  The 
disadvantage  of  this,  and  indeed  it  is  a  danger  against  which  the  author 
must  be  always  on  his  guard,  is  that  there  is  a  sort  of  magic  in  the  written 
word.  The  idea  acquires  substance  by  taking  on  a  visible  nature,  and  then 
stands  in  the  way  of  its  own  clarification.  ^But  this  sort  of  obscurity  merges 
very  easily  into  the  w$Jful.t  Sfome  writejfs  Avfco-db  r$t  *kia&  clearly  are  in- 
clined to  suppose  that  their  thoughS^ave^^'gnifi^ariotevgxeater  than  at  first 
sight  appears.  It  is  flattering  to  believe  that  me^  ar^Jcp  profound  to  be 
expressed  so  clearly  that  all  who  run  may  read,  and  very  naturally  it  does 
not  occur  to  such  writers  that  the  fault  is  with  their  own  minds  which  have 
not  the  faculty  of  precise  reflection.  Here  again  the  magic  of  the  written 
word  obtains.  It  is  very  easy  to  persuade  oneself  that  a  phrase  that  one  does 
not  quite  understand  may  mean  a  great  deal  more  than  one  realizes.  From 
this  there  is  only  a  little  way  to  go  to  fall  into  the  habit  of  setting  down 
one's  impressions  in  all  their  original  vagueness.  Fools  can  always  be  found 
to  discover  a  hidden  sense  in  them.  There  is  another  form  of  wilful  obscurity 
that  masquerades  as  aristocratic  exclusiveness.  The  author  wraps  his  mean- 
ing in  mystery  so  that  the  vulgar  shall  not  participate  in  it.  His  soul  is  a 
secret  garden  into  which  the  elect  may  penetrate  only  after  overcoming  a 
number  of  perilous  obstacles.  But  this  kind  of  obscurity  is  not  only  preten- 
tious; it  is  short-sighted.  For  time  plays  it  an  odd  trick.  If  the  sense  is  meagre 
time  reduces  it  to  a  meaningless  verbiage  that  no  one  thinks  of  reading. 
This  is  the  fate  that  has  befallen  the  lucubrations  of  those  French  writers 
who  were  seduced  by  the  example  of  Guillaume  Apollinaire.  But  occa- 
sionally it  throws  a  sharp  cold  light  on  what  had  seemed  profound  and  thus 
discloses  the  fact  that  these  contortions  of  language  disguised  very  common- 
place notions.  There  are  few  of  Mallarme's  poems  now  that  are  not  clear; 
one  cannot  fail  to  notice  that  his  thought  singularly  lacked  originality.  Some 
of  his  phrases  were  beautiful;  the  materials  of  his  verse  were  the  poetic 
platitudes  of  his  day. 


IMPLICITY  isjiot^uch  an  obvious  mpri't  asJucidity.  I  have  aimed  at  it 
use  I  have  no  gift  for  ilchnci^r^WitTmriimits  I  admire  richness  in 

ers,  though  I  find  it  difficult  to  digest  in  quantity.  I  can  read  one  page  of 
Ruskin  with  delight,  but  twenty  only  with  weariness.  The  rolling  period,  the 
stately  epithet,  the  noun  rich  in  poetic  associations,  the  subordinate  clauses 
that  give  the  sentence  weight  and  magnificence,  the  grandeur  like  that  of 
wave  following  wave  in  the  open  sea;  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  all  this  there 
is  something  inspiring.  Words  thus  strung  together  fall  on  the  car  like  music. 

228    LANGUAGE 


The  appeal  is  sensuous  rather  than  intellectual,  and  the  beauty  of  the  sound 
leads  you  easily  to  conclude  that  you  need  not  bother  about  the  meaning. 
But  words  are  tyrannical  things,  they  exist  for  their  meanings,  and  if  you 
will  not  pay  attention  to  these,  you  cannot  pay  attention  at  all.  Your  mind 
wanders.  This  kind  of  writing  demands  a  subject  that  will  suit  it.  It  is  surely 
out  of  place  to  write  in  the  grand  style  of  inconsiderable  things.  No  one 
wrote  in  this  manner  with  greater  success  than  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  but  even 
he  did  not  always  escape  this  pitfall.  In  the  last  chapter  of  Hydriotaphia 
the  matter,  which  is  the  destiny  of  man,  wonderfully  fits  the  baroque  splen- 
dour of  the  language,  and  here  the  Norwich  doctor  produced  a  piece  of  prose 
that  has  never  been  surpassed  in  our  literature;  but  when  he  describes  the 
finding  of  his  urns  in  the  same  splendid  manner  the  effect  (at  least  to  my 
taste)  is  less  happy.  When  a  modern  writer  is  grandiloquent  to  tell  you 
whether  or  no  a  little  trollop  shall  hop  into  bed  with  a  commonplace  young 
man  you  are  right  to  be  disgusted. 

But  if  richness  needs  gifts  with  which  everyone  is  not  endowed,  simplicity 
by  no  means  comes  by  nature.  To  achieve  it  needs  rigid  discipline.  So  far 
as  I  know  ours  is  the  only  language  in  which  it  has  been  found  necessary  to 
give  a  name  to  the  piece  of  prose  which  is  described  as  the  purple  patch;  it 
would  not  have  been  necessary  to  do  so  unless  it  were  characteristic.  English 
prose  is  elaborate  rather  than  simple.  It  was  not  always  so.  Nothing  could 
be  more  racy,  straightforward  and  alive  than  the  prose  of  Shakespeare;  but 
it  must  be  remembered  that  this  was  dialogue  written  to  be  spoken.  We  do 
not  know  how  he  would  have  written  if  like  Corneille  he  had  composed 
prefaces  to  his  plays.  It  may  be  that  they  would  have  been  as  euphuistic  as 
the  letters  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  But  earlier  prose,  the  prose  of  Sir  Thomas 
More,  for  instance,  is  neither  ponderous,  flowery  nor  oratorical.  It  smacks 
of  the  English  soil.  To  my  mind  King  James's  Bible  has  been  a  very  harmful 
influence  on  English  prose.  I  am  not  so  stupid  as  to  deny  its  great  beauty. 
It  is  majestical.  But  the  Bible  is  an  oriental  book.  Its  alien  imagery  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  us.  Those  hyperboles,  those  luscious  metaphors,  are  foreign 
to  our  genius.  I  cannot  but  think  that  not  the  least  of  the  misfortunes  that  the 
Secession  from  Rome  brought  upon  the  spiritual  life  of  our  country  is  that 
this  work  for  so  long  a  period  became  the  daily,  and  with  many  the  only, 
reading  of  our  people.  Those  rhythms,  that  powerful  vocabulary,  that  gran- 
diloquence, became  part  and  parcel  of  the  national  sensibility.  The  plain, 
honest  English  speech  was  overwhelmed  with  ornament.  Blunt  Englishmen 
twisted  their  tongues  to  speak  like  Hebrew  prophets.  There  was  evidently 
something  in  the  English  temper  to  which  this  was  congenial,  perhaps  a 
native  lack  of  precision  in  thought,  perhaps  a  naive  delight  in  fine  words  for 
their  own  sake,  an  innate  eccentricity  and  love  of  embroidery,  I  do  not  know; 

THREE   AIMS   FOR   WRITERS        229 


but  the  fact  remains  that  ever  since,  English  prose  has  had  to  struggle  against 
the  tendency  to  luxuriance.  When  from  time  to  time  the  spirit  of  the  lan- 
guage has  reasserted  itself,  as  it  did  with  Dryden  and  the  writers  of  Queen 
Anne,  it  was  only  to  be  submerged  once  more  by  the  pomposities  of  Gibbon 
and  Dr.  Johnson.  When  English  prose  recovered  simplicity  with  Hazlitt,  the 
Shelley  of  the  letters  and  Charles  Lamb  at  his  best,  it  lost  it  again  with 
De  Quincey,  Carlyle,  Meredith  and  Walter  Pater.  It  is  obvious  that  the 
grand  style  is  more  striking  than  the  plain.  Indeed  many  people  think  that 
a  style  that  does  not  attract  notice  is  not  style.  They  will  admire  Walter 
Pater's,  but  will  read  an  essay  by  Matthew  Arnold  without  giving  a  moment's 
attention  to  the  elegance,  distinction  and  sobriety  with  which  he  set  down 
what  he  had  to  say. 

The  dictum  that  the  style  is  the  man  is  well  known.  It  is  one  of  those 
aphorisms  that  say  too  much  to  mean  a  great  deal.  Where  is  the  man  in 
Goethe,  in  his  birdlike  lyrics  or  in  his  clumsy  prose?  And  Hazlitt?  But  I 
suppose  that  if  a  man  has  a  confused  mind  he  will  write  in  a  confused  way, 
if  his  temper  is  capricious  his  prose  will  be  fantastical,  and  if  he  has  a  quick, 
darting  intelligence  that  is  reminded  by  the  matter  in  hand  of  a  hundred 
things  he  will,  unless  he  has  great  self-control,  load  his  pages  with  metaphor 
and  simile.  There  is  a  great  difference  between  the  magniloquence  of  the 
Jacobean  writers,  who  were  intoxicated  with  the  new  wealth  that  had  lately 
been  brought  into  the  language,  and  the  turgidity  of  Gibbon  and  Dr.  John- 
son, who  were  the  victims  of  bad  theories.  I  can  read  every  word  that  Dr. 
Johnson  wrote  with  delight,  for  he  had  good  sense,  charm  and  wit.  No  one 
could  have  written  better  if  he  had  not  wilfully  set  himself  to  write  in  the 
grand  style.  He  knew  good  English  when  he  saw  it.  No  critic  has  praised 
Dryden's  prose  more  aptly.  He  said  of  him  that  he  appeared  to  have  no  art 
other  than  that  of  expressing  with  clearness  what  he  thought  with  vigour. 
And  one  of  his  Lives  he  finished  with  the  words:  "Whoever  wishes  to  attain 
an  English  style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant  but  not  ostentatious, 
must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison."  But  when  he  him- 
self sat  down  to  write  it  was  with  a  very  different  aim.  He  mistook  the 
orotund  for  the  dignified.  He  had  not  the  good  breeding  to  see  that  simplicity 
and  naturalness  are  the  truest  marks  of  distinction. 

For  to  write  good  prose  is  an  affair  of  good  manners.  It  is,  unlike  verse,  a 
civil  art.  Poetry  is  baroque.  Baroque  is  tragic,  massive  and  mystical.  It  is 
elemental.  It  demands  depth  and  insight.  I  cannot  but  feel  that  the  prose 
writers  of  the  baroque  period,  the  authors  of  King  James's  Bible,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  Glanville,  were  poets  who  had  lost  their  way.  Prose  is  a  rococo  art. 
It  needs  taste  rather  than  power,  decorum  rather  than  inspiration  and  vigour 
rather  than  grandeur.  Form  for  the  poet  is  the  bit  and  the  bridle  without 

230         LANGUAGE 


which  (unless  you  are  an  acrobat)  you  cannot  ride  your  horse;  but  for  the 
writer  of  prose  it  is  the  chassis  without  which  your  car  does  not  exist.  It  is 
not  an  accident  that  the  best  prose  was  written  when  rococo  with  its  elegance 
and  moderation,  at  its  birth  attained  its  greatest  excellence.  For  rococo  was 
evolved  when  baroque  had  become  declamatory  and  the  world,  tired  of  the 
stupendous,  asked  for  restraint.  It  was  the  natural  expression  of  persons  who 
valued  a  civilized  life.  Humour,  tolerance  and  horse  sense  made  the  great 
tragic  issues  that  had  preoccupied  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century 
seem  excessive.  The  world  was  a  more  comfortable  place  to  live  in  and  per- 
haps for  the  first  time  in  centuries  the  cultivated  classes  could  sit  back  and 
enjoy  their  leisure.  It  has  been  said  that  good  prose  should  resemble  the 
conversation  of  a  well-bred  man.  Conversation  is  only  possible  when  men's 
minds  are  free  from  pressing  anxieties.  Their  lives  must  be  reasonably  secure 
and  they  must  have  no  grave  concern  about  their  souls.  They  must  attach 
importance  to  the  refinements  of  civilization.  They  must  value  courtesy, 
they  must  pay  attention  to  their  persons  (and  have  we  not  also  been  told 
that  good  prose  should  be  like  the  clothes  of  a  well-dressed  man,  appropriate 
but  unobtrusive? ) ,  they  must  fear  to  bore,  they  must  be  neither  flippant  nor 
solemn,  but  always  apt;  and  they  must  look  upon  "enthusiasm"  with  a  critical 
glance.  This  is  a  soil  very  suitable  for  prose.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that 
it  gave  a  fitting  opportunity  for  the  appearance  of  the  best  writer  of  prose  that 
our  modern  world  has  seen,  Voltaire.  The  writers  of  English,  perhaps  owing 
to  the  poetic  nature  of  the  language,  have  seldom  reached  the  excellence 
that  seems  to  have  come  so  naturally  to  him.  It  is  in  so  far  as  they  have 
approached  the  ease,  sobriety  and  precision  of  the  great  French  masters  that 
they  are  admirable. 

WHETHER  YOU  ASCRIBE  importance  to  Quphony,  the  last  of  the  three 
characteristics  that  I  mentioned,  must  aeper/fT  on  the  sensitiveness  of 
your  ear.  A  great  many  readers,  and  many  admirable  writers,  are  devoid 
of  this  quality.  Poets  as  we  know  have  always  made  a  great  use  of  allitera- 
tion. They  are  persuaded  that  the  repetition  of  a  sound  gives  an  effect  of 
beauty.  I  do  not  think  it  does  so  in  prose.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  prose 
alliteration  should  be  used  only  for  a  special  reason;  when  used  by  accident 
it  falls  on  the  ear  very  disagreeably.  But  its  accidental  use  is  so  common 
that  one  can  only  suppose  that  the  sound  of  it  is  not  universally  offensive. 
Many  writers  without  distress  will  put  two  rhyming  words  together,  join  a 
monstrous  long  adjective  to  a  monstrous  long  noun,  or  between  the  end  of 
one  word  and  the  beginning  of  another  have  a  conjunction  of  consonants 
that  almost  breaks  your  jaw.  These  are  trivial  and  obvious  instances.  I  men- 
tion them  only  to  prove  that  if  careful  writers  can  do  such  things  it  is  only 

THREE    AIMS   FOR   WRITERS         231 


because  they  have  no  ear.  Words  have  weight,  sound  and  appearance;  it  is 

only  by  considering  these  that  you  can  write  a  sentence  that  is  good  to  look 

at  and  good  to  listen  to. 
I  have  read  many  books  on  English  prose,  but  have  found  it  hard  to  profit 

by  them;  for  the  most  part  they  are  vague,  unduly  theoretical,  and  often 
scolding.  But  you  cannot  say  this  of  Fowler's  Dictionary  of  Modern  English 
Usage.  It  is  a  valuable  work.  I  do  not  think  anyone  writes  so  well  that  he 
cannot  learn  much  from  it.  It  is  lively  reading.  Fowler  liked  simplicity, 
straightforwardness  and  common  sense.  He  had  no  patience  with  preten- 
tiousness. He  had  a  sound  feeling  that  idiom  was  the  backbone  of  a  lan- 
guage and  he  was  all  for  the  racy  phrase.  He  was  no  slavish  admirer  of  logic 
and  was  willing  enough  to  give  usage  right  of  way  through  the  exact 
demesnes  of  grammar.  English  grammar  is  very  difficult  and  few  writers 
have  avoided  making  mistakes  in  it.  So  heedful  a  writer  as  Henry  James,  for 
instance,  on  occasion  wrote  so  ungrammatically  that  a  schoolmaster,  finding 
such  errors  in  a  schoolboy's  essay,  would  be  justly  indignant.  It  is  necessary 
to  know  grammar,  and  it  is  better  to  write  grammatically  than  not,  but  it  is 
well  to  remember  that  grammar  is  common  speech  formulated.  Usage  is 
the  only  test.  I  would  prefer  a  phrase  that  was  easy  and  unaffected  to  a 
phrase  that  was  grammatical.  One  of  the  differences  between  French  and 
English  is  that  in  French  you  can  be  grammatical  with  complete  naturalness, 
but  in  English  not  invariably.  It  is  a  difficulty  in  writing  English  that  the 
sound  of  the  living  voice  dominates  the  look  of  the  printed  word.  I  have 
given  the  matter  of  style  a  great  deal  of  thought  and  have  taken  great  pains. 
I  have  written  few  pages  that  I  feel  I  could  not  improve  and  far  too  many 
that  I  have  left  with  dissatisfaction  because,  try  as  I  would,  I  could  do  no 
better.  I  cannot  say  of  myself  what  Johnson  said  of  Pope:  "He  never  passed 
a  fault  unamended  by^  indifference,  nor  quitted  it  by  despair/'  I  do  not 
write  as  I  want  to;  I  writeTasTt  can. 

But  Fowler  had  no  ear.  He  did  not  see  that  simplicity  may  sometimes 
make  concessions  to  euphony.  I  do  not  think  a  far-fetched,  an  archaic  or 
even  an  affected  word  is  out  of  place  when  it  sounds  better  than  the  blunt, 
obvious  one  or  when  it  gives  a  sentence  a  better  balance.  But,  I  hasten  to 
add,  though  I  think  you  may  without  misgiving  make  this  concession  to 
pleasant  sound,  I  think  you  should  make  none  to  what  may  obscure  your 
meaning.  Anything  is  better  than  not  to  write  clearly.  There  is  nothing  to 
be  said  against  lucidity,  and  against  simplicity  only  the  possibility  of  dryness. 
This  is  a  risk  that  is  well  worth  taking  when  you  reflect  how  much  better  it 
is  to  be  bald  than  to  wear  a  curly  wig.  But  there  is  in  euphony  a  danger  that 
must  be  considered.  It  is  very  likely  to  be  monotonous.  When  George 


232 


LANGUAGE 


Moore  began  to  write,  his  style  was  poor;  it  gave  you  the  impression  that  he 
wrote  on  wrapping  paper  with  a  blunt  pencil.  But  he  developed  gradually 
a  very  musical  English.  He  learnt  to  write  sentences  that  fall  away  on  the 
ear  with  a  misty  languor  and  it  delighted  him  so  much  that  he  could  never 
have  enough  of  it.  He  did  not  escape  monotony.  It  is  like  the  sound  of  water 
lapping  a  shingly  beach,  so  soothing  that  you  presently  cease  to  be  sensible 
of  it.  It  is  so  mellifluous  that  you  hanker  for  some  harshness,  for  an  abrupt 
dissonance,  that  will  interrupt  the  silky  concord.  I  do  not  know  how  one 
can  guard  against  this.  I  suppose  the  best  chance  is  to  have  a  more  lively 
faculty  of  boredom  than  one's  readers  so  that  one  is  wearied  before  they  are. 
One  must  always  be  on  the  watch  for  mannerisms  and  when  certain  cadences 
come  too  easily  to  the  pen  ask  oneself  whether  they  have  not  become  mechan- 
ical. It  is  very  hard  to  discover  the  exact  point  where  the  idiom  one  has 
formed  to  express  oneself  has  lost  its  tang.  As  Dr.  Johnson  said:  "He  that 
has  once  studiously  formed  a  style,  rarely  writes  afterwards  with  complete 
ease."  Admirably  as  I  think  Matthew  Arnold's  style  was  suited  to  his  par- 
ticular purposes,  I  must  admit  that  his  mannerisms  are  often  irritating.  His 
style  was  an  instrument  that  he  had  forged  once  for  all;  it  was  not  like  the 
human  hand  capable  of  performing  a  variety  of  actions. 

If  you  could  write  lucidly,  simply,  euphoniously  and  vet  with  liveliness  you 
^vouldwrite  pefi-ectiy:  you  would  write  like  Voltaire.  And  yet  we  know  how 
fatal  the  pursuit  of  liveliness  may  be:  it  may  result  in  the  tiresome  acrobatics 
of  Meredith.  Macaulay  and  Carlyle  were  in  their  different  ways  arresting; 
but  at  the  heavy  cost  of  naturalness.  Their  flashy  effects  distract  the  mind. 
They  destroy  their  persuasiveness;  you  would  not  believe  a  man  was  very 
intent  on  ploughing  a  furrow  if  he  carried  a  hoop  with  him  and  jumped 
through  it  at  every  other  step^Aj^ood  style  should  show  no  sign  of  effort 
What  is  written  should  seem  a  happy  accident.  I  think  no  one  in  France  now 
writes  more  admirably  than  Colette,  and  such  is  the  ease  of  her  expression 
that  you  cannot  bring  yourself  to  believe  that  she  takes  any  trouble  over  it. 
I  am  told  that  there  are  pianists  who  have  a  natural  technique  so  that  they 
can  play  in  a  manner  that  most  executants  can  achieve  only  as  the  result  of 
unremitting  toil,  and  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  there  are  writers  who  are 
equally  fortunate.  Among  them  I  was  much  inclined  to  place  Colette.  1  asked 
her.  I  was  exceedingly  surprised  to  hear  that  she  wrote  everything  over 
and  over  again.  She  told  me  that  she  would  often  spend  a  whole  morning 
working  upon  a  single  page.  But  it  does  not  matter  how  one  gets  the  effect 
of  ease.  For  my  part,  if  I  get  it  at  all,  it  is  only  by  strenuous  effort.  Nature 
seldom  provides  me  with  the  word,  the  turn  of  phrase,  that  is  appropriate 
without  being  far-fetched  or  commonplace. 

THREE    AIMS   FOR   WRITERS        233 


LITERATURE  AND  THE  ARTS 

THE  six  writers  of  this  section  draw  ist.  The  writer,  he  feels,  must  not  be 
on  their  own  experiences  for  their  content  simply  to  report  but  must  "help 
discussion  of  some  important  questions  man  endure  by  lifting  his  heart."  The- 
regarding  literature  and  the  arts.  First  odore  Morrison  is  concerned  with  the 
H.  L.  Mencken  describes  his  early  form-  attitudes  of  the  critics.  His  "story" 
ative  experiences  as  a  reader.  The  shows  a  series  of  critics  each  making 
following  three  writers  are  concerned  his  approach  to  a  particular  work  of 
in  part  with  attitudes  toward  literatuie  art— a  poem.  Implicit  in  the  selections 
and  the  arts.  Sylvia  Wright  is  con-  by  Faulkner  and  Morrison  are  ideas 
cerned  with  the  attitudes  of  the  gen-  about  the  nature  of  literature.  In  the 
eral  public.  Art,  she  argues,  is  not  sus-  two  articles  which  follow,  Aaron  Cop- 
ceptible  of  statistical  analysis  or  of  land,  a  composer,  describes  the  process 
secondhand  explanation.  Politicians,  involved  in  creating  music  and  Al- 
propagandists,  all  of  us,  must  let  art  fred  H.  Barr,  Jr.,  discusses  the  pioblem 
speak  for  itself.  William  Faulkner  is  of  understanding  and  appreciating  mod- 
concerned  with  the  attitudes  of  the  art-  ern  painting. 


H.  L.  MENCKEN  Larval  stage  of  a  bookworm 

A  personal  discovery 

fjl  IHE  FIRST  LONG  STORY  I  ever  read  wasJTJie  Moose  Hunters,"  a  tale  of  the 
Ji_  adventures  of  four  half -grown  boys  in  the  woods  of  Maine,  published  in 
Chatterbox  for  1887.  Chatterbox,  which  now  seems  to  be  pretty  well  forgot- 
ten, was  an  English  annual  that  had  a  large  sale,  in  those  days,  in  the  Ameri- 
can colonies,  and  "The  Moose  Hunters"  seems  to  have  been  printed  as  a  sort 
of  sop  or  compliment  to  that  trade,  just  as  an  English  novelist  of  today  lards 
his  narrative  with  such  cheery  native  bait  as  "waal,  pardner,"  "you  betcha" 
and  "geminy-crickets."  The  rest  of  the  1887  issue  was  made  up  of  intensely 
English  stuff;  indeed,  it  was  so  English  that,  reading  it  and  looking  at  the 
woodcuts,  I  sucked  in  an  immense  mass  of  useless  information  about  English 
history  and  the  English  scene,  so  that  to  this  day  I  know  more  about  Henry 
VIII  and  Lincoln  Cathedral  than  I  know  about  Millard  Fillmore  or  the 
Mormon  Temple  at  Salt  Lake  City. 

Reprinted  from  Happy  Days  by  H.  L.  Mencken,  by  permission  of  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc. 
Copyright  1939,  1940  by  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc. 


234 


LITERATURE   AND   THE   ARTS 


"The  Moose  Hunters,"  which  ran  to  the  length  of  a  full-length  juvenile,  was 
not  printed  in  one  gob,  but  spread  through  Chatterbox  in  installments.  This 
was  an  excellent  device,  for  literary  fans  in  the  youngest  brackets  do  their 
reading  slowly  and  painfully,  and  like  to  come  up  frequently  for  air.  But 
writing  down  to  them  is  something  else  again,  and  that  error  the  anonymous 
author  of  "The  Moose  Hunters"  avoided  diligently.  Instead,  he  wrote  in  the 
best  journalese  of  the  era,  and  treated  his  sixteen-year-old  heroes  precisely 
as  if  they  were  grown  men.  So  I  liked  his  story  very  much,  and  stuck  to  it 
until,  in  a  series  of  perhaps  twenty  sessions,  I  had  got  it  down. 

This  was  in  the  Summer  of  1888  and  during  hot  weather,  for  I  remember 
sitting  with  the  volume  on  the  high  marble  front  steps  of  our  house  in 
Hollins  street,  in  the  quiet  of  approaching  dusk,  and  hearing  my  mother's 
warnings  that  reading  by  failing  light  would  ruin  my  eyes.  The  neighbor- 
hood apprentices  to  gang  life  went  howling  up  and  down  the  sidewalk,  trying 
to  lure  me  into  their  games  of  follow-your-leader  and  run-sheep-run,  but  I 
was  not  to  be  lured,  for  I  had  discovered  a  new  realm  of  being  and  a  new 
and  powerful  enchantment.  What  was  follow-your-leader  to  fighting  savage 
Canucks  on  the  Little  Magalloway  river,  and  what  was  chasing  imaginary 
sheep  to  shooting  real  meese?  I  was  near  the  end  of  the  story,  with  the 
Canucks  all  beaten  off  and  two  carcasses  of  gigantic  meese  hanging  to  trees, 
before  the  author  made  it  clear  to  me  that  the  word  moose  had  no  plural, 
but  remained  unchanged  ad  infinitum. 

Such  discoveries  give  a  boy  a  considerable  thrill,  and  augment  his  sense 
of  dignity.  It  is  no  light  matter,  at  eight,  to  penetrate  suddenly  to  the  differ- 
ence between  to,  two  and  too,  or  to  that  between  run  in  baseball  and  run  in 
topographical  science,  or  cats  and  Katz.  The  effect  is  massive  and  profound, 
and  at  least  comparable  to  that  which  flows,  in  later  life,  out  of  filling  a  royal 
flush  or  debauching  the  wife  of  a  major-general  of  cavalry.  I  must  have 
made  some  effort  to  read  Chatterbox  at  the  time  my  Grandmother  Mencken 
gave  it  to  me,  which  was  at  Christmas,  1887,  but  for  a  while  it  was  no  go. 
I  could  spell  out  the  shorter  pieces  at  the  bottoms  of  columns,  but  the  longer 
stories  were  only  jumbles  of  strange  and  baffling  words.  But  then,  as  if  by 
miracle,  I  found  suddenly  that  I  could  read  them,  so  I  tackled  "The  Moose 
Hunters"  at  once,  and  stuck  to  it  to  the  end.  There  were  still,  of  course,  many 
hard  words,  but  they  were  no  longer  insurmountable  obstacles.  If  I  stag- 
gered and  stumbled  somewhat,  I  nevertheless  hung  on,  and  by  the  Fourth  of 
July,  1888,  I  had  blooded  my  first  book. 

An  interval  of  rough  hunting  followed  in  Hollins  street  and  the  adjacent 
alleys,  with  imaginary  Indians,  robbers  and  sheep  and  very  real  tomcats  as 
the  quarry.  Also,  I  was  introduced  to  chewing  tobacco  by  the  garbageman, 
who  passed  me  his  plug  as  I  lay  on  the  roof  of  the  ash-shed  at  the  end  of 

LARVAL  STAGE  OF  A  BOOKWORM    235 


the  backyard,  watching  him  at  his  public-spirited  work.  If  he  expected  me 
to  roll  off  the  roof,  clutching  at  my  midriff,  he  was  fooled,  for  I  managed  to 
hold  on  until  he  was  out  of  sight,  and  I  was  only  faintly  dizzy  even  then. 
Again,  I  applied  myself  diligently  to  practicing  leap-frog  with  my  brother 
Charlie,  and  to  mastering  the  rules  of  top-spinning,  catty  and  one-two-three. 
I  recall  well  how  it  impressed  me  to  learn  that,  by  boys*  law,  every  new  top 
had  to  have  a  license  burned  into  it  with  a  red-hot  nail,  and  that  no  strange 
boy  on  the  prowl  for  loot,  however  black-hearted,  would  venture  to  grab  a 
top  so  marked.  That  discovery  gave  me  a  sense  of  the  majesty  of  the  law 
which  still  sustains  me,  and  I  always  take  off  my  hat  when  I  meet  a  judge— 
if,  of  course,  it  is  in  any  place  where  a  judge  is  not  afraid  to  have  his  office 
known. 

But  pretty  soon  I  was  again  feeling  the  powerful  suction  of  beautiful 
letters— so  strange,  so  thrilling,  and  so  curiously  suggestive  of  the  later  suction 
of  amour—,  and  before  Christmas  I  was  sweating  through  the  translation  of 
Grimms'  Fairy  Tales  that  had  been  bestowed  upon  me,  "for  industry  and 
good  deportment,"  at  the  closing  exercises  of  F.  Knapp's  Institute  on  June  28. 
This  volume  had  been  put  into  lame,  almost  pathological  English  by  a  lady 
translator,  and  my  struggles  with  it  awoke  in  me  the  first  faint  gutterings  of 
the  critical  faculty.  Just  what  was  wrong  with  it  I  couldn't,  of  course,  make 
out,  for  my  gifts  had  not  yet  flowered,  but  I  was  acutely  and  unhappily  con- 
scious that  it  was  much  harder  going  than  "The  Moose  Hunters,"  and  after  a 
month  or  so  of  unpleasantly  wrestling  with  it  I  put  it  on  the  shelf.  There  it 
remained  for  more  than  fifty  years.  Indeed,  it  was  not  until  the  appearance 
of  "Snow  White"  as  a  movie  that  I  took  it  down  and  tried  it  again,  and 
gagged  at  it  again. 

The  second  experiment  convinced  me  that  the  fault,  back  in  1888,  must 
have  been  that  of  either  the  brothers  Grimm  or  their  lady  translator,  but 
I  should  add  that  there  was  also  some  apparent  resistant  within  my  own 
psyche.  I  was  born,  in  truth,  without  any  natural  taste  for  fairy  tales,  or, 
indeed,  for  any  other  writing  of  a  fanciful  and  unearthly  character.  The  fact 
explains,  I  suppose,  my  lifelong  distrust  of  poetry,  and  may  help  to  account 
for  my  inability  to  memorize  even  a  few  stanzas  of  it  at  school.  It  probably 
failed  to  stick  in  my  mind  simply  because  my  mind  rejected  it  as  nonsense 
—sometimes,  to  be  sure,  very  jingly  and  juicy  nonsense,  but  still  only  non- 
sense. No  doubt  the  same  infirmity  was  responsible  for  the  feebleness  of  my 
appetite  for  the  hortatory  and  incredible  juvenile  fiction  fashionable  in  my 
nonage— the  endless  works  of  Oliver  Optic,  Horatio  Alger,  Harry  Castlemon 
and  so  on.  I  tried  this  fiction  more  than  once,  for  some  of  the  boys  I  knew 
admired  it  vastly,  but  I  always  ran  aground  in  it.  So  far  as  I  can  recall,  I 
never  read  a  single  volume  of  it  to  the  end,  and  most  of  it  finished  me  in 
a  few  pages. 

236         LITERATURE   AND  THE   ARTS 


What  I  disliked  about  it  I  couldn't  have  told  you  then,  and  I  can  account 
for  my  aversion  even  now  only  on  the  theory  that  I  appear  to  have  come 
into  the  world  with  a  highly  literal  mind,  geared  well  enough  to  take  in 
overt  (and  usually  unpleasant)  facts,  but  very  ill  adapted  to  engulfing  the 
pearls  of  the  imagination.  All  such  pearls  tend  to  get  entangled  in  my  mental 
vibrissae,  and  the  effort  to  engulf  them  is  as  disagreeable  to  me  as  listening 
to  a  sermon  or  reading  an  editorial  in  a  second-rate  ( or  even  first-rate )  news- 
paper.  I  was  a  grown  man,  and  far  gone  in  sin,  before  I  ever  brought 
myself  to  tackle  "Alice  in  Wonderland,"  and  even  then  I  made  some  big 
skips,  and  wondered  sadly  how  and  why  such  feeble  jocosity  had  got  so  high 
a  reputation.  I  am  willing  to  grant  that  it  must  be  a  masterpiece,  as  my  bet- 
ters allege— but  not  to  my  taste,  not  for  me.  To  the  present  moment  I  can't 
tell  you  what  is  in  any  of  the  other  juvenile  best-sellers  of  my  youth,  of  moral 
and  sociological  hallucination  all  compact,  just  as  I  can't  tell  you  what  is  in 
the  Bhagavad-Gita  (which  Will  Levington  Comfort  urged  me  to  read  in 
1912  or  thereabout),  or  in  the  works  of  Martin  Tupper,  or  in  the  report 
of  Vassar  Female  College  for  1865.  I  tried  dime-novels  once,  encouraged  by 
a  boy  who  aspired  to  be  a  train-robber,  but  they  only  made  me  laugh.  At  a 
later  time,  discovering  the  pseudo-scientific  marvels  of  Jules  Verne,  I  read 
his  whole  canon,  and  I  recall  also  sweating  through  a  serial  in  a  boys' 
weekly  called  Golden  Days,  but  this  last  dealt  likewise  with  savants  and 
their  prodigies,  and  was  no  more  a  juvenile,  as  juveniles  were  then  under- 
stood, than  "Ten  Thousand  Leagues  Under  the  Sea." 

But  before  you  set  me  down  a  prig,  let  me  tell  you  the  rest  of  it.  That  rest 
of  it  is  my  discovery  of  "Huckleberry  Finn,"  probably  the  most  stupendous 
event  of  my  whole  life.  The  time  was  the  early  part  of  1889,  and  I  wandered 
into  Paradise  by  a  kind  of  accident.  Itching  to  exercise  my  newly  acquired 
art  of  reading,  and  with  "The  Moose  Hunters"  exhausted  and  Grimms'  Fairy 
Tales  playing  me  false,  I  began  exploring  the  house  for  print.  The  Baltimore 
Sunpaper  and  Evening  News,  which  came  in  daily,  stumped  me  sadly,  for 
they  were  full  of  political  diatribes  in  the  fashion  of  the  time,  and  I  knew 
no  more  about  politics  than  a  chimpanzee.  My  mother's  long  file  of  Godeys 
Lady's  Book  and  her  new  but  growing  file  of  the  Ladies9  Home  Journal  were 
worse,  for  they  dealt  gloomily  with  cooking,  etiquette,  the  policing  of  chil- 
dren, and  the  design  and  construction  of  millinery,  all  of  them  sciences  that 
still  baffle  me.  Nor  was  there  any  pabulum  for  me  in  the  hired  girl's  dog's- 
eared  files  of  Bow  Bells  and  the  Fireside  Companion,  the  first  with  its 
ghastly  woodcuts  of  English  milkmaids  in  bustles  skedaddling  from  concu- 
piscent baronets  in  frock-coats  and  corkscrew  mustaches.  So  I  gradually 
oscillated,  almost  in  despair,  toward  the  old-fashioned  secretary  in  the  sitting- 
room,  the  upper  works  of  which  were  full  of  dismal  volumes  in  the  black 
cloth  and  gilt  stamping  of  the  era.  I  had  often  eyed  them  from  afar,  wonder- 

LARVAL  STAGE  OF  A  BOOKWORM    237 


Ing  how  long  it  would  be  before  I  would  be  ripe  enough  to  explore  them. 
Now  I  climbed  up  on  a  chair,  and  began  to  take  them  down. 

They  had  been  assembled  by  my  father,  whose  taste  for  literature  in  its 
purer  states  was  of  generally  low  order  of  visibility.  Had  he  lived  into  the 
days  of  my  practice  as  a  literary  critic,  I  daresay  he  would  have  been  affected 
almost  as  unpleasantly  as  if  I  had  turned  out  a  clergyman,  or  a  circus  clown, 
or  a  labor  leader.  He  read  every  evening  after  dinner,  but  it  was  chiefly 
newspapers  that  he  read,  for  the  era  was  one  of  red-hot  politics,  and  he  was 
convinced  that  the  country  was  going  to  Hell.  Now  and  then  he  took  up  a 
book,  but  I  found  out  long  afterward  that  it  was  usually  some  pamphlet  on 
the  insoluble  issues  of  the  hour,  say  "Looking  Backward,"  or  "If  Christ  Came 
to  Chicago,"  or  "Life  Among  the  Mormons."  These  works  disquieted  him, 
and  he  naturally  withheld  them  from  his  innocent  first-born.  Moreover,  he 
was  still  unaware  that  I  could  read— that  is,  fluently,  glibly,  as  a  pleasure 
rather  than  a  chore,  in  the  manner  of  grown-ups. 

Nevertheless,  he  had  managed  somehow  to  bring  together  a  far  from 
contemptible  collection  of  books,  ranging  from  a  set  of  Chambers'  Encyclo- 
pedia in  five  volumes,  bound  in  leather  like  the  Revised  Statutes,  down  to 
"Atlantis:  the  Antediluvian  World,"  by  Ignatius  Donnelly,  and  "Around  the 
World  in  the  Yacht  Sunbeam"  It  included  a  two-volume  folio  of  Shake- 
speare in  embossed  morocco,  with  fifty-odd  steel  plates,  that  had  been  taken 
to  the  field  in  the  Civil  War  by  "William  H.  Abercrombie,  1st  Lieut.  Com- 
pany H,  6th  Regiment,  Md.  Vol.  Inftr.,"  and  showed  a  corresponding  dilapi- 
dation. Who  this  gallant  officer  was  I  don't  know,  or  whether  he  survived 
the  carnage,  or  how  his  cherished  text  of  the  Bard  ever  fell  into  my  father's 
hands.  Also,  there  were  Dickens  in  three  thick  volumes,  George  Eliot  in 
three  more,  and  William  Carletoii's  Irish  novels  in  a  third  three.  Again, 
there  were  "Our  Living  World,"  by  the  Rev.  J.  G.  Woods;  "A  History  of  the 
War  For  the  Union,"  by  E.  A.  Duyckinck;  "Our  Country,"  by  Benson  J. 
Lossing,  LL.D.,  and  "A  Pictorial  History  of  the  World's  Great  Nations  From 
the  Earliest  Dates  to  the  Present  Time,"  by  Charlotte  M.  Yonge— all  of  them 
likewise  in  threes,  folio,  with  lavish  illustrations  on  steel,  stone  and  wood,  and 
smelling  heavily  of  the  book-agent.  Finally,  there  were  forty  or  fifty  miscel- 
laneous books,  among  them,  as  I  recall,  "Peculiarities  of  American  Cities,"  by 
Captain  Willard  Glazier;  "Our  Native  Land,"  by  George  T.  Ferris;  "A  Com- 
pendium of  Forms,"  by  one  Glaskell;  "Adventures  Among  Cannibals"  (with 
horrible  pictures  of  missionaries  being  roasted,  boiled  and  fried),  "Uncle 
Remus,"  "Ben  Hur,"  "Peck's  Bad  Boy,"  "The  Adventures  of  Baron  Miinch- 
hausen,"  "One  Thousand  Proofs  That  the  Earth  Is  Not  a  Globe"  (by  a  forgot- 
ten Baltimore  advanced  thinker  named  Carpenter),  and  a  deadly-looking 

238         LITERATURE   AND   THE   ARTS 


"History  of  Freemasonry  in  Maryland,"  by  Brother  Edward  T.  Schultz,  32°, 
in  five  coal-black  volumes, 

I  leave  the  best  to  the  last.  All  of  the  above,  on  my  first  exploration, 
repelled  and  alarmed  me;  indeed,  I  have  never  read  some  of  them  to  this 
day.  But  among  them,  thumbing  round,  I  found  a  series  of  eight  or  ten  vol- 
umes cheek  by  jowl,  and  it  appeared  on  investigation  that  the  whole  lot  had 
been  written  by  a  man  named  Mark  Twain.  I  had  heard  my  father  mention 
this  gentleman  once  or  twice  in  talking  to  my  mother,  but  I  had  no  idea  who 
he  was  or  what  he  had  done:  he  might  have  been,  for  all  I  knew,  a  bar- 
tender, a  baseball-player,  or  one  of  the  boozy  politicoes  my  father  was  always 
meeting  in  Washington.  But  here  was  evidence  that  he  was  a  man  who 
wrote  books,  and  I  noted  at  once  that  the  pictures  in  those  books  were  not 
of  the  usual  funereal  character,  but  light,  loose  and  lively.  So  I  proceeded 
with  my  inquiry,  and  in  a  little  while  I  had  taken  down  one  of  them,  a  green 
quarto,  sneaked  it  to  my  bedroom,  and  stretched  out  on  my  bed  to  look  into 
it.  It  was,  as  smarties  will  have  guessed  by  now,  "Huckleberry  Finn." 

If  I  undertook  to  tell  you  the  effect  it  had  upon  me  my  talk  would  sound 
frantic,  and  even  delirious.  Its  impact  was  genuinely  terrific.  I  had  not  gone 
further  than  the  first  incomparable  chapter  before  I  realized,  child  though 
I  was,  that  I  had  entered  a  domain  of  new  and  gorgeous  wonders,  and  there- 
after I  pressed  on  steadily  to  the  last  word.  My  gait,  of  course,  was  still 
slow,  but  it  became  steadily  faster  as  I  proceeded.  As  the  blurbs  on  the 
slip-covers  of  murder  mysteries  say,  I  simply  couldn't  put  the  book  down. 
After  dinner  that  evening,  braving  a  possible  uproar,  I  took  it  into  the  family 
sitting-room,  and  resumed  it  while  my  father  searched  the  Evening  News 
hopefully  for  reports  of  the  arrest,  clubbing  and  hanging  of  labor  leaders. 
Anon,  he  noticed  what  I  was  at,  and  demanded  to  know  the  name  of  the 
book  I  was  reading.  When  I  held  up  the  green  volume  his  comment  was 
"Well,  I'll  be  durnedr 

I  sensed  instantly  that  there  was  no  reproof  in  this,  but  a  kind  of  shy 
rejoicing.  Then  he  told  me  that  he  had  once  been  a  great  reader  of  Mark 
Twain  himself— in  his  younger  days.  He  had  got  hold  of  all  the  volumes  as 
they  came  out— "The  Innocents"  in  1869,  when  he  was  still  a  boy  himself; 
"Roughing  It"  in  1872,  "The  Gilded  Age"  in  1873,  "Tom  Sawyer"  in  1876, 
"A  Tramp  Abroad"  in  1880,  the  year  of  my  birth,  and  so  on  down  to  date. 
(All  these  far  from  piistine  firsts  are  still  in  the  Biblioteca  Menckeniana  in 
Hollins  street,  minus  a  few  that  were  lent  to  neighbor  boys  and  never  re- 
turned, and  had  to  be  replaced. )  My  father  read  them  in  the  halcyon  days 
before  children,  labor  troubles  and  Grover  Cleveland  had  begun  to  frazzle 
him,  and  he  still  got  them  down  from  the  shelf  on  quiet  evenings,  after  the 

LARVAL  STAGE  OF  A  BOOKWORM    239 


first-named  were  packed  off  to  bed.  But  a  man  of  advancing  years  and  cares 
had  to  consider  also  the  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  so  he  read  in  Mark  less 
than  aforetime. 

As  for  me,  I  proceeded  to  take  the  whole  canon  at  a  gulp— and  presently 
gagged  distressfully.  "Huckleberry  Finn,"  of  course,  was  as  transparent  to  a 
boy  of  eight  as  to  a  man  of  eighty,  and  almost  as  pungent  and  exhilarating, 
but  there  were  passages  in  "A  Tramp  Abroad"  that  baffled  me,  and  many 
more  in  "The  Innocents,"  and  a  whole  swarm  in  "A  Gilded  Age."  I  well 
recall  wrestling  with  the  woodcut  by  W.  F.  Brown  on  page  113  of  the 
"Tramp."  It  shows  five  little  German  girls  swinging  on  a  heavy  chain 
stretched  between  two  stone  posts  on  a  street  in  Heilbronn,  and  the  legend 
under  it  is  "Generations  of  Bare  Feet."  That  legend  is  silly,  for  all  the  girls 
have  shoes  on,  but  what  puzzled  me  about  it  was  something  quite  different. 
It  was  a  confusion  between  the  word  generation  and  the  word  federation, 
which  latter  was  often  in  my  father's  speech  in  those  days,  for  the  American 
Federation  of  Labor  had  got  under  way  only  a  few  years  before,  and  was 
just  beginning  in  earnest  to  harass  and  alarm  employers.  Why  I  didn't 
consult  the  dictionary  (or  my  mother,  or  my  father  himself)  I  simply  can't 
tell  you.  At  eight  or  nine,  I  suppose,  intelligence  is  no  more  than  a  small 
spot  of  light  on  the  floor  of  a  large  and  murky  room.  So  instead  of  seeking 
help  I  passed  on,  wondering  idiotically  what  possible  relation  there  could  be 
between  a  gang  of  little  girls  in  pigtails  and  the  Haymarket  anarchists,  and  it 
was  six  or  seven  years  later  before  the  "Tramp"  became  clear  to  me,  and 
began  to  delight  me. 

It  then  had  the  curious  effect  of  generating  in  me  both  a  great  interest  in 
Germany  and  a  vast  contempt  for  the  German  language.  I  was  already 
aware,  of  course,  that  the  Mencken  family  was  of  German  origin,  for  my 
Grandfather  Mencken,  in  his  care  for  me  as  Stammhalter,  did  not  neglect 
to  describe  eloquently  its  past  glories  at  the  German  universities,  and  to 
expound  its  connections  to  the  most  remote  degrees.  But  my  father,  who 
was  only  half  German,  had  no  apparent  interest  in  either  the  German  land 
or  its  people,  and  when  he  spoke  of  the  latter  at  all,  which  was  not  often, 
it  was  usually  in  sniffish  terms.  He  never  visited  Germany,  and  never  signi- 
fied any  desire  to  do  so,  though  I  recall  my  mother  suggesting,  more  than 
once,  that  a  trip  there  would  be  swell.  It  was  "A  Tramp  Abroad"  that  made 
me  German -conscious,  and  I  still  believe  that  it  is  the  best  guidebook  to 
Germany  ever  written.  Today,  of  course,  it  is  archaic,  but  it  was  still  reliable 
down  to  1910,  when  I  made  my  own  first  trip.  The  uproarious  essay  on 
"The  Awful  German  Language,"  which  appears  at  the  end  of  it  as  an  appen* 
dix,  worked  the  other  way.  That  is  to  say,  it  confirmed  my  growing  feeling, 
born  of  my  struggles  with  the  conjugations  and  declensions  taught  at  F. 

240         LITERATURE    AND   THE    ARTS 


Knapp's  Institute,  that  German  was  an  irrational  and  even  insane  tongue, 
and  not  worth  the  sufferings  of  a  freeborn  American.  These  diverse  impres- 
sions have  continued  with  me  ever  since.  I  am  still  convinced  that  Germany, 
in  the  intervals  of  peace,  is  the  most  pleasant  country  to  travel  in  ever  heard 
of,  and  I  am  still  convinced  that  the  German  language  is  of  a  generally 
preposterous  and  malignant  character. 

"Huck,"  of  course,  was  my  favorite,  and  I  read  it  over  and  over.  In  fact, 
I  read  it  regularly  not  less  than  annually  down  to  my  forties,  and  only  a  few 
months  ago  I  hauled  it  out  and  read  it  once  more—and  found  it  as  magnifi- 
cent as  ever. 


SYLVIA  WRIGHT  Self-Consciousness,  culture, 
and  the  Carthaginians 

DURING  the  war,  when  writers  in  the  Office  of  War  Information  had  to 
explain  the  difficulties  of  supplying  our  armies,  they  used  the  follow- 
ing statistic:  'It  takes  one  ton  of  equipment  to  land  an  American  soldier 
in  the  European  battle  zone,  and  seven  tons  a  mouth  to  keep  him  fighting." 

This  compact  and  handy  fact  soon  came  so  trippingly  from  various  type- 
writers that  one  editor  used  to  comment  somberly,  "Here  comes  old  one- 
ton-seven-tons  again."  Old  one-ton-seven-tons  was  one  of  many,  includ- 
ing "One-third  of  America's  manpower  is  woman  power"  (war  production) 
and  "From  Guadalcanal  to  Tokyo  is  six  times  the  distance  from  Paris  to 
Berlin." 

In  recent  months  I  have  been  working  for  the  State  Department  as  an 
editor  of  a  booklet  called  The  Arts  in  the  United  States,  for  distribution 
overseas  under  the  information  program.  Again  I  tapped  a  mine  of  neat,  self- 
contained  facts  that  come  easily  to  the  typewriter —this  time  not  about  war 
but  about  American  culture.  In  the  field  of  music,  for  example:  "Since 
1936,  there  has  been  an  enormtfus  increase  in  the  number  of  summer  music 
schools  and  music  festivals  in  the  United  States."  (I  am  ashamed  to  say 
that  the  word  "burgeon"  often  creeps  in.)  "During  twenty  years  at  the 
Eastman  School  Festival  of  American  Music,  900  orchestral  works  by  more 
than  400  American  composers  have  been  played." 

The  elemental  and  classic  quote  in  this  galaxy  was  used  by  Frederick 
Lewis  Allen  in  an  article  called  "The  Spirit  of  the  Times"  in  the  July  issue 


Reprinted  from  The  Reporter,  November  25,  1952,  by  permission  of  the  author. 

SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS,   CULTURE,    ...         241 


of  Harper's:  "In  1900  there  were  only  a  handful  of  symphony  orchestras  in 
the  country;  by  May  1951  there  were  659  'symphonic  groups'—including  52 
professional,  343  community,  231  college,  and  a  scattering  of  miscellaneous 
amateur  groups.  Fifteen  hundred  American  cities  and  towns  now  support 
annual  series  of  concerts." 

I  could  give  you  similar  meaningful  facts  about  American  literature,  paint- 
ing, and  the  other  arts. 

If  you  write  propaganda  you  need  facts  like  these,  and  it  can't  be  helped 
if  they  become  cliches.  It  can't  be  helped  either  if  things  are  always  enter- 
ing the  main  stream  of  American  culture  or  some  American  art  form  is 
always  coming  of  age.  American  literature  has  come  of  age  at  least  four 
separate  times— which  reminds  me  again  of  the  old  OWI,  where  there  were 
four  different  turning  points  for  the  Second  World  War. 

In  putting  together  a  booklet  on  the  arts  in  the  United  States,  the  Division 
of  Publications  of  the  State  Department  was  moved  by  the  worthy  ambition 
of  correcting  some  false  impressions  and  convincing  the  outside  world  that 
we  are  a  cultured  people— traditional  European  belief,  the  wails  of  our 
avant-garde,  and  the  general  appearance  of  things  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing. What  more  natural  than  to  describe  an  increasing  interest  in  the 
arts  all  over  the  country,  the  huge  new  audience  for  classic  ballet,  the  new 
audience  for  artistic  films,  and  even,  on  the  basis  of  Gian-Carlo  Menotti's 
television  opera  "Amahl  and  the  Night  Visitors,"  to  hold  out  hope  for  tele- 
vision as  the  source  of  a  huge  new  audience  for  opera? 

This  is  the  "659-symphonic-groups"  approach  to  American  culture.  I 
think  it's  just,  it's  dignified,  it's  worthy,  and  I  don't  like  it. 

At  one  point  when  my  colleagues  and  I  despaired  of  producing  a  booklet 
that  would  be  anything  but  boring  in  the  face  of  this  approach,  we  decided 
to  be  Frenchmen  producing  a  propaganda  booklet  on  the  arts  in  France. 
It  was  a  breeze.  Outside  pressure  prevented  us  from  arriving  at  a  complete 
table  of  contents,  but  it  contained  something  like  the  following:  at  least  one 
article  on  the  philosophy  of  fashion;  a  hitherto  unpublished  and  startling  set 
of  limericks  from  recently  unearthed  notebooks  of  a  late  great  French 
savant;  a  lyrically  written  article  called  "The  Morality  of  Evil,"  on  the 
beauty  of  early  morning  in  the  red-light  district  of  Paris  ( this  was  composed 
by  a  new  fifteen-year-old  writer  in  the  jail  where  he  was  serving  a  term  for 
peddling  dope  and  was  illustrated  by  Brassai  or  Carrier-Bresson  photo- 
graphs); somewhere  in  the  book  there  was,  of  course,  a  full-page  photo- 
graph of  Jean  Cocteau's  hands;  the  lead  article,  by  Sartre  and  entitled 
"L'Etre,  ce  nest  pas  moi"  announced  that  Sartre  had  ceased  to  exist  and 
was  therefore  repudiating  existentialism. 

You  see  what  I  mean.  There  were  no  statistics,  nothing  about  how  the 
population  loved  art,  nothing  about  little  orchestras  sawing  away  in  re- 

242         LITERATURE    AND  THE   ARTS 


mote  (ttpartements.  The  French  booklet  took  for  granted  that  France  had 
culture  and  dealt  with  specific  products— the  work  of  artists. 

Mr.  Allen  of  Harpers,  like  the  State  Department,  prefers  the  symphonic 
approach.  He  takes  a  comparison  from  the  late  President  A.  Lawrence 
Lowell  of  Harvard  between  the  civilization  of  Greece,  which  influenced  the 
whole  world  because  the  Greeks  respected  learning,  philosophy,  and  the 
arts,  and  Carthage,  which  had  no  influence  at  all  because  its  civilization 
was  purely  commercial.  Mr.  Allen  sets  out  to  prove  that  the  United  States 
is  not  a  Carthage,  that  although  we  are  not  as  religious  as  our  ancestors, 
we  have  a  new  sort  of  morality  that  is  not  entirely  to  be  sneezed  at,  and 
that  many  of  us  Americans  are  constantly  busy  with  cultural  activities  of  all 
kinds. 

Now,  about  the  Carthaginians.  They  were  deeply  religious  in  their  own 
peculiar  way— probably  more  so  than  we  are— and  there  were  a  number  of 
well-educated  and  able  Carthaginians  like  Hannibal.  But  as  a  whole  they 
concentrated  their  energy  on  trading  all  over  the  Mediterranean,  and  their 
education,  designed  to  promote  money-making,  emphasized  handwriting, 
arithmetic,  and  bookkeeping.  In  short,  they  had  no  culture. 

But  the  real  reason  Carthage  made  little  mark  on  history  is  not  that  the 
Carthaginians  were  a  money-grubbing  lot,  but  that  in  seven  hundred  years 
they  produced  only  three  or  four  good  writers— and  the  magnum  opus  of  one 
of  these  was  a  twenty-eight-volume  work  on  animal  husbandry.  My  own 
hunch  is  that  most  of  the  people  who  could  write  spent  their  time  turning 
out  propaganda  pamphlets  for  the  Romans,  the  Libyans,  and  the  Numid- 
ians:  "It  takes  one  elephant  to  get  a  Carthaginian  soldier  to  Italy,  and  seven 
elephants  a  month  to  keep  him  fighting";  "Carthaginians  attend  at  least 
three  hundred  lectures  on  cultural  subjects  every  year";  "Fifty  thousand 
Carthaginians  study  the  lyre  and  the  flute";  "Although  respect  for  the  gods 
isn't  as  great  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Hanno,  still,  during  the  past  year 
twenty-seven  new  temples  were  built  and  four  thousand  aristocratic  chil- 
dren under  the  age  of  six  were  sacrificed  to  Moloch." 

The  Roman  reaction  to  this  kind  of  thing  was  to  announce  at  regular 
intervals  that  Carthage  must  be  destroyed. 

Leaving  the  Carthaginians  out  of  it,  it  is  something  new  to  describe  a 
country's  civilization  in  terms  of  the  number  of  people  engaged  in  cultural 
activities.  I've  never  heard  how  many  Elizabethans  sang  in  amateur  madri- 
gal groups  or  put  on  experimental  masques  in  small  community  theaters  all 
over  England.  When  I  went  to  college,  we  learned  about  the  great  artists 
of  the  Elizabethan  period.  We  did  hear  that  Shakespeare  always  drew 
large  audiences,  but  I  don't  remember  figures  on  the  study  groups  of  farmers 
and  workers  who  met  to  discuss  the  plays.  In  fact,  from  some  of  the  de- 
scriptions, Shakespeare's  audiences  sound  pretty  uncultured. 

SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS,   CULTURE,    .    .    .         243 


How  do  you  determine  how  cultured  a  population  at  large  is,  and  who 
cares?  Worrying  about  your  culture  is  dangerous:  You  can  get  sacred  and 
mystical,  and  then  you  are  in  the  soup.  (See  Germany.)  The  only  other 
country  I  can  think  of  which  gets  so  upset  about  its  culture  is  the  Soviet 
Union,  where,  as  various  commentators  have  pointed  out,  everyone  rushes 
to  clean  up  washrooms,  speak  politely,  and  produce  more  tanks  if  his  be- 
havior is  criticized  as  "nyet  kulturni"  I  could  make  out  an  argument  (but 
I  won't )  that  in  emphasizing  our  culture,  the  State  Department  is  being  un- 
American. 

In  a  thousand  or  two  thousand  or  three  thousand  years,  what  historian  of 
civilization  will  care  that  we  played  in  659  "symphonic  groups,"  in  one  year, 
bought  231  million  pocket  books  (including  350,000  copies  of  the  Odyssey), 
and  visited  art  museums  fifty  million  strong,  if  he  possesses  one  recording  of 
Appalachian  Spring,  one  copy  of  The  Wild  Palms,  a  Cummings  poem,  or  a 
Marin  water  color? 

Propaganda  writers  are  supposed  to  project  American  democracy,  so  per- 
haps it  is  natural  that  they  should  talk  about  the  arts  in  terms  of  the  largest 
group  of  people  involved— the  audience.  But  this  is  like  talking  about  swim- 
ming the  English  Channel  in  terms  of  the  number  of  minnows  frightened 
by  the  swimmer.  Art  has  nothing  to  do  with  large  groups  of  people.  It  is 
lonely,  ruthless,  and  ademocratic.  We  have  a  tradition  that  any  American 
boy  can  be  President.  We  should  call  a  halt  before  we  find  ourselves  be- 
lieving that  any  American  boy  can  be  Hemingway.  One  is  plenty. 

But  it  is  true  that  if  he  is  called  on  to  talk  about  the  artists  themselves, 
the  propaganda  writer  is  in  trouble.  "What  are  their  politics?"  demands  a 
Congressman  or  one  of  the  several  security  agencies  set  up  to  screen  mate- 
rial before  it  gets  to  the  point  where  Congress  can  leap  on  it.  While  those 
Congressmen  who  get  artists— particularly  abstract  ones— mixed  up  with 
Communists  are  relatively  few,  their  influence,  which  is  out  of  all  proportion 
to  their  number,  permeates  the  minds  of  government  workers  with  doubt 
and  fear,  and  forces  them  to  confine  American  art  to  those  artists  who  have 
never  signed  a  petition,  made  an  ill-advised  statement,  written  an  ill-advised 
letter  to  the  newspapers,  or  loved  a  doubtful  friend. 

Artists  who  have  never  done  any  of  these  things  are  either  half  dead  or 
wholly  dead,  in  which  case  they  are  considered  O.K.  to  write  about.  For 
example,  it  is  much  easier  to  compose  a  State  Department  booklet  on  Amer- 
ican painting  of  the  nineteenth  century  than  that  of  the  twentieth.  Thomas 
Eakins  never  had  a  chance  to  belong  to  an  organization  on  the  Attorney 
General's  list,  or  Albert  Ryder  to  sign  a  petition  for  sending  aid  to  Loyalist 
Spain.  The  mind  boggles  at  what  Whitman,  if  he  were  alive  today,  might 
have  involved  himself  in.  But  he's  dead,  so  he  can  be  the  father  of  modern 
American  poetry.  It  is  obvious  why  propaganda  writers  head  for  those 

244          UTEBATUBE    AND   THE    ABTS 


"symphonic  groups"  like  homing  pigeons.  (Query  from  the  State  Depart- 
ment editor:  "Could  you  change  the  pigeons?  In  translation,  it  might  come 
out  as  a  reference  to  That  Dove." ) 

But  in  the  end  even  the  Congressman  will  not  be  soothed  or  enlightened 
by  reading  about  how  cultured  we  are  as  a  nation.  If  you  give  him  statistics, 
he  will  say,  "Fine,  we  have  all  the  culture  Europe  has,  and  we  have  a  lot  of 
other  things  besides."  He  will  be  quite  happy  until  he  hears  the  community 
symphonic  group  playing  something  by  Henry  Cowell  or  John  Cage,  and 
then  he  will  start  looking  up  the  conductor  in  a  list  of  subversives.  All  that 
can  be  done  about  him  is  to  throw  as  much  straight  art  as  possible  at  him. 
In  time  he  may  realize  that  it  is  profoundly  more  subversive  than  even  he 
thought,  but  perhaps  he  will  also  realize  that  in  a  free  country  it  doesn't 
matter. 

When  I  suggest  that  we  should  talk  more  about  our  artists  and  less  about 
our  cultured  population,  it  is  clear  that  I  think  our  artists  are  doing  all 
right,  and  that  some  of  them  are  superb.  A  good  many  better-qualified 
people  don't  agree.  Artists  today  in  America,  they  say,  are  in  despair.  The 
gilt  is  off  the  gingerbread  and  there  is  no  God.  Well,  artists  are  frequently 
in  despair,  usually  because  they  can't  get  on  with  the  next  chapter,  and  a 
cheery,  cultured  attitude  on  the  part  of  the  rest  of  the  population  isn't  going 
to  make  them  do  anything  but  snarl.  Besides,  while  despair  may  not  be  a 
fruitful  state  for  a  non-artist,  it  can  be  fruitful  for  an  artist,  who  must  know 
as  much  as  possible  about  all  emotions. 

The  strongest  argument  against  what  I  am  saying  is  that  a  cultured 
population  is  important  because  it  is  the  seed  bed  for  artists.  A  learned  and 
brilliant  case  could  be  made  for  this,  but  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  valid.  Many 
critics  have  outlined  the  conditions  under  which  art  can  and  does  blossom. 
Yet  the  arrival  of  an  artist  remains  something  unpredictable.  He  is  an  in- 
explicable and  unexpected  gift  of  God,  a  man  of  unusual  talent  and  insight, 
of  course,  but,  perhaps  more  important,  of  unusual  energy,  for  this  makes 
him  able  to  carry  through  the  most  heartbreakingly  difficult  work  in  the 
world.  Symphonic  groups  cannot  distract  him  nor  mass  culture  harm,  for  he 
is  looking  in  another  direction,  into  himself  for  the  thing  which  is  pecu- 
liarly his  and  which  he  must  draw  painfully  up,  like  a  heavy  anchor  out  of  a 
sea  fathoms  deep.  There  is  no  way  the  rest  of  us  can  help  him  except  by 
leaving  him  alone,  and  yet  we  must  ceaselessly  hunt  him  down  in  order  to 
find  out  what  he  has  to  tell  us.  In  the  modern  world,  there  may  be  no  God 
visible,  but  if  He  is  here,  the  artist  will  see  Him. 

What  the  artist  produces  is  particular  to  his  time  and  place,  and  yet  it  is 
also  what  att  the  propaganda  writers  are  looking  for  and  wish  were  theirs, 
a  true  Esperanto,  the  only  language  which  crosses  national  boundaries  and 
which  can  be  understood  by  men  in  all  countries.  From  it  the  rest  of  the 

SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS,   CULTURE,    .    .    .         £45 


world  will  learn  far  more  about  the  United  States  than  from  statistics  about 
symphonic  groups.  Let  us  export  our  music,  oirr  painting,  and  our  litera- 
ture and  forget  about  the  advertising  leaflets  and  preliminary  selling  copy. 
It  is  both  logical  and  practical  to  do  so,  because,  being  international,  our 
art  is  the  most  easily  exportable  product  we  manufacture.  The  thread 
gauges  of  art  are  the  same  all  over  the  world.  Artists  use  only  one  system 
of  measurement. 


WILLIAM    FAULKNER 


The 


I  FEEL  that  this  award  was  not  made  to  me  as  a  man  but  to  my  work—  a 
life's  work  in  the  agony  and  sweat  of  the  human  spirit,  not  for  glory  and 
least  of  all  for  profit,  but  to  create  out  of  the  materials  of  the  human  spirit 
something  which  did  not  exist  before.  So  this  award  is  only  mine  in  trust. 
It  will  not  be  difficult  to  find  a  dedication  for  the  money  part  of  it  com- 
mensurate with  the  purpose  and  significance  of  its  origin.  But  I  would  like 
to  do  the  same  with  the  acclaim  too,  by  using  this  moment  as  a  pinnacle 
from  which  I  might  be  listened  to  by  the  young  men  and  women  already 
dedicated  to  the  same  anguish  and  travail,  among  whom  is  already  that 
one  who  will  someday  stand  here  where  I  am  standing. 

Our  tragedy  today  is  a  general  and  universal  physical  fear  so  long  sus- 
tained by  now  that  we  can  even  bear  it.  There  are  no  longer  problems  of 
the  spirit.  There  is  only  the  question:  When  will  I  be  blown  up?  Because 
of  this,  the  young  man  or  woman  writing  today  has  forgotten  the  problems 
of  the  human  heart  in  conflict  with  itself  which  alone  can  make  good  writing 
because  only  that  is  worth  writing  about,  worth  the  agony  and  the  sweat. 

He  must  learn  them  again.  He  must  teach  himself  that  the  basest  of  all 
things  is  to  be  afraid;  and,  teaching  himself  that,  forget  it  forever,  leaving 
no  room  in  his  workshop  for  anything  but  the  old  verities  and  truths  of  the 
heart,  the  old  universal  truths  lacking  which  any  story  is  ephemeral  and 
doomed—  love  and  honor  and  pity  and  pride  and  compassion  and  sacrifice. 
Until  he  does  so  he  labors  under  a  curse.  He  writes  not  of  love  but  of  lust, 
of  defeats  in  which  nobody  loses  anything  of  value,  of  victories  without 
hope  and  worst  of  all  without  pity  or  compassion.  His  griefs  grieve  on  no 
universal  bones,  leaving  no  scars.  He  writes  not  of  the  heart  but  of  the 
glands. 

Until  he  relearns  these  things  he  will  write  as  though  he  stood  among 
and  watched  the  end  of  man.  I  decline  to  accept  the  end  of  man.  It  is  easy 

Upon  receiving  the  Nobel  Prize,  Stockholm,  December  10,  1950.  Courtesy  of  Random 
House,  Inc. 


246 


I.TTFRATTJRF     AMn    XMTT     ARTQ 


enough  to  say  that  man  is  immortal  simply  because  he  will  endure;  th 
when  the  last  ding-dong  of  doom  has  clanged  and  faded  from  the  last  wortl 
less  rock  hanging  tideless  in  the  last  red  and  dying  evening,  that  even  thei 
there  will  still  be  one  more  sound:  that  of  his  puny  inexhaustible  voice,  still 
talking.  I  refuse  to  accept  this.  I  believe  that  man  will  not  merely  endure: 
he  will  prevail.   He  is  immortal,  not  because  he  alone  among  creatures  has 
an  inexhaustible  voice,  but  because  he  has  a  soul,  a  spirit  capable  of  com- 
passion and  sacrifice  and  endurance.    The  poet's,  the  writer's,  duty  is  to 
write  about  these  things.   It  is  his  privilege  to  help  man  endure  by  lifting  his 
heart,  by  reminding  him  of  the  courage  and  honor  and  hope  and  pride  and 
compassion  and  pity  and  sacrifice  which  have  been  the  glory  of  his  past. 
The  poet's  voice  need  not  merely  be  the  record  of  man,  it  can  be  one  of  the 
props,  the  pillars  to  help  him  endure  and  prevail. 


THEODORE    MORRISON 


Dover  Beach  revisited 


Told  though  it  is  in  the  form  of  a  story,  this  interesting  magazine  article  is 
in  fact  a  shrewd  commentary  upon  different  kinds  of  literary  criticism.  Be- 
cause it  is  at  times  less  explicit  than  magazine  articles  usually  are,  the  reader 
needs  to  note  particularly  its  implications. 

EARLY  IN  THE  YEAR  1939  a  certain  Professor  of  Educational  Psychology, 
occupying  a  well-paid  chair  at  a  large  endowed  university,  conceived 
a  plot.  From  his  desk  in  the  imposing  Hall  of  the  Social  Sciences  where  the 
Research  Institute  in  Education  was  housed  he  had  long  burned  with  resent- 
ment against  teachers  of  literature,  especially  against  English  departments. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  professors  of  English  stood  square  across  the  path 
of  his  major  professional  ambition.  His  great  desire  in  life  was  to  introduce 
into  the  study,  the  teaching,  the  critical  evaluation  of  literature  some  of  the 
systematic  method,  some  of  the  "objective  procedure"  as  he  liked  to  call  it, 
some  of  the  certainty  of  result  which  he  believed  to  be  characteristic  of  the 
physical  sciences.  "You  make  such  a  fetish  of  science,"  a  colleague  once  said 
to  him,  "why  aren't  you  a  chemist?"— a  question  that  annoyed  him  deeply. 
If  such  a  poem  as  Milton's  "Lycidas"  has  a  value— and  most  English 
teachers,  even  to-day,  would  start  with  that  as  a  cardinal  fact— then  that 
value  must  be  measurable  and  expressible  in  terms  that  do  not  shift  and 
change  from  moment  to  moment  and  person  to  person  with  every  subjective 
whim.  They  would  agree,  these  teachers  of  literature,  these  professors  of 

From  Harper's  Magazine,  February  1940.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Theodore 
Morrison. 

DOVER    BEACH    REVISITED         247 


English,  that  the  value  of  the  poem  is  in  some  sense  objective;  they  would 
never  agree  to  undertake  any  objective  procedure  to  determine  what  that 
value  is.  They  would  not  clearly  define  what  they  meant  by  achievement  in 
the  study  of  literature,  and  they  bridled  and  snorted  when  anyone  else  at- 
tempted to  define  it.  He  remembered  what  had  happened  when  he  had 
once  been  incautious  enough  to  suggest  to  a  professor  of  English  in  his  own 
college  that  it  might  be  possible  to  establish  norms  for  the  appreciation  of 
Milton.  The  fellow  had  simply  exploded  into  a  peal  of  histrionic  laughter 
and  then  had  tried  to  wither  him  with  an  equally  histrionic  look  of  incre- 
dulity and  disgust. 

He  would  like  to  see  what  would  happen  if  the  teachers  of  English  were 
forced  or  lured,  by  some  scheme  or  other,  into  a  public  exposure  of  their 
position.  It  would  put  them  in  the  light  of  intellectual  charlatanism,  nothing 
less  .  .  .  and  suddenly  Professor  Chartly  ( for  so  he  was  nicknamed )  began 
to  see  his  way. 

It  was  a  simple  plan  that  popped  into  his  head,  simple  yet  bold  and 
practical.  It  was  a  challenge  that  could  not  be  refused.  A  strategically 
placed  friend  in  one  of  the  large  educational  foundations  could  be  counted 
on:  there  would  be  money  for  clerical  expenses,  for  travel  if  need  be.  He 
took  his  pipe  from  his  pocket,  filled  it,  and  began  to  puff  exultantly.  To- 
morrow he  must  broach  the  scheme  to  one  or  two  colleagues;  to-night,  over 
cheese  and  beer,  would  not  be  too  soon.  He  reached  for  the  telephone. 

The  plan  that  he  unfolded  to  his  associates  that  evening  aroused  con- 
siderable skepticism  at  first,  but  gradually  they  succumbed  to  his  enthusiasm. 
A  number  of  well-known  professors  of  literature  at  representative  colleges 
up  and  down  the  land  would  be  asked  to  write  a  critical  evaluation  of  a  poem 
prominent  enough  to  form  part  of  the  standard  reading  in  all  large  English 
courses.  They  would  be  asked  to  state  the  criteria  on  which  they  based 
their  judgment.  When  all  the  answers  had  been  received  the  whole  dossier 
would  be  sent  to  a  moderator,  a  trusted  elder  statesman  of  education,  known 
everywhere  for  his  dignity,  liberality  of  intelligence,  and  long  experience. 
He  would  be  asked  to  make  a  preliminary  examination  of  all  the  documents 
and  to  determine  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  teacher  of  literature  whether 
they  provided  any  basis  for  a  common  understanding.  The  moderator  would 
then  forward  all  the  documents  to  Professor  Chartly,  who  would  make  what 
in  his  own  mind  he  was  frank  to  call  a  more  scientific  analysis.  Then  the 
jaws  of  the  trap  would  be  ready  to  spring. 

Once  the  conspirators  had  agreed  on  their  plot  their  first  difficulty  came 
in  the  choice  of  a  poem.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  someone  eventually  hit  on 
Arnold's  "Dover  Beach,"  and  the  suggestion  withstood  all  attack.  "Dover 
Beach"  was  universally  known,  almost  universally  praised;  it  was  remote 
enough  so  that  contemporary  jealousies  and  cults  were  not  seriously  in- 

248         LITERATURE    AND   THE    ARTS 


volved,  yet  near  enough  not  to  call  for  any  special  expertness,  historical  or 
linguistic,  as  a  prerequisite  for  judgment;  it  was  generally  given  credit  for 
skill  as  a  work  of  art,  yet  it  contained  also,  in  its  author's  own  phrase,  a 
"criticism  of  life." 

Rapidly  in  the  days  following  the  first  meeting  the  representative  teachers 
were  chosen  and  invited  to  participate  in  the  plan.  Professional  courtesy 
seemed  to  require  the  inclusion  of  an  Arnold  expert.  But  the  one  selected 
excused  himself  from  producing  a  value  judgment  of  "Dover  Beach"  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  busy  investigating  a  fresh  clue  to  the  identity  of  "Mar- 
guerite." He  had  evidence  that  the  woman  in  question,  after  the  episode 
hinted  at  in  the  famous  poems,  had  married  her  deceased  sister's  husband, 
thus  perhaps  affecting  Arnold's  views  on  a  social  question  about  which  he 
had  said  a  good  deal  in  his  prose  writings.  The  expert  pointed  out  that  he 
had  been  given  a  half-year's  leave  of  absence  and  a  research  grant  to  pursue 
the  shadow  of  Marguerite  through  Europe,  wherever  it  might  lead  him.  If 
only  war  did  not  break  out  he  hoped  to  complete  this  research  and  solve  one 
of  the  vexing  problems  that  had  always  confronted  Arnold's  biographers. 
His  energies  would  be  too  much  engaged  in  this  special  investigation  to  deal 
justly  with  the  more  general  questions  raised  by  Professor  Chartly's  invita- 
tion. But  he  asked  to  be  kept  informed,  since  the  results  of  the  experiment 
could  not  fail  to  be  of  interest  to  him. 

After  a  few  hitches  and  delays  from  other  quarters,  the  scheme  was  ripe. 
The  requests  were  mailed  out,  and  the  Professor  of  Educational  Psychology 
sat  back  in  grim  confidence  to  await  the  outcome. 


IT  CHANCED  that  the  first  of  the  representative  teachers  who  received  and 
answered  Professor  Chartly's  letter  was  thought  of  on  his  own  campus  as 
giving  off  a  distinct  though  not  unpleasant  odor  of  the  ivory  tower.  He 
would  have  resented  the  imputation  himself.  At  forty-five  Bradley  Dewing 
was  handsome  in  a  somewhat  speciously  virile  style,  graying  at  the  temples, 
but  still  well-knit  and  active.  He  prided  himself  on  being  able  to  beat  most 
of  his  students  at  tennis;  once  a  year  he  would  play  the  third  or  fourth  man 
on  the  varsity  and  go  down  to  creditable  defeat  with  some  elegiac  phrases 
on  the  ravages  of  time.  He  thought  of  himself  as  a  man  of  the  world;  it 
was  well  for  his  contentment,  which  was  seldom  visibly  ruffled,  that  he 
never  heard  the  class  mimic  reproducing  at  a  fraternity  house  or  beer  parlor 
his  manner  of  saying:  "After  all,  gentlemen,  it  is  pure  poetry  that  lasts.  We 
must  never  forget  the  staying  power  of  pure  art."  The  class  mimic  never 
represents  the  whole  of  class  opinion,  but  he  can  usually  make  everyone 
within  earshot  laugh. 

DOVER    BEACH   REVISITED         249 


Professor  Dewing  could  remember  clearly  what  his  own  teachers  had  said 
about  "Dover  Beach"  in  the  days  when  he  was  a  freshman  in  college  himself, 
phrases  rounded  with  distant  professional  unction:  faith  and  doubt  in  the 
Victorian  era;  disturbing  influence  of  Darwin  on  religious  belief;  Browning 
the  optimist;  Tennyson  coming  up  with  firm  faith  after  a  long  struggle  in  the 
waters  of  doubt;  Matthew  Arnold,  prophet  of  skepticism.  How  would 
"Dover  Beach"  stack  up  now  as  a  poem?  Pull  Arnold  down  from  the  shelf 
and  find  out. 

Ah,  yes,  how  the  familiar  phrases  came  back.  The  sea  is  calm,  the  tide 
is  full,  the  cliffs  of  England  stand.  .  .  .  And  then  the  lines  he  particularly 
liked: 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night  air! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd  land, 

Listen!  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling, 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 

Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 

With  tremulous  cadence  slow  .   .   . 

Good  poetry,  that!  No  one  could  mistake  it.  Onomatopoeia  was  a  relatively 
cheap  effect  most  of  the  time.  Poe,  for  instance:  "And  the  silken  sad 
uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain."  Anyone  could  put  a  string  of  s's 
together  and  make  them  rustle.  But  these  lines  in  "Dover  Beach"  were 
different.  The  onomatopoeia  was  involved  in  the  whole  scene,  and  it  in  turn 
involved  the  whole  rhythmical  movement  of  the  verse,  not  the  mere  noise 
made  by  the  consonants  or  vowels  as  such.  The  pauses— only,  listen,  draw 
back,  fling,  begin,  cease—how  they  infused  a  subdued  melancholy  into  the 
moonlit  panorama  at  the  same  time  that  they  gave  it  the  utmost  physical 
reality  by  suggesting  the  endless  iteration  of  the  waves!  And  then  the  phrase 
"With  tremulous  cadence  slow"  coming  as  yet  one  more  touch,  one  "fine 
excess,"  when  it  seemed  that  every  phrase  and  pause  the  scene  could  bear 
had  already  been  lavished  on  it:  that  was  Miltonic,  Virgilian. 
But  the  rest  of  the  poem? 

The  Sea  of  Faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  arid  round  earth's  shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  fuiTd  .  .  . 

Of  course  Arnold  had  evoked  the  whole  scene  only  to  bring  before  us  this 
metaphor  of  faith  in  its  ebb-tide.  But  that  did  not  save  the  figure  from  trite- 
ness and  from  an  even  more  fatal  vagueness.  Everything  in  second-rate 
poetry  is  compared  to  the  sea:  love  is  as  deep,  grief  as  salty,  passion  as 
turbulent.  The  sea  may  look  like  a  bright  girdle  sometimes,  though  Profes- 

250         IJTERATURE   AND   THE    ARTS 


sor  Dewing  did  not  think  it  particularly  impressive  to  say  so.  And  in  what 
sense  is  faith  a  bright  girdle?  Is  it  the  function  of  faith  to  embrace,  to  bind, 
to  hold  up  a  petticoat,  or  what?  And  what  is  the  faith  that  Arnold  has  in 
mind?  The  poet  evokes  no  precise  concept  of  it.  He  throws  us  the  simple 
undifferentiated  word,  unites  its  loose  emotional  connotations  with  those  of 
the  sea,  and  leaves  the  whole  matter  there.  And  the  concluding  figure  of 
"Dover  Beach": 

.  .  .  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

Splendid  in  itself,  this  memorable  image.  But  the  sea  had  been  forgotten 
now;  the  darkling  plain  had  displaced  the  figure  from  which  the  whole  poem 
tacitly  promised  to  evolve.  It  would  not  have  been  so  if  John  Donne  had 
been  the  craftsman.  A  single  bold  yet  accurate  analogy,  with  constantly 
developing  implications,  would  have  served  him  for  the  whole  poem. 

Thus  mused  Professor  Dewing,  the  lines  of  his  verdict  taking  shape  in  his 
head.  A  critic  of  poetry  of  course  was  not  at  liberty  to  pass  judgment  on  a 
poet's  thought;  he  could  only  judge  whether  in  treating  of  the  thought  or 
sensibility  he  had  received  from  his  age,  the  poet  had  produced  a  satisfactory 
work  of  art.  Arnold,  Professor  Dewing  felt,  had  not  been  able  to  escape 
from  the  didactic  tone  or  from  a  certain  commonness  and  vagueness  of  ex- 
pression. With  deep  personal  misgivings  about  his  position  in  a  world  both 
socially  and  spiritually  barbarous,  he  had  sought  an  image  for  his  emotion, 
and  had  found  it  in  the  sea— a  natural  phenomenon  still  obscured  by  the 
drapings  of  conventional  beauty  and  used  by  all  manner  of  poets  to  express 
all  manner  of  feelings.  "Dover  Beach"  would  always  remain  notable,  Pro- 
fessor Dewing  decided,  as  an  expression  of  Victorian  sensibility.  It  con- 
tained lines  of  every  memorable  poetic  skill.  But  it  could  not,  he  felt,  be 
accepted  as  a  uniformly  satisfactory  example  of  poetic  art. 

m 

IT  WAS  OCCASIONALLY  a  source  of  wonder  to  those  about  him  just  why 
Professor  Oliver  Twitchell  spent  so  much  time  and  eloquence  urging 
that  man's  lower  nature  must  be  repressed,  his  animal  instincts  kept  in 
bounds  by  the  exertion  of  the  higher  will.  To  the  casual  observer,  Professor 
Twitchell  himself  did  not  seem  to  possess  much  animal  nature.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  a  desperate  struggle  with  powerful  bestial  passions  might  be 
going  on  at  any  moment  within  his  own  slight  frame,  behind  his  delicate 
white  face  in  which  the  most  prominent  feature  was  the  octagonal  glasses 
that  focused  his  eyes  on  the  outside  world.  Professor  Twitchell  was  a  good 
deal  given  to  discipleship  but  not  much  to  friendship.  He  had  himself  been 

DOVER  BEACH  REVISITED   251 


a  disciple  of  the  great  Irving  Babbitt,  and  he  attracted  a  small  number  of 
disciples  among  his  own  more  earnest  students.  But  no  one  knew  him  well. 
Only  one  of  his  colleagues,  who  took  a  somewhat  sardonic  interest  in  the 
mysteries  of  human  nature,  possessed  a  possible  clue  to  the  origin  of  his 
efforts  to  repress  man's  lower  nature  and  vindicate  his  higher.  This  colleague 
had  wormed  his  way  sufficiently  into  Oliver  Twitchell's  confidence  to  learn 
about  his  family,  which  he  did  not  often  mention.  Professor  Twitchell,  it 
turned  out,  had  come  of  decidedly  unacademic  stock.  One  of  his  brothers 
was  the  chief  salesman  for  a  company  that  made  domestic  fire-alarm  appli- 
ances. At  a  moment's  notice  he  would  whip  out  a  sample  from  his  bag  or 
pocket,  plug  it  into  the  nearest  electric  outlet,  and  while  the  bystanders 
waited  in  terrified  suspense,  would  explain  that  in  the  dead  of  night,  if  the 
house  caught  fire,  the  thing  would  go  off  with  a  whoop  loud  enough  to 
warn  the  soundest  sleeper.  Lined  up  with  his  whole  string  of  brothers  and 
sisters,  all  older  than  he,  all  abounding  in  spirits,  Professor  Twitchell  looked 
like  the  runt  of  the  litter.  His  colleague  decided  that  he  must  have  had 
a  very  hard  childhood,  and  that  it  was  not  his  own  animal  nature  that  he 
needed  so  constantly  to  repress,  but  his  family's. 

Whatever  the  reasons,  Professor  Twitchell  felt  no  reality  in  the  teaching 
of  literature  except  as  he  could  extract  from  it  definitions  and  illustrations  of 
man's  moral  struggle  in  the  world.  For  him  recent  history  had  been  a  history 
of  intellectual  confusion  and  degradation,  and  hence  of  social  confusion  and 
degradation.  Western  thought  had  fallen  into  a  heresy.  It  had  failed  to 
maintain  the  fundamental  grounds  of  a  true  humanism.  It  had  blurred  the 
distinction  between  man,  God,  and  nature.  Under  the  influence  of  the 
sciences,  it  had  set  up  a  monism  in  which  the  moral  as  well  as  physical 
constitution  of  man  was  included  within  nature  and  the  laws  of  nature.  It 
had,  therefore,  exalted  man  as  naturally  good,  and  exalted  the  free  expression 
of  all  his  impulses.  What  were  the  results  of  this  heresy?  An  age,  complained 
Professor  Twitchell  bitterly,  in  which  young  women  talked  about  sexual 
perversions  at  the  dinner  table;  an  age  in  which  everyone  agreed  that  society 
was  in  dissolution  and  insisted  on  the  privilege  of  being  dissolute;  an  age 
without  any  common  standards  of  value  in  morals  or  art;  an  age,  in  short, 
without  discipline,  without  self-restraint  in  private  life  or  public. 

Oliver  Twitchell  when  he  received  Professor  Chartly's  envelope  sat  down 
with  a  strong  favorable  predisposition  toward  his  task.  He  accepted  whole- 
heartedly Arnold's  attitude  toward  literature:  the  demand  that  poetry  should 
be  serious,  that  it  should  present  us  with  a  criticism  of  life,  that  it  should 
be  measured  by  standards  not  merely  personal,  but  in  some  sense  real. 

"Dover  Beach"  had  become  Arnold's  best-known  poem,  admired  as  his 
masterpiece.  It  would  surely  contain,  therefore,  a  distillation  of  his  attitude. 

252         LITERATURE  AND  THE  ARTS 


Professor  Twitchell  pulled  down  his  copy  of  Arnold  and  began  to  read; 
and  as  he  read  he  felt  himself  overtaken  by  surprised  misgiving.  The  poem 
began  well  enough.  The  allusion  to  Sophocles,  who  had  heard  the  sound 
of  the  retreating  tide  by  the  Aegean  centuries  ago,  admirably  prepared  the 
groundwork  of  high  seriousness  for  a  poem  which  would  culminate  in  a  real 
criticism  of  human  experience.  But  did  the  poem  so  culminate?  It  was  true 
that  the  world 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 
Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain 

if  one  meant  the  world  as  the  worldling  knows  it,  the  man  who  conducts  his 
life  by  unreflective  natural  impulse.  Such  a  man  will  soon  enough  encounter 
the  disappointments  of  ambition,  the  instability  of  all  bonds  and  ties  founded 
on  nothing  firmer  than  passion  or  self-interest.  But  this  incertitude  of  the 
world,  to  a  true  disciple  of  culture,  should  become  a  means  of  self -discipline. 
It  should  lead  him  to  ask  how  life  may  be  purified  and  ennobled,  how  we 
may  by  wisdom  and  self-restraint  oppose  to  the  accidents  of  the  world  a  true 
human  culture  based  on  the  exertion  of  a  higher  will.  No  call  to  such  a 
positive  moral  will,  Professor  Twitchell  reluctantly  discovered,  can  be  heard 
in  "Dover  Beach."  Man  is  an  ignorant  soldier  struggling  confusedly  in  a 
blind  battle.  Was  this  the  culminating  truth  that  Arnold  the  poet  had  given 
men  in  his  masterpiece?  Professor  Twitchell  sadly  revised  his  value-judgment 
of  the  poem.  He  could  not  feel  that  in  his  most  widely  admired  performance 
Arnold  had  seen  life  steadily  or  seen  it  whole;  rather  he  had  seen  it  only  on 
its  worldly  side,  and  seen  it  under  an  aspect  of  terror.  "Dover  Beach"  would 
always  be  justly  respected  for  its  poetic  art,  but  the  famous  lines  on 
Sophocles  better  exemplified  the  poet  as  a  critic  of  life. 

IV 

ASA  NOVELIST  still  referred  to  in  his  late  thirties  as  "young"  and  "promis- 
^\  *ng>"  Rudolph  Mole  found  himself  in  a  curious  relation  toward  his 
acaoemic  colleagues.  He  wrote  for  the  public,  not  for  the  learned  journals; 
hence  he  was  spared  the  necessity  of  becoming  a  pedant.  At  the  same  time 
the  more  lucrative  fruits  of  pedantry  were  denied  to  him  by  his  quiet  exclu- 
sion from  the  guild.  Younger  men  sweating  for  promotion,  living  in  shabby 
genteel  poverty  on  yearly  appointments,  their  childless  wives  mimicking 
their  academic  shop-talk  in  bluestocking  phrases,  would  look  up  from  the 
stacks  of  five-by-three  cards  on  which  they  were  constantly  accumulating 
notes  and  references,  and  would  say  to  him,  "You  don't  realize  how  lucky 
you  are,  teaching  composition.  You  aren't  expected  to  know  anything/' 
Sometimes  an  older  colleague,  who  had  passed  through  several  stages  of  the 
mysteries  of  preferment,  would  belittle  professional  scholarship  to  him  with 

DOVER  BEACH  REVISITED        253 


an  elaborate  show  of  graciousness  and  envy.  "We  are  all  just  pedants,"  he 
would  say.  "You  teach  the  students  what  they  really  want  and  need." 
Rudolph  noticed  that  the  self-confessed  pedant  went  busily  on  publishing 
monographs  and  being  promoted,  while  he  himself  remained,  year  by  year, 
the  English  Department's  most  eminent  poor  relation. 

He  was  not  embittered.  His  dealings  with  students  were  pleasant  and 
interesting.  There  was  a  sense  of  reality  and  purpose  in  trying  to  elicit  from 
them  a  better  expression  of  their  thoughts,  trying  to  increase  their  under- 
standing of  the  literary  crafts.  He  could  attack  their  minds  on  any  front 
he  chose,  and  he  could  follow  his  intellectual  hobbies  as  freely  as  he  liked, 
without  being  confined  to  the  artificial  boundaries  of  a  professional  field  of 
learning. 

Freud,  for  example.  When  Professor  Chartly  and  his  accomplices  decided 
that  a  teacher  of  creative  writing  should  be  included  in  their  scheme  and 
chose  Rudolph  Mole  for  the  post,  they  happened  to  catch  him  at  the 
height  of  his  enthusiasm  for  Freud.  Not  that  he  expected  to  psychoanalyze 
authors  through  their  works;  that,  he  avowed,  was  not  his  purpose.  You 
can't  deduce  the  specific  secrets  of  a  man's  life,  he  would  cheerfully  admit, 
by  trying  to  fit  his  works  into  the  text-book  patterns  of  complexes  and  psy- 
choses. The  critic,  in  any  case,  is  interested  only  in  the  man  to  the  extent 
that  he  is  involved  in  his  work.  But  everyone  agrees,  Rudolph  maintained, 
that  the  man  is  involved  in  his  work.  Some  part  of  the  psychic  constitution 
of  the  author  finds  expression  in  every  line  that  he  writes.  We  can't  under- 
stand  the  work  unless  we  can  understand  the  psychic  traits  that  have  gained 
expression  in  it.  We  may  never  be  able  to  trace  back  these  traits  to  their 
ultimate  sources  and  causes,  probably  buried  deep  in  the  author's  childhood. 
But  we  need  to  gain  as  much  light  on  them  as  we  can,  since  they  appear 
in  the  work  we  are  trying  to  apprehend,  and  determine  its  character.  This 
is  what  criticism  has  always  sought  to  do.  Freud  simply  brings  new  light  to 
the  old  task. 

Rudolph  was  fortunate  enough  at  the  outset  to  pick  up  at  the  college 
bookstore  a  copy  of  Mr.  Lionel  Trilling's  recent  study  of  Matthew  Arnold. 
In  this  volume  he  found  much  of  his  work  already  done  for  him.  A  footnote 
to  Mr.  Trilling's  text,  citing  evidence  from  Professors  Tinker  and  Lowry, 
made  it  clear  that  "Dover  Beach"  may  well  have  been  written  in  1850,  some 
seventeen  years  before  it  was  first  published.  This,  for  Rudolph's  purposes, 
was  a  priceless  discovery.  It  meant  that  all  the  traditional  talk  about  the 
poem  was  largely  nul)  and  void.  The  poem  was  not  a  repercussion  of  the 
bombshell  that  Darwin  dropped  on  the  religious  sensibilities  of  the  Vic- 
torians. It  was  far  more  deeply  personal  and  individual  than  that.  Perhaps 

254         LITERATURE   AND  THE   ARTS 


when  Arnold  published  it  his  own  sense  of  what  it  expressed  or  how  it  would 
be  understood  had  changed.  But  clearly  the  poem  came  into  being  as  an 
expression  of  what  Arnold  felt  to  be  the  particular  kind  of  affection  and  pas- 
sion he  needed  from  a  woman.  It  was  a  love  poem,  and  took  its  place  with 
utmost  naturalness,  once  the  clue  had  been  given,  in  the  group  of  similar 
and  related  poems  addressed  to  "Marguerite."  Mr.  Trilling  summed  up  in  a 
fine  sentence  one  strain  in  these  poems,  and  the  principal  strain  in  "Dover 
Beach,"  when  he  wrote  that  for  Arnold  "fidelity  is  a  word  relevant  only  to 
those  lovers  who  see  the  world  as  a  place  of  sorrow  and  in  their  common 
suffering  require  the  comfort  of  constancy/' 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another!  for  the  world  .  .  . 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light  .  .  . 

The  point  was  unmistakable.  And  from  the  whole  group  of  poems  to  which 
"Dover  Beach"  belonged,  a  sketch  of  Arnold  as  an  erotic  personality  could 
be  derived.  The  question  whether  a  "real  Marguerite"  existed  was  an  idle 
one,  for  the  traits  that  found  expression  in  the  poems  were  at  least  "real" 
enough  to  produce  the  poems  and  to  determine  their  character. 

And  what  an  odd  spectacle  it  made,  the  self -expressed  character  of  Arnold 
as  a  lover!  The  ordinary  degree  of  aggressiveness,  the  normal  joy  of  conquest 
and  possession,  seemed  to  be  wholly  absent  from  him.  The  love  he  asked 
for  was  essentially  a  protective  love,  sisterly  or  motherly;  in  its  unavoidable 
ingredient  of  passion  he  felt  a  constant  danger,  which  repelled  and  unsettled 
him.  He  addressed  Marguerite  as  "My  sister!"  He  avowed  and  deplored  his 
own  womanish  fits  of  instability: 

I  too  have  wish'd,  no  woman  more, 
This  starting,  feverish  heart,  away. 

He  emphasized  his  nervous  anguish  and  contrary  impulses.  He  was  a  "teas'd 
o'erlabour'cl  heart,"  "an  aimless  unallay'd  Desire."  He  could  not  break 
through  his  fundamental  isolation  and  submerge  himself  in  another  human 
soul,  and  he  believed  that  all  men  shared  this  plight: 

Yes:  in  the  sea  of  life  enisl'd, 
With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 
Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 
We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 

He  never  "without  remorse"  allowed  himself  "To  haunt  the  place  where  pas- 
sions reign,"  yet  it  was  clear  that  whether  he  had  ever  succeeded  in  giving 
himself  up  wholeheartedly  to  a  passion,  he  had  wanted  to.  There  could 
hardly  be  a  more  telltale  phrase  than  "Once-long'd-for  storms  of  love." 

DOVER    BEACH   REVISITED         255 


In  short  much  more  illumination  fell  on  "Dover  Beach"  from  certain  other 
verses  of  Arnold's  than  from  Darwin  and  all  his  commentators: 

Truth— what  is  truth?   Two  bleeding  hearts 
Wounded  by  men,  by  Fortune  tried, 
Outwearied  with  their  lonely  parts, 
Vow  to  beat  henceforth  side  by  side. 

The  world  to  them  was  stern  and  drear; 
Their  lot  was  but  to  weep  and  moan. 
Ah,  let  them  keep  their  faith  sincere, 
For  neither  could  subsist  alone! 

Here  was  the  nub.  "Dover  Beach"  grew  directly  from  and  repeated  the 
same  emotion,  but  no  doubt  generalized  and  enlarged  this  emotion,  sweep- 
ing into  one  intense  and  far-reaching  conviction  of  insecurity  not  only 
Arnold's  personal  fortunes  in  love,  but  the  social  and  religious  faith  of  the 
world  he  lived  in.  That  much  could  be  said  for  the  traditional  interpretation. 

Of  course,  as  Mr.  Trilling  did  not  fail  to  mention,  anguished  love  affairs, 
harassed  by  mysterious  inner  incompatibilities,  formed  a  well-established 
literary  convention.  But  the  fundamental  sense  of  insecurity  in  "Dover 
Beach"  was  too  genuine,  too  often  repeated  in  other  works,  to  be  written  off 
altogether  to  that  account.  The  same  sense  of  insecurity,  the  same  need  for 
some  rock  of  protection,  cried  out  again  and  again,  not  merely  in  Arnold's 
love  poems  but  in  his  elegies,  reflective  pieces,  and  fragments  of  epic  as  well. 
Whenever  Arnold  produced  a  genuine  and  striking  burst  of  poetry,  with  the 
stamp  of  true  self-expression  on  it,  he  seemed  always  to  be  in  the  dumps. 
Everywhere  dejection,  confusion,  weakness,  contention  of  soul.  No  adequate 
cause  could  be  found  in  the  events  of  Arnold's  life  for  such  an  acute  sense 
of  incertitude;  it  must  have  been  of  psychic  origin.  Only  in  one  line  of 
effort  this  fundamental  insecurity  did  not  hamper,  sadden,  or  depress  him, 
and  that  was  in  the  free  play  of  his  intelligence  as  a  critic  of  letters  and 
society.  Even  there,  if  it  did  not  hamper  his  efforts,  it  directed  them. 
Arnold  valiantly  tried  to  erect  a  barrier  of  culture  against  the  chaos  and 
squalor  of  society,  against  the  contentiousness  of  men.  What  was  this  bar- 
rier but  an  elaborate  protective  device? 

The  origin  of  the  psychic  pattern  that  expressed  itself  in  Arnold's  poems 
could  probably  never  be  discovered.  No  doubt  the  influence  that  Arnold's 
father  exercised  over  his  emotions  and  his  thinking,  even  though  Arnold 
rebelled  to  the  extent  at  least  of  casting  off  his  father's  religious  beliefs,  was 
of  great  importance.  But  much  more  would  have  to  be  known  to  give  a 
definite  clue— more  than  ever  could  be  known.  Arnold  was  secure  from  any 
attempt  to  spy  out  the  heart  of  his  mystery.  But  if  criticism  could  not  dis- 
cover the  cause,  it  could  assess  the  result,  and  could  do  so  (thought  Rudolph 

256         LITERATURE    AND   THE    ARTS 


Mole)  with  greater  understanding  by  an  attempt,  with  up-to-date  psycho- 
logical aid,  to  delve  a  little  deeper  into  the  essential  traits  that  manifested 
themselves  in  that  result. 


IN  1917  Reuben  Hale,  a  young  instructor  in  a  Western  college,  had  lost  his 
job  and  done  time  in  the  penitentiary  for  speaking  against  conscription 
and  for  organizing  pacifist  demonstrations.  In  the  twenties  he  had  lost  two 
more  academic  posts  for  his  sympathies  with  Soviet  Russia  and  his  inability 
to  forget  his  Marxist  principles  while  teaching  literature.  His  contentious, 
eager,  lovable,  exasperating  temperament  tried  the  patience  of  one  college 
administration  after  another.  As  he  advanced  into  middle  age,  and  his  grow- 
ing family  suffered  repeated  upheavals,  his  friends  began  to  fear  that  his 
robust  quarrels  with  established  order  would  leave  him  a  penniless  outcast 
at  fifty.  Then  he  was  invited  to  take  a  flattering  post  at  a  girls'  college 
known  for  its  liberality  of  views.  The  connection  proved  surprisingly  dur- 
able; in  fact  it  became  Professor  Hale's  turn  to  be  apprehensive.  He  began  to 
be  morally  alarmed  at  his  own  security,  to  fear  that  the  bourgeois  system 
which  he  had  attacked  so  valiantly  had  somehow  outwitted  him  and  be- 
trayed him  into  allegiance.  When  the  C.I.O.  made  its  initial  drive  and 
seemed  to  be  carrying  everything  before  it,  he  did  his  best  to  unseat  himself 
again  by  rushing  joyfully  to  the  nearest  picket  lines  and  getting  himself  pho- 
tographed by  an  alert  press.  Even  this  expedient  failed,  and  he  reconciled 
himself,  not  without  wonder,  to  apparent  academic  permanence. 

On  winter  afternoons  his  voice  could  be  heard  booming  out  through  the 
closed  door  of  his  study  to  girls  who  came  to  consult  him  on  all  manner  of 
subjects,  from  the  merits  of  Plekhanov  as  a  Marxist  critic  to  their  own  most 
personal  dilemmas.  They  called  him  Ben;  he  called  them  Smith,  Jones,  and 
Robinson.  He  never  relaxed  his  cheerful  bombardment  of  the  milieu  into 
which  they  were  born,  and  of  the  larger  social  structure  which  made 
bourgeois  wealth,  bourgeois  art,  morals,  and  religion  possible.  But  when  a 
sophomore  found  herself  pregnant  it  was  to  Professor  Hale  that  she  came 
for  advice.  Should  she  have  an  abortion  or  go  through  with  it  and  heroically 
bear  the  social  stigma?  And  it  was  Professor  Hale  who  kept  the  aftair  from 
the  Dean's  office  and  the  newspapers,  sought  out  the  boy,  persuaded  the 
young  couple  that  they  were  desperately  in  love  with  each  other,  and  that 
pending  the  revolution  a  respectable  marriage  would  be  the  most  prudent 
course,  riot  to  say  the  happiest. 

James  Joyce  remarks  of  one  of  his  characters  that  she  dealt  with  moral 
problems  as  a  cleaver  deals  with  meat.  Professor  Hale's  critical  methods 
were  comparably  simple  and  direct.  Literature,  like  the  other  arts,  is  in 
form  and  substance  a  product  of  society,  and  reflects  the  structure  of  society. 

DOVER   BEACH   REVISITED         257 


The  structure  of  society  is  a  class  structure:  it  is  conditioned  by  the  mode 
of  production  of  goods,  and  by  the  legal  conventions  of  ownership  and  con- 
trol by  which  the  ruling  class  keeps  itself  in  power  and  endows  itself  with 
the  necessary  freedom  to  exploit  men  and  materials  for  profit.  A  healthy 
literature,  in  a  society  so  constituted,  can  exist  only  if  writers  perceive  the 
essential  economic  problem  and  ally  themselves  firmly  with  the  working 
class. 

Anyone  could  see  the  trouble  with  Arnold.  His  intelligence  revealed  to 
him  the  chaos  that  disrupted  the  society  about  him;  the  selfishness  and  bru- 
tality of  the  ruling  class;  the  ugliness  of  the  world  which  the  industrial 
revolution  had  created,  and  which  imperialism  and  "liberalism"  were  extend- 
ing. Arnold  was  at  his  best  in  his  critical  satire  of  this  world  and  of  the 
ignorance  of  those  who  governed  it.  But  his  intelligence  far  outran  his  will, 
and  his  defect  of  will  finally  blinded  his  intelligence.  He  was  too  much  a 
child  of  his  class  to  disown  it  and  fight  his  way  to  a  workable  remedy  for 
social  injustice.  He  caught  a  true  vision  of  himself  and  of  his  times  as  stand- 
ing between  "two  worlds,  one  dead,  one  powerless  to  be  born."  But  he  had 
not  courage  or  stomach  enough  to  lend  his  own  powers  to  the  birth  struggle. 
Had  he  thrown  in  his  sympathies  unreservedly  with  the  working  class,  and 
labored  for  the  inescapable  revolution,  "Dover  Beach"  would  not  have 
ended  in  pessimism  and  confusion.  It  would  have  ended  in  a  cheerful, 
strenuous,  and  hopeful  call  to  action.  But  Arnold  could  not  divorce  himself 
from  the  world  of  polite  letters,  of  education,  of  culture,  into  which  he  had 
been  born.  He  did  his  best  to  purify  them,  to  make  them  into  an  instrument 
for  the  reform  of  society.  But  instinctively  he  knew  that  "culture"  as  he 
understood  the  term  was  not  a  social  force  in  the  world  around  him.  In- 
stinctively he  knew  that  what  he  loved  was  doomed  to  defeat.  And  so 
"Dover  Beach"  ended  in  a  futile  plea  for  protection  against  the  hideousness 
of  the  darkling  plain  and  the  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight. 

Professor  Chartly's  envelope  brought  Reuben  Hale  his  best  opportunity 
since  the  first  C.I.O.  picket  lines  to  vindicate  his  critical  and  social  princi- 
ples. He  plunged  into  his  answer  with  complete  zest. 

VI 

WHEN  Peter  Lee  Prampton  agreed  to  act  as  moderator  in  Professor 
Chartly's  experiment  he  congratulated  himself  that  this  would  be  his 
last  great  academic  chore.  He  had  enjoyed  his  career  of  scholarship  and 
teaching,  no  man  ever  more  keenly.  But  now  it  was  drawing  to  an  end.  He 
was  loaded  with  honors  from  two  continents.  The  universities  of  Germany, 
France,  and  Britain  had  first  laid  their  formative  hands  on  his  learning  and 
cultivation,  then  given  their  most  coveted  recognition  to  its  fruits.  But  the 

258         LITERATURE   AND  THE   ARTS 


honor  and  the  glory  seemed  a  little  vague  on  the  June  morning  when  the 
expressman  brought  into  his  library  the  sizable  package  of  papers  which 
Professor  Chartly  had  boxed  and  shipped  to  him.  He  had  kept  all  his  life  a 
certain  simplicity  of  heart.  At  seventy-four  he  could  still  tote  a  pack  with  an 
easy  endurance  that  humiliated  men  of  forty.  Now  he  found  himself  giving 
in  more  and  more  completely  to  a  lust  for  trout.  Half  a  century  of  hastily 
snatched  vacations  in  Cape  Breton  or  the  Scottish  Highlands  had  never 
allowed  him  really  to  fill  up  that  hollow  craving  to  find  a  wild  stream  and 
fish  it  which  would  sometimes  rise  in  his  throat  even  in  the  midst  of  a  lecture. 

Well,  there  would  be  time  left  before  he  died.  And  meanwhile  here  was 
this  business  of  "Dover  Beach."  Matthew  Arnold  during  one  of  his  American 
lecture  tours  had  been  entertained  by  neighbors  of  the  Pramptons.  Peter 
Lee  Prampton's  father  had  dined  with  the  great  man,  and  had  repeated  his 
conversation  and  imitated  his  accent  at  the  family  table.  Peter  himself,  as 
a  boy  of  nineteen  or  so,  had  gone  to  hear  Arnold  lecture.  That,  he  thought 
with  a  smile,  was  probably  a  good  deal  more  than  could  be  said  for  any  of 
these  poor  hacks  who  had  taken  Professor  Chartly 's  bait. 

At  the  thought  of  Arnold  he  could  still  hear  the  carriage  wheels  grate  on 
the  pebbly  road  as  he  had  driven,  fifty  odd  years  ago,  to  the  lecture  in  town, 
the  prospective  Mrs.  Prampton  beside  him.  His  fishing  rod  lay  under  the 
seat.  He  chuckled  out  loud  as  he  remembered  how  a  pound-and-a-half  trout 
had  jumped  in  the  pool  under  the  clattering  planks  of  a  bridge,  and  how 
he  had  pulled  up  the  horse,  jumped  out,  and  tried  to  cast  while  Miss  Osgood 
sat  scolding  in  the  carriage  and  shivering  in  the  autumn  air.  They  had  been 
just  a  little  late  reaching  the  lecture,  but  the  trout,  wrapped  in  damp  leaves, 
lay  safely  beside  the  rod. 

It  was  queer  that  "Dover  Beach"  had  not  come  more  recently  into  his 
mind.  Now  that  he  turned  his  thoughts  in  that  direction  the  poem  was  there 
in  its  entirety,  waiting  to  be  put  on  again  like  a  coat  that  one  has  worn  many 
times  with  pleasure  and  accidentally  neglected  for  a  while. 

The  Sea  of  Faith  was  once,  too,  at  the  full. 

How  those  old  Victorian  battles  had  raged  about  the  Prampton  table 
when  he  was  a  boy!  How  the  names  of  Arnold,  Huxley,  Darwin,  Carlyle, 
Morris,  Ruskin  had  been  pelted  back  and  forth  by  the  excited  disputants! 
Literature  and  Dogma,  God  and  the  Bible,  Culture  and  Anarchy.  The 
familiar  titles  brought  an  odd  image  into  his  mind:  the  tall  figure  of  his 
father  stretching  up  to  turn  on  the  gas  lamps  in  the  evening  as  the  family 
sat  down  to  dinner;  the  terrific  pop  of  the  pilot  light  as  it  exploded  into  a  net 
of  white  flame,  shaped  like  a  little  beehive;  the  buzz  and  whine  of  a  jet 
turned  up  too  high. 

DOVER    BEACH   REVISITED         259 


Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another!  for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain  .  .  . 

Peter  Lee  Prampton  shivered  in  the  warmth  of  his  sunny  library,  shivered 
with  that  flash  of  perception  into  the  past  which  sometimes  enables  a  man 
to  see  how  all  that  has  happened  in  his  life,  for  good  or  ill,  turned  on  the 
narrowest  edge  of  chance.  He  lived  again  in  the  world  of  dreams  that  his 
own  youth  had  spread  before  him,  a  world  truly  various,  beautiful,  and  new; 
full  of  promise,  adventure,  and  liberty  of  choice,  based  on  the  opportunities 
which  his  father's  wealth  provided,  and  holding  out  the  prospect  of  a  smooth 
advance  into  a  distinguished  career.  Then,  within  six  months,  a  lavish  dem- 
onstration that  the  world  has  neither  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain: 
his  mother's  death  by  cancer,  his  father's  financial  overthrow  and  suicide,  the 
ruin  of  his  own  smooth  hopes  and  the  prospect  instead  of  a  long,  hampered, 
and  obscure  fight  toward  his  perhaps  impossible  ambition.  He  lived  again 
through  the  night  hours  when  he  had  tramped  out  with  himself  the  youthful 
question  whether  he  could  hold  Miss  Osgood  to  her  promise  in  the  face  of 
such  reversals.  And  he  did  not  forget  how  she  took  his  long-sleepless  face 
between  her  hands,  kissed  him,  and  smiled  away  his  anxiety  with  unsteady 
lips.  Surely  everyone  discovers  at  some  time  or  another  that  the  world  is 
not  a  place  of  certitude;  surely  everyone  cries  out  to  some  other  human 
being  for  the  fidelity  which  alone  can  make  it  so.  What  more  could  be  asked 
of  a  poet  than  to  take  so  profound  and  universal  an  experience  and  turn  it 
into  lines  that  could  still  speak  long  after  he  and  his  age  were  dead? 

The  best  of  it  was  that  no  one  could  miss  the  human  feeling,  the  cry  from 
the  heart,  in  "Dover  Beach";  it  spoke  so  clearly  and  eloquently,  in  a  lan- 
guage everyone  could  understand,  in  a  form  classically  pure  and  simple. 
Or  did  it?  Who  could  tell  what  any  job-lot  of  academicians  might  be  trusted 
to  see  or  fail  to  see?  And  this  assortment  in  Chartly's  package  might  be  a 
queer  kettle  of  fish!  Peter  Lee  Prampton  had  lived  through  the  Yellow 
Book  days  of  Art  for  Art's  sake;  he  had  read  the  muckrakers,  and  watched 
the  rise  of  the  Marxists  and  the  Freudians.  Could  "Dover  Beach"  be  con- 
demned as  unsympathetic  with  labor?  Could  a  neurosis  or  a  complex  be 
discovered  in  it?  His  heart  sank  at  the  sharp  sudden  conviction  that  indeed 
these  and  worse  discoveries  about  the  poem  might  be  seriously  advanced. 
Well,  he  had  always  tried  to  go  on  the  principle  that  every  school  of  criticism 
should  be  free  to  exercise  any  sincere  claim  on  men's  interest  and  attention 
which  it  could  win  for  itself.  When  he  actually  applied  himself  to  the  con- 


260 


LITERATURE    AND    THE    ARTS 


tents  of  Professor  Chartly's  bale  he  would  be  as  charitable  as  he  could,  as 
receptive  to  light  from  any  quarter  as  he  could  bring  himself  to  be. 

But  the  task  could  wait.  He  felt  the  need  of  a  period  of  adjustment  before 
he  could  approach  it  with  reasonable  equanimity.  And  in  the  meanwhile  he 
could  indulge  himself  in  some  long-needed  editorial  work  on  his  dry-fly  book. 


AARON  COPLAND  The  creative  process  in  music 

MOST  PEOPLE  want  to  know  how  things  are  made.  They  frankly  admit, 
however,  that  they  feel  completely  at  sea  when  it  comes  to  under- 
standing how  a  piece  of  music  is  made.  Where  a  composer  begins,  how  he 
manages  to  keep  going— in  fact,  how  and  where  he  learns  his  trade—all  are 
shrouded  in  impenetrable  darkness.  The  composer,  in  short,  is  a  man  of 
mystery  to  most  people,  and  the  composer's  workshop  an  unapproachable 
ivory  tower. 

One  of  the  first  things  most  people  want  to  hear  discussed  in  relation  to 
composing  is  the  question  of  inspiration.  They  find  it  difficult  to  believe 
that  composers  are  not  as  preoccupied  with  that  question  as  they  had  sup- 
posed. The  layman  always  finds  it  hard  to  realize  how  natural  it  is  for  the 
composer  to  compose.  He  has  a  tendency  to  put  himself  into  the  position  of 
the  composer  and  to  visualize  the  problems  involved,  including  that  of  in- 
spiration, from  the  perspective  of  the  layman.  He  forgets  that  composing 
to  a  composer  is  like  fulfilling  a  natural  function.  It  is  like  eating  or  sleep- 
ing. It  is  something  that  the  composer  happens  to  have  been  born  to  do; 
and,  because  of  that,  it  loses  the  character  of  a  special  virtue  in  the  com- 
poser's eyes. 

The  composer,  therefore,  confronted  with  the  question  of  inspiration, 
does  not  say  to  himself:  "Do  I  feel  inspired?"  He  says  to  himself:  "Do  I  feel 
like  composing  today?"  And  if  he  feels  like  composing,  he  does.  It  is  more 
or  less  like  saying  to  himself:  "Do  I  feel  sleepy?"  If  you  feel  sleepy,  you  go 
to  sleep.  If  you  don't  feel  sleepy,  you  stay  up.  If  the  composer  doesn't  feel 
like  composing,  he  doesn't  compose.  It's  as  simple  as  that. 

Of  course,  after  you  have  finished  composing,  you  hope  that  everyone, 
including  yourself,  will  recognize  the  thing  you  have  written  as  having  been 
inspired.  But  that  is  really  an  idea  tacked  on  at  the  end. 


Reprinted  from  What  to  Listen  for  in  Music,  by  Aaron  Copland.   Copyright,  1939,  by 
the  McGraw-Hill  Book  Company,  Inc.,  New  York,  New  York. 


THE   CREATIVE    PROCESS    IN    MUSIC         261 


Someone  once  asked  me,  in  a  public  forum,  whether  I  waited  for  inspira- 
tion. My  answer  was:  "Every  day!"  But  that  does  not,  by  any  means,  imply 
a  passive  waiting  around  for  the  divine  afflatus.  That  is  exactly  what  sep- 
arates the  professional  from  the  dilettante.  The  professional  composer  can 
sit  down  day  after  day  and  tuni  out  some  kind  of  music.  On  some  days  it 
will  undoubtedly  be  better  than  on  others;  but  the  primary  fact  is  the  ability 
to  compose.  Inspiration  is  often  only  a  by-product. 

The  second  question  that  most  people  find  intriguing  is  generally  worded 
thus:  "Do  you  or  don't  you  write  your  music  at  the  piano?"  A  current  idea 
exists  that  there  is  something  shameful  about  writing  a  piece  of  music  at  the 
piano.  Along  with  that  goes  a  mental  picture  of  Beethoven  composing  out 
in  the  fields.  Think  about  it  a  moment  and  you  will  realize  that  writing 
away  from  the  piano  nowadays  is  not  nearly  so  simple  a  matter  as  it  was  in 
Mozart  or  Beethoven's  day.  For  one  thing,  harmony  is  so  much  more  com- 
plex than  it  was  then.  Few  composers  are  capable  of  writing  down  entire 
compositions  without  at  least  a  passing  reference  to  the  piano.  In  fact, 
Stravinsky  in  his  Autobiography  has  even  gone  so  far  as  to  say  that  it  is  a 
bad  thing  to  write  music  away  from  the  piano  because  the  composer  should 
always  be  in  contact  with  la  matidre  sonore.  That's  a  violent  taking  of  the 
opposite  side.  But,  in  the  end,  the  way  in  which  a  composer  writes  is  a 
personal  matter.  The  method  is  unimportant.  It  is  the  result  that  counts. 

The  really  important  question  is:  "What  does  the  composer  start  with; 
where  does  he  begin?"  The  answer  to  that  is,  Every  composer  begins  with  a 
musical  idea— a  musical  idea,  you  understand,  not  a  mental,  literary,  or  extra- 
musical  idea.  Suddenly  a  theme  comes  to  him.  (Theme  is  used  as  synony- 
mous with  musical  idea.)  The  composer  starts  with  his  theme;  and  the 
theme  is  a  gift  from  Heaven.  He  doesn't  know  where  it  comes  from— has  no 
control  over  it.  It  comes  almost  like  automatic  writing.  That's  why  he  keeps 
a  book  very  often  and  writes  themes  down  whenever  they  come.  He  collects 
musical  ideas.  You  can't  do  anything  about  that  element  of  composing. 

The  idea  itself  may  come  in  various  forms.  It  may  come  as  a  melody— just 
a  one-line  simple  melody  which  you  might  hum  to  yourself.  Or  it  may  come 
to  the  composer  as  a  melody  with  an  accompaniment.  At  times  he  may  not 
even  hear  a  melody;  he  may  simply  conceive  an  accompanimental  figure  to 
which  a  melody  will  probably  be  added  later.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
theme  may  take  the  form  of  a  purely  rhythmic  idea.  He  hears  a  particular 
kind  of  drumbeat,  and  that  will  be  enough  to  start  him  off.  Over  it  he  will 
soon  begin  hearing  an  accompaniment  and  melody.  The  original  conception, 
however,  was  a  mere  rhythm.  Or,  a  different  type  of  composer  may  pos- 
sibly begin  with  a  contrapuntal  web  of  two  or  three  melodies  which  are 


262 


LITERATURE   AND   THE   ARTS 


heard  at  the  same  instant.  That,  however,  is  a  less  usual  species  of  thematic 
inspiration. 

All  these  are  different  ways  in  which  the  musical  idea  may  present  itself  to 
the  composer. 

Now,  the  composer  has  the  idea.  He  has  a  number  of  them  in  his  book, 
and  he  examines  them  in  more  or  less  the  way  that  you,  the  listener,  would 
examine  them  if  you  looked  at  them.  He  wants  to  know  what  he  has.  He 
examines  the  musical  line  for  its  purely  formal  beauty.  He  likes  to  see  the 
way  it  rises  and  falls,  as  if  it  were  a  drawn  line  instead  of  a  musical  one. 
He  may  even  try  to  retouch  it,  just  as  you  might  in  drawing  a  line,  so  that 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  melodic  contour  might  be  improved. 

But  he  also  wants  to  know  the  emotional  significance  of  his  theme.  If  all 
music  has  expressive  value,  then  the  composer  must  become  conscious  of 
the  expressive  values  of  his  theme.  He  may  be  unable  to  put  it  into  so  many 
words,  but  he  feels  it!  He  instinctively  knows  whether  he  has  a  gay  or  a  sad 
theme,  a  noble  or  diabolic  one.  Sometimes  he  may  be  mystified  himself  as 
to  its  exact  quality.  But  sooner  or  later  he  will  probably  instinctively  decide 
what  the  emotional  nature  of  his  theme  is,  because  that's  the  thing  he  is 
about  to  work  with. 

Always  remember  that  a  theme  is,  after  all,  only  a  succession  of  notes. 
Merely  by  changing  the  dynamics,  that  is,  by  playing  it  loudly  and  bravely 
or  softly  and  timidly,  one  can  transform  the  emotional  feeling  of  the  very 
same  succession  of  notes.  By  a  change  of  harmony  a  new  poignancy  may  be 
given  the  theme;  or  by  a  different  rhythmic  treatment  the  same  notes  may 
result  in  a  war  dance  instead  of  a  lullaby.  Every  composer  keeps  in  mind 
the  possible  metamorphoses  of  his  succession  of  notes.  First  he  tries  to  find 
its  essential  nature,  and  then  he  tries  to  find  what  might  be  done  with  it- 
how  that  essential  nature  may  momentarily  be  changed. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  experience  of  most  composers  has  been  that  the 
more  complete  a  theme  is  the  less  possibility  there  is  of  seeing  it  in  various 
aspects.  If  the  theme  itself,  in  its  original  form,  is  long  enough  and  complete 
enough,  the  composer  may  have  difficulty  in  seeing  it  in  any  other  way.  It 
already  exists  in  its  definitive  form.  That  is  why  great  music  can  be  written 
on  themes  that  in  themselves  are  insignificant.  One  might  very  well  say 
that  the  less  complete,  the  less  important,  the  theme  the  more  likely  it  is  to 
be  open  to  new  connotations.  Some  of  Bach's  greatest  organ  fugues  are  con- 
structed on  themes  that  are  comparatively  uninteresting  in  themselves. 

The  current  notion  that  all  music  is  beautiful  according  to  whether  the 
theme  is  beautiful  or  not  doesn't  hold  true  in  many  cases.  Certainly  the 
composer  does  not  judge  his  theme  by  that  criterion  alone. 

THE   CREATIVE   PROCESS   IN   MUSIC         263 


Having  looked  at  his  thematic  material,  the  composer  must  now  decide 
what  sound  medium  will  best  fit  it.  Is  it  a  theme  that  belongs  in  a  symphony, 
or  does  it  seem  more  intimate  in  character  and  therefore  better  fitted  for  a 
string  quartet?  Is  it  a  lyrical  theme  that  would  be  used  to  best  advantage  in 
a  song;  or  had  it  better  be  saved,  because  of  its  dramatic  quality,  for  operatic 
treatment?  A  composer  sometimes  has  a  work  half  finished  before  he  under- 
stands the  medium  for  which  it  is  best  fitted. 

Thus  far  I  have  been  presupposing  an  abstract  composer  before  an  ab- 
stract theme.  But  actually  I  can  see  three  different  types  of  composers  in 
musical  history,  each  of  whom  conceives  music  in  a  somewhat  different 
fashion. 

The  type  that  has  fired  public  imagination  most  is  that  of  the  sponta- 
neously inspired  composer—the  Franz  Schubert  type,  in  other  words.  All 
composers  are  inspired  of  course,  but  this  type  is  more  spontaneously  in- 
spired. Music  simply  wells  out  of  him.  He  can't  get  it  down  on  paper  fast 
enough.  You  can  almost  always  tell  this  type  of  composer  by  his  prolific 
output.  In  certain  months,  Schubert  wrote  a  song  a  day.  Hugo  Wolf  did 
the  same. 

In  a  sense,  men  of  this  kind  begin  not  so  much  with  a  musical  theme  as 
with  a  completed  composition.  They  invariably  work  best  in  the  shorter 
forms.  It  is  much  easier  to  improvise  a  song  than  it  is  to  improvise  a  sym- 
phony. It  isn't  easy  to  be  inspired  in  that  spontaneous  way  for  long  periods 
at  a  stretch.  Even  Schubert  was  more  successful  in  handling  the  shorter 
forms  of  music.  The  spontaneously  inspired  man  is  only  one  type  of  com- 
poser, with  his  own  limitations. 

Beethoven  symbolizes  the  second  type— the  constructive  type,  one  might 
call  it.  This  type  exemplifies  my  theory  of  the  creative  process  in  music 
better  than  any  other,  because  in  this  case  the  composer  really  does  begin 
with  a  musical  theme.  In  Beethoven's  case  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  for 
we  have  the  notebooks  in  which  he  put  the  themes  down.  We  can  see  from 
his  notebooks  how  he  worked  over  his  themes— how  he  would  not  let  them 
be  until  they  were  as  perfect  as  he  could  make  them.  Beethoven  was  not  a 
spontaneously  inspired  composer  in  the  Schubert  sense  at  all.  He  was  the 
type  that  begins  with  a  theme;  makes  it  a  germinal  idea;  and  upon  that  con- 
structs a  musical  work,  day  after  day,  in  painstaking  fashion.  Most  com- 
posers since  Beethoven's  day  belong  to  this  second  type. 

The  third  type  of  creator  I  can  only  call,  for  lack  of  a  better  name,  the 
traditionalist  type.  Men  like  Palestrina  and  Bach  belong  in  this  category. 
They  both  exemplify  the  kind  of  composer  who  is  born  in  a  particular  pe- 
riod of  musical  history,  when  a  certain  musical  style  is  about  to  reach  its 

264          LITERATURE    AND   THE    ARTS 


fullest  development.  It  is  a  question  at  such  a  time  of  creating  music  in  a 
well-known  and  accepted  style  and  doing  it  in  a  way  that  is  better  than 
anyone  has  done  it  before  you. 

Beethoven  and  Schubert  started  from  a  different  premise.  They  both  had 
serious  pretensions  to  originality!  After  all,  Schubert  practically  created  the 
song  form  singlehanded;  and  the  whole  face  of  music  changed  after  Bee- 
thoven lived.  But  Bach  and  Palestrina  simply  improved  on  what  had  gone 
before  them. 

The  traditionalist  type  of  composer  begins  with  a  pattern  rather  than  with 
a  theme.  The  creative  act  with  Palestrina  is  not  the  thematic  conception  so 
much  as  the  personal  treatment  of  a  well-established  pattern.  And  even 
Bach,  who  conceived  forty-eight  of  the  most  varied  and  inspired  themes  in 
his  Well  Tempered  Clavichord,  knew  in  advance  the  general  formal  mold 
that  they  were  to  fill.  It  goes  without  saying  that  we  are  not  living  in  a  tra- 
ditionalist period  nowadays. 

One  might  add,  for  the  sake  of  completeness,  a  fourth  type  of  composer— 
the  pioneer  type:  men  like  Gesualdo  in  the  seventeenth  century,  Mous- 
sorgsky  and  Berlioz  in  the  nineteenth,  Debussy  and  Edgar  Varese  in  the 
twentieth.  It  is  difficult  to  summarize  the  composing  methods  of  so  varie- 
gated a  group.  One  can  safely  say  that  their  approach  to  composition  is  the 
opposite  of  the  traditionalist  type.  They  clearly  oppose  conventional  solu- 
tions of  musical  problems.  In  many  ways,  their  attitude  is  experimental— 
they  seek  to  add  new  harmonies,  new  sonorities,  new  formal  principles.  The 
pioneer  type  was  the  characteristic  one  at  the  turn  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury and  also  at  the  beginning  of  the  twentieth  century,  but  it  is  much  less 
evident  today. 

But  let's  return  to  our  theoretical  composer.  We  have  him  with  his  idea— 
his  musical  idea—with  some  conception  of  its  expressive  nature,  with  a 
sense  of  what  can  be  done  with  it,  and  with  a  preconceived  notion  of  what 
medium  is  best  fitted  for  it.  Still  he  hasn't  a  piece.  A  musical  idea  is  not  the 
same  as  a  piece  of  music.  It  only  induces  a  piece  of  music.  The  composer 
knows  very  well  that  something  else  is  needed  in  order  to  create  the  finished 
composition. 

He  tries,  first  of  all,  to  find  other  ideas  that  seem  to  go  with  the  original 
one.  They  may  be  ideas  of  a  similar  character,  or  they  may  be  contrasting 
ones.  These  additional  ideas  will  probably  not  be  so  important  as  the  one 
that  came  first-usually  they  play  a  subsidiary  role.  Yet  they  definitely  seem 
necessary  in  order  to  complete  the  first  one.  Still  that's  not  enough!  Some 
way  must  be  found  for  getting  from  one  idea  to  the  next,  and  it  is  generally 
achieved  through  use  of  so-called  bridge  material. 

THE   CREATIVE   PROCESS   IN   MUSIC         265 


There  are  also  two  other  important  ways  in  which  the  composer  can  add 
to  his  original  material.  One  is  the  elongation  process.  Often  the  com- 
poser finds  that  a  particular  theme  needs  elongating  so  that  its  character 
may  be  more  clearly  defined.  Wagner  was  a  master  at  elongation.  I  referred 
to  the  other  way  when  I  visualized  the  composer's  examining  the  possible 
metamorphoses  of  his  theme.  That  is  the  much  written-about  development 
of  his  material,  which  is  a  very  important  part  of  his  job. 

All  these  things  are  necessary  for  the  creation  of  a  full-sized  piece—the 
germinal  idea,  the  addition  of  other  lesser  ideas,  the  elongation  of  the  ideas, 
the  bridge  material  for  the  connection  of  the  ideas,  and  their  full  develop- 
ment. 

Now  comes  the  most  difficult  task  of  all— the  welding  together  of  all  that 
material  so  that  it  makes  a  coherent  whole.  In  the  finished  product,  every- 
thing must  be  in  its  place.  The  listener  must  be  able  to  find  his  way  around 
in  the  piece.  There  should  be  no  possible  chance  of  his  confusing  the  princi- 
pal theme  with  the  bridge  material,  or  vice  versa.  The  composition  must 
have  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end;  and  it  is  up  to  the  composer  to  see 
to  it  that  the  listener  always  has  some  sense  of  where  he  is  in  relation  to 
beginning,  middle,  and  end.  Moreover,  the  whole  thing  should  be  managed 
artfully  so  that  none  can  say  where  the  soldering  began— where  the  com- 
poser's spontaneous  invention  left  off  and  the  hard  work  began. 

Of  course,  I  do  not  mean  to  suggest  that  in  putting  his  materials  together 
the  composer  necessarily  begins  from  scratch.  On  the  contrary,  every  well- 
trained  composer  has,  as  his  stock  in  trade,  certain  normal  structural  molds 
on  which  to  lean  for  the  basic  framework  of  his  compositions.  These  formal 
molds  I  speak  of  have  all  been  gradually  evolved  over  hundreds  of  years  as 
the  combined  efforts  of  numberless  composers  seeking  a  way  to  ensure  the 
coherence  of  their  compositions.  .  .  . 

But  whatever  the  form  the  composer  chooses  to  adopt,  there  is  always 
one  great  desideratum:  The  form  must  have  what  in  my  student  days  we 
used  to  call  la  grande  ligne  (the  long  line).  It  is  difficult  adequately  to 
explain  the  meaning  of  that  phrase  to  the  layman.  To  be  properly  un- 
derstood in  relation  to  a  piece  of  music,  it  must  be  felt.  In  mere  words, 
it  simply  means  that  every  good  piece  of  music  must  give  us  a  sense  of  flow— 
a  sense  of  continuity  from  first  note  to  last.  Every  elementary  music  stu- 
dent knows  the  principle,  but  to  put  it  into  practice  has  challenged  the 
greatest  minds  in  music!  A  great  symphony  is  a  man-made  Mississippi  down 
which  we  irresistibly  flow  from  the  instant  of  our  leave-taking  to  a  long  fore- 
seen destination.  Music  must  always  flow,  for  that  is  part  of  its  very  essence, 
but  the  creation  of  that  continuity  and  flow— that  long  line—constitutes  the 
be-all  and  end-all  of  every  composer's  existence. 

266         LITERATURE   AND   THE    ARTS 


ALFRED  H.  BARB,  JR.  What  is  modern  painting? 

WHAT  is  modern  painting?  It  is  not  easy  to  answer  this  question  in  writ- 
ing, for  writing  is  clone  with  words  while  paintings  are  made  of 
shapes  and  colors.  The  best  words  can  do  is  to  give  you  some  information, 
point  out  a  few  things  you  might  overlook,  and  if,  to  begin  with,  you  feel 
that  you  don't  like  modern  painting  anyway,  words  may  help  you  to  change 
your  mind.  But  in  the  end  you  must  look  at  these  works  of  art  with  your 
own  eyes  and  heart  and  head.  This  may  not  be  easy,  but  most  people  who 
make  the  effort  find  their  lives  richer,  more  worth  living. 

What  is  modern  painting?  Stop  reading  a  few  minutes,  turn  the  pages 
of  this  selection  and  look  at  the  pictures,  keeping  in  mind  that  these  small 
reproductions  represent  paintings  which  actually  are  very  different  in  size 
and  color.1 

What  is  your  first  impression?  Bewildering  variety?  Yes,  that  is  true. 
The  variety  of  modern  art  reflects  the  complexity  of  modern  life;  though 
this  may  give  us  mental  and  emotional  indigestion,  it  does  offer  each  of  us 
a  wide  range  to  choose  from. 

But  it  is  important  not  to  choose  too  quickly.  The  art  which  makes  a 
quick  appeal  or  is  easy  to  understand  right  away  may  wear  thin  like  a 
catchy  tune  which  you  hear  twice,  whistle  ten  times  and  then  can't  stand 
any  more. 

It  is  just  as  important  not  to  fool  yourself.  Don't  pretend  to  like  what  you 
dislike  or  can't  understand.  Be  honest  with  yourself.  We  don't  all  have  to 
like  the  same  things.  Some  people  have  no  ear  for  music;  a  few  have  no 
eye  for  painting— or  say  they  haven't  because  they  are  timid  or  don't  want 
to  make  the  effort. 

Yet  everybody  who  can  see  has  an  eye  for  pictures.  Most  of  us  see  hun- 
dreds, maybe  thousands,  of  pictures  every  week,  some  of  them  very  good 
ones  too— photographs  in  newspapers  and  magazines,  cartoons,  illustrations 
and  comics,  advertising  in  buses  and  subways:  Joe  Palooka  Happy  Atom 
Scientists  Buy  Sweetie  Pie  Soap  Buck  Rogers  Vote  For  McLevy  Dallam 
Scores  in  Third  Wreck  Near  Trenton  Zowie  The  Pause  That  Refreshes— 
pictures  which  try  to  get  you  to  buy  this  or  that,  tell  you  something  you 
may  forget  tomorrow  or  give  you  a  moment's  lazy  entertainment.  (And  do 
you  remember  the  pictures  on  the  walls  of  your  home?) 

Reprinted  by  permission  from  What  Is  Modern  Painting?  by  Alfred  H.  Barr,  Jr.,  The 
Museum  of  Modern  Art,  1952. 

1  The  book  from  which  this  selection  is  taken  includes  a  number  of  reproductions  of 
modern  painting.  On  pages  273-276  you  will  find  eight  interesting  examples  from  this 
larger  collection. 

WHAT   IS   MODERN   PAINTING?         267 


When  you  look  at  the  pictures  in  this  selection  you  may  be  upset  because 
you  can't  understand  them  all  at  first  glance.  These  paintings  are  not  in- 
tended to  sell  you  anything  or  tell  you  yesterday's  news,  though  they  may 
help  you  to  understand  our  modern  world. 

Some  of  them  may  take  a  good  deal  of  study,  for  although  we  have  seen 
a  million  pictures  in  our  lives  we  may  never  have  learned  to  look  at  paint- 
ing as  an  art.  For  the  art  of  painting,  though  it  has  little  to  do  with  words, 
is  like  a  language  which  you  have  to  learn  to  read.  Some  pictures  are  easy, 
like  a  primer,  and  some  are  hard  with  long  words  and  complex  ideas;  and 
some  are  prose,  others  are  poetry,  and  others  still  are  like  algebra  or  geom- 
etry. But  one  thing  is  easy,  there  are  no  foreign  languages  in  painting  as 
there  are  in  speech;  there  are  only  local  dialects  which  can  be  understood 
internationally,  for  painting  is  a  kind  of  visual  Esperanto.  Therefore  it  has 
a  special  value  in  this  riven  world. 

The  greatest  modern  artists  are  pioneers  just  as  are  modern  scientists,  in- 
ventors and  explorers.  This  makes  modern  art  both  more  difficult  and  often 
more  exciting  than  the  art  we  are  already  used  to.  Galileo,  Columbus,  the 
Wright  brothers  suffered  neglect,  disbelief,  even  ridicule.  Read  the  lives 
of  the  modern  artists  of  seventy  years  ago,  Whistler  or  van  Gogh  for  in- 
stance, and  you  will  keep  an  open  mind  about  the  art  you  may  not  like 
or  understand  today.  Unless  you  can  look  at  art  with  some  spirit  of  adven- 
ture, the  pioneer  artists  of  our  own  day  may  suffer  too.  This  might  be  your 
loss  as  well  as  theirs. 

Perhaps  you  feel  that  these  pictures  have  little  to  do  with  our  everyday 
lives.  This  is  partly  true;  some  of  them  don't,  and  that  is  largely  their  value 
—by  their  poetry  they  have  the  power  to  lift  us  out  of  humdrum  ruts.  But 
others  have  a  lot  to  do  with  ordinary  life:  vanity  and  devotion,  joy  and  sad- 
ness, the  beauty  of  landscape,  animals  and  people,  or  even  the  appearance 
of  our  houses  and  our  kitchen  floors.  And  still  others  have  to  do  with  the 
crucial  problems  of  our  civilization:  war,  the  character  of  democracy  and 
tyranny,  the  effects  of  industrialization,  the  exploration  of  the  subconscious 
mind,  the  survival  of  religion,  the  liberty  and  restraint  of  the  individual. 

The  artist  is  a  human  being  like  the  rest  of  us.  He  cannot  solve  these 
problems  except  as  one  of  us;  but  through  his  art  he  can  help  us  see  and 
understand  them,  for  artists  are  the  sensitive  antennae  of  society. 

Beyond  these  comparatively  practical  matters  art  has  another  more  im- 
portant function:  the  work  of  art  is  a  symbol,  a  visible  symbol  of  the  hu- 
man spirit  in  its  search  for  truth,  for  freedom  and  for  perfection. 

Contrasts:  two  landscapes 

It  is  good  to  rest  the  eye  on  Dean  Fausett's  peaceful  Vermont  valley. 
The  style  of  Derby  View  (p.  274),  the  way  it  is  painted,  is  as  relaxed  and 

268         LITERATURE   AND   THE    ARTS 


free  from  strain  as  the  subject.  The  artist  has  spread  before  you  the  pano- 
rama of  green  hills  with  broad,  easy  brush  strokes.  The  paint  itself  has  a 
fresh  beauty  of  color  and  texture  which  unobtrusively  enhances  the  pictured 
beauty  of  the  landscape. 

Fausett,  though  he  is  a  young  American,  paints  his  summer  scene  in  a 
manner  handed  down  from  English  artists  of  over  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Stuart  Davis  is  older  than  Fausett  but  he  works  in  a  more  "modern"  style. 
Davis'  Summer  Landscape  (p.  273)  does  not  depend  for  its  chief  interest 
upon  what  the  artist  saw  in  nature  but  upon  how  he  has  changed  what 
he  saw. 

The  photograph,  although  it  was  taken  in  winter  with  no  leaves  on  the 
trees,  shows  the  scene  on  which  Davis  based  his  picture.  Comparing  it 
with  the  painting  we  can  see  how  the  artist  has  transformed  a  prosaic, 
commonplace  view  into  a  lively,  decorative  composition. 

How  did  he  go  about  it?  First  he  drew  the  forms  in  simple  outlines,  leav- 
ing out  unimportant  or  confusing  details  and  reducing  board  fences,  clouds 
and  ripples  to  a  lively  linear  shorthand.  By  omitting  all  shadows  he  lets 
you  see  these  essential  shapes  and  patterns  more  clearly.  He  moves  houses 
around  and  even  keeps  half  the  house  to  the  left  of  the  telephone  pole 
while  throwing  the  other  half  away— probably  without  your  noticing  it. 
But  with  all  these  omissions  and  simplifications  and  rearrangements  Davis 
has  given  a  clearer  and  more  complete  idea  of  the  village  than  does  the 
snapshot.  And  when  you  see  the  original  painting  you  may  agree  that  he 
has  not  only  created  a  crisp,  vivacious,  gayly  colored  design  but  has  even 
caught  the  lighthearted  spirit  of  a  summer  day. 

Perhaps  when  you  compare  Fausett's  Derby  View  and  Davis'  Summer 
Landscape  you  will  find  it  hard  to  choose  between  them,  but  it  is  not  hard 
to  decide  which  shows  the  more  imagination,  the  greater  will  to  select, 
control,  arrange  and  organize. 

Contrasts:  two  war  pictures 

To  help  us  not  to  forget  World  War  II,  its  glory  and  its  agony,  we  have 
these  two  paintings,  one  of  them  by  a  young  English  artist,  the  other  by  a 
famous  Mexican.  Both  were  painted  in  1940  but  they  are  so  unlike  that  they 
seem  done  in  different  centuries,  even  in  different  worlds. 

In  the  foreground  of  Richard  Eurich's  Withdrawal  from  Dunkirk  (p.  274) 
British  troops,  thick  as  ants,  are  ferried  out  through  the  surf  to  embark  on 
small  steamers  and  fishing  craft.  At  the  right  a  destroyer  swings  away  to- 
ward England;  and  in  the  distance  beyond  the  lighthouse  rises  a  vast,  black 
umbrella  of  smoke.  The  painter  has  recorded  all  this  patiently,  with  exact 
detail  and  British  reticence.  His  picture  is  as  calm  as  the  blue  sky  above 
the  scene,  clearer  than  a  photograph  and  almost  as  impersonal.  From  the 

WHAT   IS    MODERN    PAINTING?         269 


way  he  paints  you  would  not  guess  that  his  subject  was  one  of  the  crucial 
and  overwhelmingly  dramatic  moments  of  the  entire  War. 

Orozco's  mural  Dive  Bomber  and  Tank  (p.  275)  was  painted  two  months 
after  Dunkirk.  His  mind,  like  ours,  was  full  of  the  shock  of  the  mechanical 
warfare  which  had  just  crushed  western  Europe.  But  instead  of  picturing 
an  actual  incident  with  technically  accurate  details  he  makes  us  feel  the  es- 
sential horror  of  modern  war— the  human  being  mangled  in  the  crunch  and 
grind  of  grappling  monsters  "that  tear  each  other  in  their  slime."  We  can 
see  suggestions  of  the  bomber's  tail  and  wings,  of  tank  treads  and  armor 
plate  and  human  legs  dangling  from  the  jaws  of  shattered  wreckage.  Be- 
neath emerge  three  great  sightless  masks  weighted  with  chains  which  hang 
from  pierced  lips  or  eyes.  The  ancient  symbols  of  dramatic  agony  and  doom 
are  fused  with  the  shapes  of  modern  destruction  to  give  the  scene  a  sense 
of  timeless  human  tragedy. 

As  you  can  see,  Orozco  makes  full  use  of  the  modern  artist's  freedom:  he 
combines  real  and  unreal  objects,  employs  the  cubist  technique  of  break- 
ing up  nature  into  half-abstract,  angular  planes  and  uses  emphatic,  emo- 
tional, expressionist  drawing. 

Eurich's  technique  was  developed  five  hundred  years  ago.  Orozco's  be- 
longs to  the  twentieth  century.  Stop  a  moment  and  look  at  them  both  again. 
Subject  matter  aside,  which  style,  which  way  of  painting  means  more  to 
you?  Or  do  both  have  value? 

Contrasts:  two  portraits 

In  1877  John  Ruskin,  the  renowned  art  critic,  visited  an  exhibition  where 
he  saw  several  paintings  by  Whistler,  who  had  for  years  been  the  storm 
center  of  art  in  London.  Ruskin  was  outraged,  called  Whistler  impudent 
and  accused  him  of  "flinging  a  pot  of  paint  in  the  public's  face."  Whistler 
brought  suit  for  libel  but  the  trial  was  a  farce;  the  public  and  the  court 
sided  with  Ruskin,  and  Whistler,  although  he  won  half  a  cent  damages,  was 
forced  into  bankruptcy  by  legal  expenses. 

It  was  really  the  freedom  of  the  artist  which  had  been  on  trial.  Ruskin 
and  the  public  insisted  that  painting  should  be  an  exact,  detailed,  realistic 
picture  of  some  object,  scene  or  event.  Whistler  answered— but  let  him  use 
his  own  words: 

"The  vast  majority  of  folk  cannot  and  will  not  consider  a  picture  as  a 
picture,  apart  from  any  story  which  it  may  be  supposed  to  tell  ...  As 
music  is  the  poetry  of  sound,  so  is  painting  the  poetry  of  sight,  and  the  sub- 
ject matter  has  nothing  to  do  with  harmony  of  sound  or  of  color. 

"Take  the  picture  of  my  mother,  exhibited  at  the  Royal  Academy  as  an 

270         LITERATURE  AND  THE   ARTS 


Arrangement  in  Grey  and  Black  (p.  276).  Now  that  is  what  it  is.  To  me  it 
is  interesting  as  a  picture  of  my  mother;  but  what  can  or  ought  the  public  to 
care  about  the  identity  of  the  portrait?" 

Whistler's  Mother  did  not  actually  figure  in  the  trial.  It  was  painted  six 
years  before  and,  though  this  is  hard  to  believe  now,  it  had  been  rejected 
when  Whistler  sent  it  to  the  annual  national  exhibition  at  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy. Only  after  one  of  the  more  open-minded  members  threatened  to  resign 
was  it  finally  exhibited.  For  the  next  twenty  years  it  remained  unsold,  even 
traveling  to  America,  where  no  one  offered  to  buy  it.  Ultimately  the  French 
Government  acquired  it  for  eight  hundred  dollars.  Forty  years  later,  in 
1932,  when  it  was  again  brought  to  America  for  exhibition  by  the  Museum 
of  Modern  Art,  it  was  insured  for  $500,000. 

Looking  back  on  the  astonishing  story  of  Whistler,  we  can  see  that  the 
public  was  blind  and  intolerant.  To  them  the  Mother  seemed  dull  in  color, 
unpleasantly  flat  and  simplified  in  style.  And  they  resented  the  artist's  call- 
ing it  an  "arrangement."  But  Whistler  was  mistaken  too  in  asking  the  public 
to  ignore  the  human  interest  of  his  painting,  the  quality  which  has  made  it 
one  of  the  world's  most  popular  pictures. 

Whistler's  ideas  were  not  only  ahead  of  his  time— they  were  actually  ahead 
of  his  own  art.  He  wanted  people  to  look  at  his  paintings  as  "harmonies"  or 
"arrangements"  without  paying  attention  to  the  subject  matter.  Therefore 
if  he  had  followed  his  principles  to  a  logical  conclusion  he  might  have  made 
his  intention  clearer  by  leaving  out  the  figure  of  his  mother  entirely  from 
his  Arrangement  in  Grey  and  Black— since  he  had  already  asked  us  to  ignore 
her  emotionally.  We  would  then  have  had  left  a  composition  of  rectangles, 
as  in  the  diagram  below.  And  this  diagram  is  not  very  different  from  the 
abstract  Composition  in  White,  Black  and  Red  (p.  276)  painted  by  Mon- 
drian  in  1936,  many  years  after  Whistler  died.  ( Of  course  Whistler  would 


Diagram  showing  the  main  lines  of 
Whistler's  composition  (p.  276)  with  the 
figure  omitted.  Compare  the  Mondrian, 
page  276, 


WHAT  IS  MOUEBN   PAINTING?        271 


have  pointed  out  quite  justly  that  by  omitting  his  mother's  silhouette  his 
design  had  been  spoiled—so  let  us  put  her  back  in  again  so  that  we  can  dis- 
tinguish her  from  Dove's  Grandmother  (p.  276).) 

If  you  like  you  can  also  look  at  Arthur  Dove's  composition  called  Grand- 
mother as  an  arrangement  of  rectangles  and  irregular  forms,  an  arrangement 
made  all  the  more  interesting  to  the  eye  because  the  forms  are  not  painted 
but  are  actual  textures  formed  by  cloth,  wood,  paper.  But  if  you  do  look 
at  it  simply  as  an  arrangement  you  will  miss  half  the  point  of  the  picture, 
for  the  artist  in  making  his  composition  has  taken  a  page  from  an  old  Bible 
concordance,  some  pressed  ferns  and  flowers,  a  piece  of  faded  needlepoint 
embroidery  and  a  row  of  weathered  shingles  turned  silvery  grey  with  age; 
these  he  has  combined  into  a  visual  poem,  each  element,  each  metaphor  of 
which  suggests  some  aspect  of  the  idea  of  grandmother:  her  age,  her  fra- 
gility, her  silvery  hair,  her  patience,  her  piety. 

So  we  find  Whistler  calling  his  portrait  of  his  mother  an  Arrangement  in 
Grey  and  Black  and,  fifty  years  later,  Dove  naming  his  arrangement  of 
assorted  textures  and  shapes  Grandmother.  During  those  fifty  years  many 
things  happened  in  the  history  of  art  which  help  to  explain  how  this  paradox 
came  about.  But  the  important  matter  here  and  now  is  not  history  but  the 
relation  between  yourself  and  these  two  pictures,  no  matter  whether  you 
prefer  to  look  at  them  as  compositions  or  portraits  of  old  ladies  or  both.  And 
the  same  is  true  of  the  two  landscapes  and  the  two  battle  pictures.  Each 
pair  has  shown  you  two  very  different  ways  of  treating  a  similar  subject. 
Actually  there  are  a  hundred  ways,  a  thousand— as  many  as  there  are  pic- 
tures. Have  you  open  eyes  and  a  free  mind? 


272         LITERATURE  AND  THE   ARTS 


DAVIS:  Summer  Landscape.    1930.    Oil,  29  x  42".    Museum  of  Modern  Art.    Stuart  Davis.  American, 
born    1894. 


Photograph  of  the  original  scene  upon  which  Davis  based  his  painting  Summer  Landscape. 


273 


FAUSETT:  Derfey  Vit-u;.    1939.    Oil  24V8  x  40".    Museum  of  Modern  Art.    Dean  Fausett,  American 
born  1913. 


.  r  i..  -. 

Richard   Enrich    (Yunk),   British,    born    1903. 


uwned    by    the    wntish    Government. 


274 


•a 


'o 

O4 


W    WJ 

2 


f-«  a 
•** 


275 


WHISTLER:  Airflnjrrwnf  tn  Grey  and 
Black  (Portrait  of  the  Artist's  Mother). 
c.  1871.  Oil,  56  x  64".  Tin-  Louvre 
Museum,  Paris.  Janice  Abbott  McXeill 
Whistler,  American,  horn  Lowell,  Mass., 
1834;  died  in  London,  1903. 


MONDRIAN:  Composition  in  White, 
Block  and  Red.  1936.  Oil,  40'4  x  41". 
Museum  of  Modern  Art,  gift  of  the  Ad- 
visory Committee.  Piet  Mondrian,  horn 
The  Netherlands,  1872;  worked  in  Pans; 
died  New  York,  1944. 


DOVE:  Grandmother.  1925.  Shingles, 
needlepoint,  printed  paper,  pressed  flow- 
ers, 20  x  21!4".  Museum  of  Modern 
Art,  gift  of  Philip  L.  Goodwin.  Arthur 
G.  Dove,  American,  1880  1946. 


276 


RELIGION  AND   ETHICS 


FROM  time  immemorial,  one  of  the 
unceasing  quests  of  man  has  been 
ior  a  satisfactory  religion,  a  satisfactory 
pathway  to  virtue.  The  autobiograph- 
ical passage  by  the  essayist  Agnes  Rep- 
plier  which  opens  this  section  tells  a 
touching  story  of  a  little  girl's  first  seri- 
ous encounter  with  ethical  problems. 
The  four  selections  which  follow  offer 
a  series  of  contrasting  answers,  given 
by  men  with  different  attitudes,  to 
the  questions,  "What  should  a  man  be- 
lieve?" and  "How  is  a  man  to  live?" 


They  are  arranged  chronologically.  The 
first  sets  forth  the  doctrines  of  the 
founder  of  the  Christian  religion.  The 
second  states  the  beliefs  of  an  American 
mystic,  Henry  David  Thoreau,  who 
wrote  a  literary  and  philosophical  mas- 
terpiece, the  book  Walden,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  nineteenth  century.  The 
third  and  fourth  give  two  twentieth- 
century  viewpoints,  one  by  Albert  Ein- 
stein, the  famous  scientist,  and  the 
other  by  Buell  G.  Gallagher,  president 
of  the  City  College  of  New  York. 


AGNES    REPPLIER 


Sin 

A  personal  discovery 


I  WAS  TWELVE  YEARS  OLD,  and  very  happy  in  my  convent  school.  I  did  not 
particularly  mind  studying  my  lessons,  and  I  sometimes  persuaded  the 
less  experienced  nuns  to  accept  a  retentive  memory  as  a  substitute  for  intelli- 
gent understanding,  with  which  it  has  nothing  to  do.  I  "got  along"  with  other 
children,  and  I  enjoyed  my  friends;  and  of  such  simple  things  is  the  life  of 
a  child  composed. 

Then  came  a  disturbing  letter  from  my  mother,  a  letter  which  threatened 
the  heart  of  my  content.  It  was  sensible  and  reasonable,  and  it  said  very 
plainly  and  very  kindly  that  I  had  better  not  make  an  especial  friend  of  Lilly 
Milton;  "not  an  exclusive  friend,"  wrote  my  mother,  "not  one  whom  you 
would  expect  to  see  intimately  after  you  leave  school." 

I  knew  what  all  that  meant.  I  was  as  innocent  as  a  kitten;  but  divorces 
were  not  common  in  those  conservative  years,  and  Mrs.  Milton  had  as  many 
to  her  credit  as  if  she  were  living— a  highly  esteemed  and  popular  lady- 
to-day.  I  regretted  my  mother's  tendency  to  confuse  issues  with  unimpor- 

From  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  June  1938.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Atlantic 
Monthly  and  Agnes  Repplier. 


SIN 


277 


tant  details  (a  mistake  which  grown-up  people  often  made),  and  I  felt  sure 
that  if  she  knew  Lilly— who  was  also  as  innocent  as  a  kitten,  and  was  blessed 
with  the  sweetest  temper  that  God  ever  gave  a  little  girl— she  would  be 
delighted  that  I  had  such  an  excellent  friend.  So  I  went  on  happily  enough 
until  ten  days  later,  when  Madame  Rayburn,  a  nun  for  whom  I  cherished 
a  very  warm  affection,  was  talking  to  me  upon  a  familiar  theme— the  diverse 
ways  in  which  I  might  improve  my  classwork  and  my  general  behavior.  The 
subject  did  not  interest  me  deeply,— repetition  had  staled  its  vivacity,— until 
my  companion  said  the  one  thing  that  had  plainly  been  uppermost  in  her 
mind:  "And  Agnes,  how  did  you  come  to  tell  Lilly  Milton  that  your  mother 
did  not  want  you  to  go  with  her?  I  never  thought  you  could  have  been  so 
deliberately  unkind." 

This  brought  me  to  my  feet  with  a  bound.  "Tell  Lilly!"  I  cried.  "You 
could  not  have  believed  such  a  thing.  It  was  Madame  Bouron  who  told  her." 

A  silence  followed  this  revelation.  The  convent  discipline  was  as  strict  for 
the  nuns  as  for  the  pupils,  and  it  was  not  their  custom  to  criticize  their  supe- 
riors. Madame  Bouron  was  mistress  general,  ranking  next  to  the  august  head, 
and  of  infinitely  more  importance  to  us.  She  was  a  cold,  severe,  sardonic 
woman,  and  the  general  dislike  felt  for  her  had  shaped  itself  into  a  cult. 
I  had  accepted  this  cult  in  simple  good  faith,  having  no  personal  grudge 
until  she  did  this  dreadful  thing;  and  I  may  add  that  it  was  the  eminently 
unwise  custom  of  reading  all  the  letters  written  to  or  by  the  pupils  which 
stood  responsible  for  the  trouble.  The  order  of  nuns  was  a  French  one,  and 
the  habit  of  surveillance,  which  did  not  seem  amiss  in  France,  was  ill- 
adapted  to  America.  I  had  never  before  wasted  a  thought  upon  it.  My 
weekly  home  letter  and  the  less  frequent  but  more  communicative  epistles 
from  my  mother  might  have  been  read  in  the  market  place  for  all  I  cared, 
until  this  miserable  episode  proved  that  a  bad  usage  may  be  trusted  to  pro- 
duce, sooner  or  later,  bad  results. 

It  was  with  visible  reluctance  that  Madame  Rayburn  said  after  a  long 
pause:  "That  alters  the  case.  If  Madame  Bouron  told  Lilly,  she  must  have 
had  some  good  reason  for  doing  so." 

"There  was  no  good  reason,"  I  protested.  "There  couldn't  have  been.  But 
it  doesn't  matter.  I  told  Lilly  it  wasn't  so,  and  she  believed  me." 

Madame  Rayburn  stared  at  me  aghast.  "You  told  Lilly  it  was  not  so?" 
she  repeated. 

I  nodded.  "I  could  not  find  out  for  two  days  what  was  the  matter,"  I 
explained;  "but  I  got  it  out  of  her  at  last,  and  I  told  her  that  my  mother  had 
never  written  a  line  to  me  about  her.  And  she  believed  me." 

"But  my  dear  child,"  said  the  nun,  "you  have  told  a  very  grievous  lie. 

278         RELIGION    AND   ETHICS. 


What  is  more,  you  have  borne  false  witness  against  your  neighbor.  When 
you  said  to  Lilly  that  your  mother  had  not  written  that  letter,  you  made  her 
believe  that  Madame  Bouron  had  lied  to  her." 

"She  didn't  mind  believing  that,"  I  observed  cheerfully,  "and  there  was 
nothing  else  that  I  could  say  to  make  her  feel  all  right." 

"But  a  lie  is  a  lie,"  protested  the  nun.  "You  will  have  to  tell  Lilly  the 
truth." 

I  said  nothing,  but  my  silence  was  not  the  silence  of  acquiescence.  Ma- 
dame Rayburn  must  have  recognized  this  fact,  for  she  took  another  line  of 
attack.  When  she  spoke  next,  it  was  in  a  low  voice  and  very  earnestly. 
"Listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "Friday  is  the  first  of  May.  You  are  going  to  con- 
fession on  Thursday.  You  will  tell  Father  O'Harra  the  whole  story  just  as 
you  have  told  it  to  me,  and  whatever  he  bids  you  do,  you  must  do  it.  Remem- 
ber that  if  you  go  to  confession  and  do  not  tell  this  you  will  commit  the  very 
great  sin  of  sacrilege;  and  if  you  do  not  obey  your  confessor  you  will  commit 
the  sin  of  open  disobedience  to  the  Church." 

I  was  more  than  a  little  frightened.  It  seemed  to  me  that  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  I  was  confronted  by  grown-up  iniquities  to  which  I  had  been  a 
stranger.  The  thought  sobered  me  for  two  days.  On  the  third  I  went  to 
confession,  and  when  I  had  finished  with  my  customary  offenses—which,  as 
they  seldom  varied,  were  probably  as  familiar  to  the  priest  as  they  were  to 
me—I  told  my  serious  tale.  The  silence  with  which  it  was  received  bore 
witness  to  its  seriousness.  No  question  was  asked  me;  I  had  been  too  explicit 
to  render  questions  needful.  But  after  two  minutes  ( which  seemed  like  two 
hours)  of  thinking  my  confessor  said:  "A  lie  is  a  lie.  It  must  be  retracted. 
To-morrow  you  will  do  one  of  two  things.  You  will  tell  your  friend  the 
truth,  or  you  will  tell  Madame  Bouron  the  whole  story  just  as  you  told  it  to 
me.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  I  said  in  a  faint  little  voice,  no  louder  than  a  sigh. 

"And  you  will  do  as  I  bid  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  breathed  again. 

"Then  I  will  give  you  absolution,  and  you  may  go  to  Communion.  But 
remember,  no  later  than  to-morrow.  Believe  me,  it  will  get  no  easier  by 
delay." 

Of  that  I  felt  tolerably  sure,  and  it  was  with  the  courage  of  desperation 
that  I  knocked  the  next  morning  at  the  door  of  Madame  Bouron's  office.  She 
gave  me  a  glance  of  wonderment  ( I  had  never  before  paid  her  a  voluntary 
call),  and  without  pause  or  preamble  I  told  my  tale,  told  it  with  such  bald 
uncompromising  verity  that  it  sounded  worse  than  ever.  She  listened  at  first 
in  amazement,  then  in  anger.  "So  Lilly  thinks  I  lied  to  her,"  she  said  at  last. 

SIN     279 


"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"And  suppose  I  send  for  her  now  and  undeceive  her." 

"You  can't  do  that,"  I  said.  "I  should  tell  her  again  my  mother  did  not 
write  the  letter,  and  she  would  believe  me." 

"If  you  told  another  such  lie,  you  would  be  sent  from  the  school." 

"If  I  were  sent  home,  Lilly  would  believe  me.  She  would  believe  me  all 
the  more." 

The  anger  died  out  of  Madame  Bouron's  eyes,  and  a  look  of  bewilderment 
came  into  them.  I  am  disposed  to  think  that  despite  her  wide  experience  as 
nun  and  teacher,  she  had  never  before  encountered  an  id6e  fixe,  and  found 
out  that  the  pyramids  are  flexible  compared  to  it.  "You  know,"  she  said  un- 
certainly, "that  sooner  or  later  you  will  have  to  do  as  your  mother  desires." 

I  made  no  answer.  The  "sooner  or  later"  did  not  interest  me  at  all.  I  was 
living  now. 

There  was  another  long  pause.  When  Madame  Bouron  spoke  again  it  was 
in  a  grave  and  low  voice.  "I  wish  I  had  said  nothing  about  your  mother's 
letter,"  she  said.  "I  thought  I  could  settle  matters  quickly  that  way,  but  I  was 
mistaken,  and  I  must  take  the  consequences  of  my  error.  You  may  go  now. 
I  will  not  speak  to  Lilly,  or  to  anyone  else  about  this  affair." 

I  did  not  go.  I  sat  stunned,  and  asking  myself  if  she  knew  all  that  her 
silence  would  imply.  Children  seldom  give  adults  much  credit  for  intelli- 
gence. "But,"  I  began  feebly— 

"But  me  no  buts,"  she  interrupted,  rising  to  her  feet.  "I  know  what  you  are 
going  to  say;  but  I  have  not  been  the  head  of  a  school  for  years  without  bear- 
ing more  than  one  injustice." 

Now  when  I  heard  these  words  sadly  spoken  something  broke  up  inside 
of  me.  It  did  not  break  gently,  like  the  dissolving  of  a  cloud;  it  broke  like 
the  bursting  of  a  dam.  Sobs  shook  my  lean  little  body  as  though  they  would 
have  torn  it  apart.  Tears  blinded  me.  With  difficulty  I  gasped  out  three 
words.  "You  are  good,"  I  said. 

Madame  Bouron  propelled  me  gently  to  the  door,  which  I  could  not  see 
because  of  my  tears.  "I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  you,"  she  answered, 
"but  I  cannot.  You  have  been  very  bad.  You  have  been  false  to  your  mother, 
to  whom  you  owe  respect  and  obedience;  you  have  been  false  to  me;  and 
you  have  been  false  to  God.  But  you  have  been  true  to  your  friend." 

She  put  me  out  of  the  door,  and  I  stood  in  the  corridor  facing  the  clock. 
I  was  still  shaken  by  sobs,  but  my  heart  was  light  as  a  bird.  And,  believe  it 
or  not,  the  supreme  reason  for  my  happiness  was— not  that  my  difficulties 
were  over,  though  I  was  glad  of  that;  and  not  that  Lilly  was  safe  from  hurt, 
though  I  was  glad  of  that;  but  that  Madame  Bouron,  whom  I  had  thought 
bad,  had  proved  herself  to  be,  according  to  the  standards  of  childhood,  as 
good  as  gold.  My  joy  was  like  the  joy  of  the  blessed  saints  in  Paradise. 

280        RELIGION   AND  ETHICS 


THE    GOSPEL    ACCORDING    TO    MATTHEW 

The  Sermon  on  the  Mount 

AND  SEEING  THE  MULTITUDES,  he  went  up  into  a  mountain:  and  when  he 
was  set,  his  disciples  came  unto  him.  And  he  opened  his  mouth,  and 
taught  them,  saying:  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit:  for  theirs  is  the  kingdom 
of  heaven. 

Blessed  are  they  that  mourn:  for  they  shall  be  comforted. 

Blessed  are  the  meek:  for  they  shall  inherit  the  earth. 

Blessed  are  they  which  do  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness:  for  they 
shall  be  filled. 

Blessed  are  the  merciful:  for  they  shall  obtain  mercy. 

Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart:  for  they  shall  see  God. 

Blessed  are  the  peacemakers:  for  they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  God. 

Blessed  are  they  which  are  persecuted  for  righteousness*  sake:  for  theirs 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Blessed  are  ye,  when  men  shall  revile  you,  and  persecute  you,  and  shall 
say  all  manner  of  evil  against  you  falsely,  for  my  sake. 

Rejoice  and  be  exceeding  glad:  for  great  is  your  reward  in  heaven:  for  so 
persecuted  they  the  prophets  which  were  before  you. 

Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  earth:  but  if  the  salt  have  lost  his  savour,  wherewith 
shall  it  be  salted?  it  is  thenceforth  good  for  nothing,  but  to  be  cast  out,  and 
to  be  trodden  under  foot  of  men. 

Ye  are  the  light  of  the  world.  A  city  that  is  set  on  an  hill  cannot  be  hid. 
Neither  do  men  light  a  candle,  and  put  it  under  a  bushel,  but  on  a  candle- 
stick; and  it  giveth  light  unto  all  that  are  in  the  house.  Let  your  light  so 
shine  before  men,  that  they  may  see  your  good  works,  and  glorify  your 
Father  which  is  in  heaven. 

Think  not  that  I  am  come  to  destroy  the  law,  or  the  prophets:  I  am  not 
come  to  destroy,  but  to  fulfil.  For  verily  I  say  unto  you,  Till  heaven  and  earth 
pass,  one  jot  or  one  tittle  shall  in  no  wise  pass  from  the  law,  till  all  be  fulfilled. 
Whosoever  therefore  shall  break  one  of  these  least  commandments,  and  shall 
teach  men  so,  he  shall  be  called  the  least  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven:  but  who- 
soever shall  do  and  teach  them,  the  same  shall  be  called  great  in  the  kingdom 
of  heaven.  For  I  say  unto  you,  That  except  your  righteousness  shall  exceed 
the  righteousness  of  the  scribes  and  Pharisees,  ye  shall  in  no  case  enter  into 
the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Ye  have  heard  that  it  was  said  by  them  of  old  time,  Thou  shalt  not  kill; 
and  whosoever  shall  kill  shall  be  in  danger  of  the  judgment.  But  I  say  unto 
you,  That  whosoever  is  angry  with  his  brother  without  a  cause  shall  be  in 
danger  of  the  judgment:  and  whosoever  shall  say  to  his  brother,  Raca,  shall 
be  in  danger  of  the  council:  but  whosoever  shall  say,  Thou  fool,  shall  be  in 

THE  SERMON  ON  THE  MOUNT        281 


danger  of  hell  fire.  Therefore  if  thou  bring  thy  gift  to  the  altar,  and  there 
rememberest  that  thy  brother  hath  ought  against  thee;  leave  there  thy  gift 
before  the  altar,  and  go  thy  way;  first  be  reconciled  to  thy  brother,  and  then 
come  and  offer  thy  gift.  Agree  with  thine  adversary  quickly,  whiles  thou  art 
in  the  way  with  him;  lest  at  any  time  the  adversary  deliver  thee  to  the  judge, 
and  the  judge  deliver  thee  to  the  officer,  and  thou  be  cast  into  prison.  Verily 
I  say  unto  thee,  Thou  shalt  by  no  means  come  out  thence,  till  thou  hast  paid 
the  uttermost  farthing. 

Ye  have  heard  that  it  was  said  by  them  of  old  time,  Thou  shalt  not  commit 
adultery.  But  I  say  unto  you,  That  whosoever  looketh  on  a  woman  to  lust 
after  her  hath  committed  adultery  with  her  already  in  his  heart. 

And  if  thy  right  eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out,  and  cast  it  from  thee:  for  it 
is  profitable  for  thee  that  one  of  thy  members  should  perish,  and  not  that 
thy  whole  body  should  be  cast  into  hell.  And  if  thy  right  hand  offend  thee, 
cut  it  off,  and  cast  it  from  thee:  for  it  is  profitable  for  thee  that  one  of  thy 
members  should  perish,  and  not  that  thy  whole  body  should  be  cast  into  hell. 

It  hath  been  said,  Whosoever  shall  put  away  his  wife,  let  him  give  her  a 
writing  of  divorcement,  but  I  say  unto  you,  That  whosoever  shall  put  away 
his  wife,  saving  for  the  cause  of  fornication,  causeth  her  to  commit  adultery: 
and  whosoever  shall  marry  her  that  is  divorced  comrnitteth  adultery. 

Again,  ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been  said  by  them  of  old  time,  Thou 
shalt  not  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the  Lord  thine  oaths,  but 
I  say  unto  you,  Swear  not  at  all;  neither  by  heaven;  for  it  is  God's  throne; 
nor  by  the  earth;  for  it  his  his  footstool:  neither  by  Jerusalem;  for  it  is  the 
city  of  the  great  King.  Neither  shalt  thou  swear  by  thy  head,  because  thou 
canst  not  make  one  hair  white  or  black.  But  let  your  communication  be, 
Yea,  yea;  Nay,  nay:  for  whatsoever  is  more  than  these  cometh  of  evil. 

Ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been  said,  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for 
a  tooth:  but  I  say  unto  you,  That  ye  resist  not  evil:  but  whosoever  shall  smite 
thee  on  thy  right  cheek,  turn  to  him  the  other  also.  And  if  any  man  will  sue 
thee  at  the  law,  and  take  away  thy  coat,  let  him  have  thy  cloke  also.  And 
whosoever  shall  compel  thee  to  go  a  mile,  go  with  him  twain.  Give  to  him 
that  asketh  thee,  and  from  him  that  would  borrow  of  thee  turn  not  thou  away. 

Ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been  said,  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour,  and 
hate  thine  enemy.  But  I  say  unto  you,  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that 
curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and  pray  for  them  which  despite- 
fully  use  you,  and  persecute  you  that  ye  may  be  the  children  of  your  Father 
which  is  in  heaven:  for  he  maketh  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good, 
and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust.  For  if  ye  love  them  which 
love  you,  what  reward  have  ye?  do  not  even  the  publicans  the  same?  And 
if  ye  salute  your  brethren  only,  what  do  ye  more  than  others?  do  not  even  the 
publicans  so? 

282        RELIGION   AND   ETHICS 


Be  ye  therefore  perfect,  even  as  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  is  perfect. 

Take  heed  that  ye  do  not  your  alms  before  men,  to  be  seen  of  them:  other- 
wise ye  have  no  reward  of  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven.  Therefore  when 
thou  doest  thine  alms,  do  not  sound  a  trumpet  before  thee,  as  the  hypocrites 
do  in  the  synagogues  and  in  the  streets,  that  they  may  have  the  glory  of  men. 
Verily  I  say  unto  you,  they  have  their  reward. 

But  when  thou  doest  alms,  let  not  thy  left  hand  know  what  thy  right  hand 
doeth  that  thine  alms  may  be  in  secret:  and  thy  Father  which  seeth  in  secret 
himself  shall  reward  thee  openly. 

And  when  thou  prayest,  thou  shalt  not  be  as  the  hypocrites  are:  for  they 
love  to  pray  standing  in  the  synagogues  and  in  the  corners  of  the  streets,  that 
they  may  be  seen  of  men.  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  They  have  their  reward. 
But  thou,  when  thou  prayest,  enter  into  thy  closet,  and  when  thou  hast 
shut  thy  door,  pray  to  thy  Father  which  is  in  secret;  and  thy  Father  which 
seeth  in  secret  shall  reward  thee  openly.  But  when  ye  pray,  use  not  vain 
repetitions,  as  the  heathen  do:  for  they  think  that  they  shall  be  heard  for 
their  much  speaking.  Be  not  ye  therefore  like  unto  them:  for  your  Father 
knoweth  what  things  ye  have  need  of,  before  ye  ask  him. 

After  this  manner  therefore  pray  ye:  Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven, 
Hallowed  be  thy  name.  Thy  kingdom  come.  Thy  will  be  done  in  earth,  as 
it  is  in  heaven.  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread.  And  forgive  us  our  debts, 
as  we  forgive  our  debtors.  And  lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but  deliver  us 
from  evil:  For  thine  is  the  kingdom,  and  the  power,  and  the  glory,  for 
ever.  Amen. 

For  if  ye  forgive  men  their  trespasses,  your  heavenly  Father  will  also  for- 
give you.  But  if  ye  forgive  not  men  their  trespasses,  neither  will  your  Father 
forgive  your  trespasses. 

Moreover  when  ye  fast,  be  not,  as  the  hypocrites,  of  a  sad  countenance: 
for  they  disfigure  their  faces,  that  they  may  appear  unto  men  to  fast.  Verily 
I  say  unto  you,  They  have  their  reward.  But  thou,  when  thou  fastest,  anoint 
thine  head,  and  wash  thy  face;  that  thou  appear  not  unto  men  to  fast,  but 
unto  thy  Father  which  is  in  secret:  and  thy  Father,  which  seeth  in  secret 
shall  reward  thee  openly. 

Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth,  where  moth  and  rust  doth 
corrupt,  and  where  thieves  break  through  and  steal.  But  lay  up  for  your- 
selves treasures  in  heaven,  where  neither  moth  nor  rust  doth  corrupt,  and 
where  thieves  do  not  break  through  nor  steal.  For  where  your  treasure  is, 
there  will  your  heart  be  also.  The  light  of  the  body  is  the  eye:  if  therefore 
thine  eye  be  single,  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full  of  light.  But  if  thine  eye 
be  evil,  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full  of  darkness.  If  therefore  the  light  that 
is  in  thee  be  darkness,  how  great  is  that  darkness! 

No  man  can  serve  two  masters:  for  either  he  will  hate  the  one,  and  love 

THE  SERMON   ON   THE   MOUNT        283 


the  other;  or  else  he  will  hold  to  the  one,  and  despise  the  other.  Ye  cannot 
serve  God  and  mammon.  Therefore  I  say  unto  you,  Take  no  thought  for 
your  life,  what  ye  shall  eat,  or  what  ye  shall  drink;  nor  yet  for  your  body, 
what  ye  shall  put  on.  Is  not  the  life  more  than  meat,  and  the  body  than 
raiment? 

Behold  the  fowls  of  the  air:  for  they  sow  not,  neither  do  they  reap,  nor 
gather  into  barns;  yet  your  heavenly  Father  feedeth  them.  Are  ye  not  much 
better  than  they?  Which  of  you  by  taking  thought  can  add  one  cubit  unto 
his  stature? 

And  why  take  ye  thought  for  raiment?  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
how  they  grow;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin:  And  yet  I  say  unto  you, 
That  even  Solomon  in  all  his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these. 

Wherefore,  if  God  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  which  today  is,  and 
tomorrow  is  cast  into  the  oven,  shall  he  not  much  more  clothe  you,  O  ye  of 
little  faith? 

Therefore  take  no  thought,  saying,  What  shall  we  eat?  or,  What  shall  we 
drink?  or,  Wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed? 

For  after  all  these  things  do  the  Gentiles  seek.  For  your  heavenly  Father 
knoweth  that  ye  have  need  of  all  these  things. 

But  seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  his  righteousness;  and  all  these 
things  shall  be  added  unto  you. 

Take  therefore  no  thought  for  the  morrow:  for  the  morrow  shall  take 
thought  for  the  things  of  itself.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof. 

Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not  judged.  For  with  what  judgment  ye  judge,  ye 
shall  be  judged:  and  with  what  measure  ye  mete,  it  shall  be  measured  to  you 
again.  And  why  beholdest  thou  the  mote  that  is  in  thy  brother's  eye,  but 
considerest  not  the  beam  that  is  in  thine  own  eye?  Or  how  wilt  thou  say  to 
thy  brother,  Let  me  pull  out  the  mote  out  of  thine  eye;  and,  behold,  a  beam 
is  in  thine  own  eye?  Thou  hypocrite,  first  cast  out  the  beam  out  of  thine  own 
eye;  and  then  shalt  thou  see  clearly  to  cast  out  the  mote  out  of  thy  brother's 
eye. 

Give  not  that  which  is  holy  unto  the  dogs,  neither  cast  ye  your  pearls 
before  swine,  lest  they  trample  them  under  their  feet,  and  turn  again  and 
rend  you. 

Ask  and  it  shall  be  given  you;  seek,  and  ye  shall  find;  knock,  and  it  shall  be 
opened  unto  you:  for  every  one  that  asketh  receiveth;  and  he  that  seeketh 
findeth;  and  to  him  that  knocketh  it  shall  be  opened.  Or  what  man  is  there 
of  you,  whom  if  his  son  ask  bread,  will  he  give  him  a  stone?  Or  if  he  ask 
a  fish,  will  he  give  him  a  serpent?  If  ye  then,  being  evil,  know  how  to  give 
good  gifts  unto  your  children,  how  much  more  shall  your  Father  which  is  in 
heaven  give  good  things  to  them  that  ask  him? 


284 


RELIGION    AND   ETHICS 


Therefore  all  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do 
ye  even  so  to  them:  for  this  is  the  law  and  the  prophets. 

Enter  ye  in  at  the  strait  gate:  for  wide  is  the  gate,  and  broad  is  the  way, 
that  leadeth  to  destruction,  and  many  there  be  which  go  in  thereat,  because 
strait  is  the  gate,  and  narrow  is  the  way,  which  leadeth  unto  life,  and  few 
there  be  that  find  it. 

Beware  of  false  prophets,  which  come  to  you  in  sheep's  clothing,  but  in- 
wardly they  are  ravening  wolves.  Ye  shall  know  them  by  their  fruits.  Do 
men  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles?  Even  so  every  good  tree 
bringeth  forth  good  fruit;  but  a  corrupt  tree  bringeth  forth  evil  fruit.  A  good 
tree  cannot  bring  forth  evil  fruit,  neither  can  a  corrupt  tree  bring  forth  good 
fruit.  Every  tree  that  bringeth  not  forth  good  fruit  is  hewn  down,  and  cast 
into  the  fire.  Wherefore  by  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them. 

Not  every  one  that  saith  unto  me,  Lord,  Lord,  shall  enter  into  the  king- 
dom of  heaven;  but  he  that  doeth  the  will  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven. 
Many  will  say  to  me  in  that  day,  Lord,  Lord,  have  we  not  prophesied  in  thy 
name?  and  in  thy  name  have  cast  out  devils?  and  in  thy  name  done  many 
wonderful  works?  And  then  will  I  profess  unto  them,  I  never  knew  you: 
depart  from  me,  ye  that  work  iniquity. 

Therefore  whosoever  heareth  these  sayings  of  mine,  and  doeth  them,  I  will 
liken  him  unto  a  wise  man,  which  built  his  house  upon  a  rock.  And  the  rain 
descended,  and  the  floods  came,  and  the  winds  blew,  and  beat  upon  that 
house;  and  it  fell  not:  for  it  was  founded  upon  a  rock. 

And  every  one  that  heareth  these  sayings  of  mine,  and  doeth  them  not, 
shall  be  likened  unto  a  foolish  man,  which  built  his  house  upon  the  sand. 
And  the  rain  descended,  and  the  floods  came,  and  the  winds  blew,  and  beat 
upon  that  house;  and  it  fell:  and  great  was  the  fall  of  it. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  when  Jesus  had  ended  these  sayings,  the  people  were 
astonished  at  his  doctrine.  For  he  taught  them  as  one  having  authority, 
and  not  as  the  scribes. 


HENRY    DAVID   THOREAU 


HlgllCF 


As  i  CAME  HOME  through  the  woods  with  my  string  of  fish,  trailing  my 
pole,  it  being  now  quite  dark,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  woodchuck 
stealing  across  my  path,  and  felt  a  strange  thrill  of  savage  delight,  and  was 
strongly  tempted  to  seize  and  devour  him  raw;  not  that  I  was  hungry  then, 
except  for  that  wildness  which  he  represented.  Once  or  twice,  however, 
while  I  lived  at  the  pond,  I  found  myself  ranging  the  woods,  like  a  half- 

HIGHER    LAWS         285 


starved  hound,  with  a  strange  abandonment,  seeking  some  kind  of  venison 
which  I  might  devour,  and  no  morsel  could  have  been  too  savage  for  me. 
The  wildest  scenes  had  become  unaccountably  familiar.  I  found  in  myself, 
and  still  find,  an  instinct  toward  a  higher,  or,  as  it  is  named,  spiritual  life,  as 
do  most  men,  and  another  toward  a  primitive,  rank  and  savage  one,  and  I 
reverence  them  both.  I  love  the  wild  not  less  than  the  good.  The  wildness 
and  adventure  that  are  in  fishing  still  recommended  it  to  me.  I  like  some- 
times to  take  rank  hold  on  life  and  spend  my  day  more  as  the  animals  do. 
Perhaps  I  have  owed  to  this  employment  and  to  hunting,  when  quite  young, 
my  closest  acquaintance  with  Nature.  They  early  introduce  us  to  and  detain 
us  in  scenery  with  which  otherwise,  at  that  age,  we  should  have  little  ac- 
quaintance. Fishermen,  hunters,  woodchoppers,  and  others,  spending  their 
lives  in  the  fields  and  woods,  in  a  peculiar  sense  a  part  of  Nature  themselves, 
are  often  in  a  more  favorable  mood  for  observing  her,  in  the  intervals  of  their 
pursuits,  than  philosophers  or  poets  even,  who  approach  her  with  expecta- 
tion. She  is  not  afraid  to  exhibit  herself  to  them.  The  traveller  on  the  prairie 
is  naturally  a  hunter,  on  the  head  waters  of  the  Missouri  and  Columbia  a 
trapper,  and  at  the  Falls  of  St.  Mary  a  fisherman.  He  who  is  only  a  traveller 
learns  things  at  second-hand  and  by  the  halves,  and  is  poor  authority.  We 
are  most  interested  when  science  reports  what  those  men  already  know 
practically  or  instinctively,  for  that  alone  is  a  true  humanity,  or  account  of 
human  experience. 

They  mistake  who  assert  that  the  Yankee  has  few  amusements,  because  he 
has  not  so  many  public  holidays,  and  men  and  boys  do  not  play  so  many 
games  as  they  do  in  England,  for  here  the  more  primitive  but  solitary  amuse- 
ments of  hunting,  fishing,  and  the  like  have  not  yet  given  place  to  the  former. 
Almost  every  New  England  boy  among  my  contemporaries  shouldered  a 
fowling-piece  between  the  ages  of  ten  and  fourteen;  and  his  hunting  and 
fishing  grounds  were  not  limited,  like  the  preserves  of  an  English  nobleman, 
but  were  more  boundless  even  than  those  of  a  savage.  No  wonder,  then, 
that  he  did  not  oftener  stay  to  play  on  the  common.  But  already  a  change 
is  taking  place,  owing,  not  to  an  increased  humanity,  but  to  an  increased 
scarcity  of  game,  for  perhaps  the  hunter  is  the  greatest  friend  of  the  animals 
hunted,  not  excepting  the  Humane  Society. 

Moreover,  when  at  the  pond,  I  wished  sometimes  to  add  fish  to  my  fare 
for  variety.  I  have  actually  fished  from  the  same  kind  of  necessity  that  the 
first  fishers  did.  Whatever  humanity  I  might  conjure  up  against  it  was  all 
factitious,  and  concerned  my  philosophy  more  than  my  feelings.  I  speak  of 
fishing  only  now,  for  I  had  long  felt  differently  about  fowling,  and  sold  my 
gun  before  I  went  to  the  woods.  Not  that  I  am  less  humane  than  others,  but 
I  did  not  perceive  that  my  feelings  were  much  affected.  I  did  not  pity  the 
fishes  nor  the  worms.  This  was  habit.  As  for  fowling,  during  the  last  years 

286        RELIGION   AND  ETHICS 


that  I  carried  a  gun  my  excuse  was  that  I  was  studying  ornithology,  and 
sought  only  new  or  rare  birds.  But  I  confess  that  I  am  now  inclined  to  think 
that  there  is  a  finer  way  of  studying  ornithology  than  this.  It  requires  so 
much  closer  attention  to  the  habits  of  the  birds,  that,  if  for  that  reason  only, 
I  have  been  willing  to  omit  the  gun.  Yet  notwithstanding  the  objection  on 
the  score  of  humanity,  I  am  compelled  to  doubt  if  equally  valuable  sports  are 
ever  substituted  for  these;  and  when  some  of  my  friends  have  asked  me  anx- 
iously about  their  boys,  whether  they  should  let  them  hunt,  I  have  answered, 
yes,— remembering  that  it  was  one  of  the  best  parts  of  my  education,— make 
them  hunters,  though  sportsmen  only  at  first,  if  possible,  mighty  hunters  at 
last,  so  that  they  shall  not  find  game  large  enough  for  them  in  this  or  any 
vegetable  wilderness,— hunters  as  well  as  fishers  of  men.  Thus  far  I  am  of  the 
opinion  of  Chaucer's  nun,  who 

"yave  not  of  the  text  a  pulled  hen 
That  saith  that  hunters  ben  not  holy  men." 

There  is  a  period  in  the  history  of  the  individual,  as  of  the  race,  when  the 
hunters  are  the  "best  men,"  as  the  Algonquins  called  them.  We  cannot  but 
pity  the  boy  who  has  never  fired  a  gun;  he  is  no  more  humane,  while  his 
education  has  been  sadly  neglected.  This  was  my  answer  with  respect  to 
those  youths  who  were  bent  on  this  pursuit,  trusting  that  they  would  soon 
outgrow  it.  No  humane  being,  past  the  thoughtless  age  of  boyhood,  will 
wantonly  murder  any  creature  which  holds  its  life  by  the  same  tenure  that 
he  does.  The  hare  in  its  extremity  cries  like  a  child.  I  warn  you,  mothers, 
that  my  sympathies  do  not  always  make  the  usual  philanthropic  distinctions. 
Such  is  oftenest  the  young  man's  introduction  to  the  forest,  and  the  most 
original  part  of  himself.  He  goes  thither  at  first  as  a  hunter  and  fisher,  until 
at  last,  if  he  has  the  seeds  of  a  better  life  in  him,  he  distinguishes  his  proper 
objects,  as  a  poet  or  naturalist  it  may  be,  and  leaves  the  gun  and  fish-pole 
behind.  The  mass  of  men  are  still  and  always  young  in  this  respect.  In  some 
countries  a  hunting  parson  is  no  uncommon  sight.  Such  a  one  might  make 
a  good  shepherd's  dog,  but  is  far  from  being  the  Good  Shepherd.  I  have 
been  surprised  to  consider  that  the  only  obvious  employment,  except  wood- 
chopping,  ice-cutting,  or  the  like  business,  whichever  to  my  knowledge  de- 
tained at  Walden  Pond  for  a  whole  half-day  any  of  my  fellow-citizens, 
whether  fathers  or  children  of  the  town,  with  just  one  exception,  was  fishing. 
Commonly  they  did  not  think  that  they  were  lucky,  or  well  paid  for  their 
time,  unless  they  got  a  long  string  of  fish,  though  they  had  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  the  pond  all  the  while.  They  might  go  there  a  thousand  times 
before  the  sediment  of  fishing  would  sink  to  the  bottom  and  leave  their 
purpose  pure;  but  no  doubt  such  a  clarifying  process  would  be  going  on  all 
the  while.  The  Governor  and  his  Council  faintly  remember  the  pond,  for 

HIGHER   LAWS        287 


they  went  a-fishing  there  when  they  were  boys;  but  now  they  are  too  old 
and  dignified  to  go  a-fishing,  and  so  they  know  it  no  more  forever.  Yet  even 
they  expect  to  go  to  heaven  at  last.  If  the  legislature  regards  it,  it  is  chiefly 
to  regulate  the  number  of  hooks  to  be  used  there;  but  they  know  nothing 
about  the  hook  of  hooks  with  which  to  angle  for  the  pond  itself,  impaling  the 
legislature  for  a  bait.  Thus,  even  in  civilized  communities,  the  embryo  man 
passes  through  the  hunter  stage  of  development. 

I  have  found  repeatedly,  of  late  years,  that  I  cannot  fish  without  falling 
a  little  in  self-respect.  I  have  tried  it  again  and  again.  I  have  skill  at  it,  and, 
like  many  of  my  fellows,  a  certain  instinct  for  it,  which  revives  from  time  to 
time,  but  always  when  I  have  done  I  feel  that  it  would  have  been  better  if  I 
had  not  fished.  I  think  that  I  do  not  mistake.  It  is  a  faint  intimation,  yet  so 
are  the  first  streaks  of  morning.  There  is  unquestionably  this  instinct  in  me 
which  belongs  to  the  lower  orders  of  creation;  yet  with  every  year  I  am 
less  a  fisherman,  though  without  more  humanity  or  even  wisdom;  at  present 
I  am  no  fisherman  at  all.  But  I  see  that  if  I  were  to  live  in  a  wilderness  I 
should  again  be  tempted  to  become  a  fisher  and  hunter  in  earnest.  Beside, 
there  is  something  essentially  unclean  about  this  diet  and  all  flesh,  and  I 
began  to  see  where  housework  commences,  and  whence  the  endeavor, 
which  costs  so  much,  to  wear  a  tidy  and  respectable  appearance  each  day, 
to  keep  the  house  sweet  and  free  from  all  ill  odors  and  sights.  Having  been 
my  own  butcher  and  scullion  and  cook,  as  well  as  the  gentleman  for  whom 
the  dishes  were  served  up,  I  can  speak  from  an  unusually  complete  expe- 
rience. The  practical  objection  to  animal  food  in  my  case  was  its  unclean- 
ness;  and  besides,  when  I  had  caught  and  cleaned  and  cooked  and  eaten  my 
fish,  they  seemed  not  to  have  fed  me  essentially.  It  was  insignificant  and 
unnecessary,  and  cost  more  than  it  came  to.  A  little  bread  or  a  few  potatoes 
would  have  done  as  well,  with  less  trouble  and  filth.  Like  many  of  my 
contemporaries,  I  had  rarely  for  many  years  used  animal  food,  or  tea,  or 
coffee,  etc.;  not  so  much  because  of  any  ill  effects  which  I  had  traced  to 
them,  as  because  they  were  not  agreeable  to  my  imagination.  The  repug- 
nance to  animal  food  is  not  the  effect  of  experience,  but  is  an  instinct.  It 
appeared  more  beautiful  to  live  low  and  fare  hard  in  many  respects;  and 
though  I  never  did  so,  I  went  far  enough  to  please  my  imagination.  I  believe 
that  every  man  who  has  ever  been  earnest  to  preserve  his  higher  or  poetic 
faculties  in  the  best  condition  has  been  particularly  inclined  to  abstain  from 
animal  food,  and  from  much  food  of  any  kind.  It  is  a  significant  fact  stated 
by  entomologists,— I  find  it  in  Kirby  and  Spence,— that  "some  insects  in  their 
perfect  state,  though  furnished  with  organs  of  feeding,  make  no  use  of  them;" 
and  they  lay  it  down  as  "a  general  rule,  that  almost  all  insects  in  this  state 
eat  much  less  than  in  that  of  larvae.  The  voracious  caterpillar  when  trans- 
formed into  a  butterfly  ,  .  .  and  the  gluttonous  maggot  when  become  a  fly" 


288 


RELIGION    AND   ETHICS 


content  themselves  with  a  drop  or  two  of  honey  or  some  other  sweet  liquid. 
The  abdomen  under  the  wings  of  the  butterfly  still  represents  the  larva.  This 
is  the  tidbit  which  tempts  his  insectivorous  fate.  The  gross  feeder  is  a  man 
in  the  larva  state;  and  there  are  whole  nations  in  that  condition,  nations 
without  fancy  or  imagination,  whose  vast  abdomens  betray  them. 

It  is  hard  to  provide  and  cook  so  simple  and  clean  a  diet  as  will  not  offend 
the  imagination;  but  this,  I  think,  is  to  be  fed  when  we  feed  the  body;  they 
should  both  sit  down  at  the  same  table.  Yet  perhaps  this  may  be  done.  The 
fruits  eaten  temperately  need  not  make  us  ashamed  of  our  appetites,  nor 
interrupt  the  worthiest  pursuits.  But  put  an  extra  condiment  into  your  dish, 
and  it  will  poison  you.  It  is  not  worth  the  while  to  live  by  rich  cookery. 
Most  men  would  feel  shame  if  caught  preparing  with  their  own  hands  pre- 
cisely such  a  dinner,  whether  of  animal  or  vegetable  food,  as  is  every  day 
prepared  for  them  by  others.  Yet  till  this  is  otherwise  we  are  not  civilized, 
and,  if  gentlemen  and  ladies,  are  not  true  men  and  women.  This  certainly 
suggests  what  change  is  to  be  made.  It  may  be  vain  to  ask  why  the  imagina- 
tion will  not  be  reconciled  to  flesh  and  fat.  I  am  satisfied  that  it  is  not.  Is  it 
not  a  reproach  that  man  is  a  carnivorous  animal?  True,  he  can  and  does  live, 
in  a  great  measure,  by  preying  on  other  animals;  but  this  is  a  miserable  way, 
—as  any  one  who  will  go  to  snaring  rabbits,  or  slaughtering  lambs,  may 
learn,— and  he  will  be  regarded  as  a  benefactor  of  his  race  who  shall  teach 
man  to  confine  himself  to  a  more  innocent  and  wholesome  diet.  Whatever 
my  own  practice  may  be,  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  a  part  of  the  destiny  of  the 
human  race,  in  its  gradual  improvement,  to  leave  off  eating  animals,  as  surely 
as  the  savage  tribes  have  left  off  eating  each  other  when  they  came  in  contact 
with  the  more  civilized. 

If  one  listens  to  the  faintest  but  constant  suggestions  of  his  genius,  which 
are  certainly  true,  he  sees  not  to  what  extremes,  or  even  insanity,  it  may 
lead  him;  and  yet  that  way,  as  he  grows  more  resolute  and  faithful,  his  road 
lies.  The  faintest  assured  objection  which  one  healthy  man  feels  will  at 
length  prevail  over  the  arguments  and  customs  of  mankind.  No  man  ever 
followed  his  genius  till  it  misled  him  Though  the  result  were  bodily  weak- 
ness, yet  perhaps  no  one  can  say  that  the  consequences  were  to  be  regretted, 
for  these  were  a  life  in  conformity  to  higher  principles.  If  the  day  and  the 
night  are  such  that  you  greet  them  with  joy,  and  life  emits  a  fragrance  like 
flowers  and  sweet-scented  herbs,  is  more  elastic,  more  starry,  more  immortal, 
—that  is  your  success.  All  nature  is  your  congratulation,  and  you  have  cause 
momentarily  to  bless  yourself.  The  greatest  gains  and  values  are  farthest  from 
being  appreciated.  We  easily  come  to  doubt  if  they  exist.  We  soon  forget 
them.  They  are  the  highest  reality.  Perhaps  the  facts  most  astounding  and 
most  real  are  never  communicated  by  man  to  man.  The  true  harvest  of  my 
daily  life  is  somewhat  as  intangible  and  indescribable  as  the  tints  of  morn- 

HTGHER   LAWS         289 


ing  or  evening.  It  is  a  little  star-dust  caught,  a  segment  of  the  rainbow  which 
I  have  clutched. 

Yet,  for  my  part,  I  was  never  unusually  squeamish;  I  could  sometimes  eat 
a  fried  rat  with  a  good  relish,  if  it  were  necessary.  I  am  glad  to  have  drunk 
water  so  long,  for  the  same  reason  that  I  prefer  the  natural  sky  to  an  opium- 
eater's  heaven.  I  would  fain  keep  sober  always;  and  there  are  infinite  degrees 
of  drunkenness.  I  believe  that  water  is  the  only  drink  for  a  wise  man;  wine 
is  not  so  noble  a  liquor;  and  think  of  dashing  the  hopes  of  a  morning  with 
a  cup  of  warm  coffee,  or  of  an  evening  with  a  dish  of  tea!  Ah,  how  low  I 
fall  when  I  am  tempted  by  them!  Even  music  may  be  intoxicating.  Such 
apparently  slight  causes  destroyed  Greece  and  Rome,  and  will  destroy  Eng- 
land and  America.  Of  all  ebriosity,  who  does  not  prefer  to  be  intoxicated 
by  the  air  he  breathes?  I  have  found  it  to  be  the  most  serious  objection  to 
coarse  labors  long  continued,  that  they  compelled  me  to  eat  and  drink 
coarsely  also.  But  to  tell  the  truth,  I  find  myself  at  present  somewhat  less 
particular  in  these  respects.  I  carry  less  religion  to  the  table,  ask  no  bless- 
ing; not  because  I  am  wiser  than  I  was,  but,  I  am  obliged  to  confess,  because, 
however  much  it  is  to  be  regretted,  with  years  I  have  grown  more  coarse 
and  indifferent.  Perhaps  these  questions  are  entertained  only  in  youth,  as 
most  believe  of  poetry.  My  practice  is  "nowhere,"  my  opinion  is  here. 
Nevertheless  I  am  far  from  regarding  myself  as  one  of  those  privileged  ones 
to  whom  the  Ved  refers  when  it  says,  that  "he  who  has  true  faith  in  the 
Omnipresent  Supreme  Being  may  eat  all  that  exists,"  that  is,  is  riot  bound 
to  inquire  what  is  his  food,  or  who  prepares  it;  and  even  in  their  case  it  is  to 
be  observed,  as  a  Hindoo  commentator  has  remarked,  that  the  Vedant  limits 
this  privilege  to  "the  time  of  distress." 

Who  has  not  sometimes  derived  an  inexpressible  satisfaction  from  his 
food  in  which  appetite  had  no  share?  I  have  been  thrilled  to  think  that  I 
owed  a  mental  perception  to  the  commonly  gross  sense  of  taste,  that  I  have 
been  inspired  through  the  palate,  that  some  berries  which  I  had  eaten  on  a 
hillside  had  fed  my  genius.  "The  soul  not  being  mistress  of  herself,"  says 
Thseng-tseu,  "one  looks,  and  one  does  not  see;  one  listens,  and  one  does  not 
hear;  one  eats,  and  one  does  not  know  the  savor  of  food."  He  who  distin- 
guishes the  true  savor  of  his  food  can  never  be  a  glutton;  he  who  does  not 
cannot  be  otherwise.  A  puritan  may  go  to  his  brown-bread  crust  with  as 
gross  an  appetite  as  ever  an  alderman  to  his  turtle.  Not  that  food  which 
entereth  into  the  mouth  defileth  a  man,  but  the  appetite  with  which  it  is 
eaten.  It  is  neither  the  quality  nor  the  quantity,  but  the  devotion  to  sensual 
savors;  when  that  which  is  eaten  is  not  a  viand  to  sustain  our  animal,  or 
inspire  our  spiritual  life,  but  food  for  the  worms  that  possess  us.  If  the 
hunter  has  a  taste  for  mud-turtles,  muskrats,  and  other  such  savage  tidbits, 
the  fine  lady  indulges  a  taste  for  jelly  made  of  a  calf's  foot,  or  for  sardines 

290         RELIGION    AND   ETHICS 


from  over  the  sea,  and  they  are  even.  He  goes  to  the  mill-pond,  she  to  her 
preserve-pot.  The  wonder  is  how  they,  how  you  and  I,  can  live  this  slimy, 
beastly  life,  eating  and  drinking. 

Our  whole  life  is  startlingly  moral.  There  is  never  an  instant's  truce  be- 
tween virtue  and  vice.  Goodness  is  the  only  investment  that  never  fails. 
In  the  music  of  the  harp  which  trembles  round  the  world  it  is  the  insisting 
on  this  which  thrills  us.  The  harp  is  the  travelling  patterer  for  the  Universe's 
Insurance  Company,  recommending  its  laws,  and  our  little  goodness  is  all  the 
assessment  that  we  pay.  Though  the  youth  at  last  grows  indifferent,  the  laws 
of  the  universe  are  not  indifferent,  but  are  forever  on  the  side  of  the  most 
sensitive.  Listen  to  every  zephyr  for  some  reproof,  for  it  is  surely  there,  and 
he  is  unfortunate  who  does  not  hear  it.  We  cannot  touch  a  string  or  move 
a  stop  but  the  charming  moral  transfixes  us.  Many  an  irksome  noise,  go  a 
long  way  off,  is  heard  as  music,  a  proud,  sweet  satire  on  the  meanness  of 
our  lives. 

We  are  conscious  of  an  animal  in  us,  which  awakens  in  proportion  as  our 
higher  nature  slumbers.  It  is  reptile  and  sensual,  and  perhaps  cannot  be 
wholly  expelled;  like  the  worms  which,  even  in  life  and  health,  occupy  our 
bodies.  Possibly  we  may  withdraw  from  it,  but  never  change  its  nature.  I 
fear  that  it  may  enjoy  a  certain  health  of  its  own;  that  we  may  be  well,  yet 
not  pure.  The  other  day  I  picked  up  the  lower  jaw  of  a  hog,  with  white 
and  sound  teeth  and  tusks  which  suggested  that  there  was  an  animal  health 
and  vigor  distinct  from  the  spiritual.  This  creature  succeeded  by  other 
means  than  temperance  and  purity.  "That  in  which  men  differ  from  brute 
beasts,"  says  Mencius,  "is  a  thing  very  inconsiderable;  the  common  herd 
lose  it  very  soon;  superior  men  preserve  it  carefully."  Who  knows  what  sort 
of  life  would  result  if  we  had  attained  to  purity?  If  I  knew  so  wise  a  man 
as  could  teach  me  purity  I  would  go  to  seek  him  forthwith.  "A  command 
over  our  passions,  and  over  the  external  senses  of  the  body,  and  good  acts, 
are  declared  by  the  Ved  to  be  indispensable  in  the  mind's  approximation  to 
God/'  Yet  the  spirit  can  for  the  time  pervade  and  control  every  member 
and  function  of  the  body,  and  transmute  what  in  form  is  the  grossest  sensu- 
ality into  purity  and  devotion.  The  generative  energy,  which,  when  we  are 
loose,  dissipates  and  makes  us  unclean,  when  we  are  continent  invigorates 
and  inspires  us.  Chastity  is  the  flowering  of  man;  and  what  are  called 
Genius,  Heroism,  Holiness,  and  the  like,  are  but  various  fruits  which  succeed 
it.  Man  flows  at  once  to  God  when  the  channel  of  purity  is  open.  By  turns 
our  purity  inspires  and  our  impurity  casts  us  down.  He  is  blessed  who  is 
assured  that  the  animal  is  dying  out  in  him  day  by  day,  and  the  divine 
being  established.  Perhaps  there  is  none  but  has  cause  for  shame  on  account 
of  the  inferior  and  brutish  nature  to  which  he  is  allied.  I  fear  that  we  are 
such  gods  or  demigods  only  as  fauns  and  satyrs,  the  divine  allied  to  beasts, 

HIGHER   LAWS        291 


the  creatures  of  appetite,  and  that,  to  some  extent,  our  very  life  is  our 

disgrace.— 

"How  nappy's  he  who  hath  due  place  assigned 
To  his  beasts  and  disafforested  his  mind!  .  .  . 
Can  use  his  horse,  goat,  wolf,  and  ev'ry  beast, 
And  is  not  ass  himself  to  all  the  rest! 
Else  man  not  only  is  the  herd  of  swine. 
But  he's  those  devils  too  which  did  incline 
Them  to  a  headlong  rage,  and  made  them  worse.* 

All  sensuality  is  one,  though  it  takes  many  forms;  all  purity  is  one.  It  is 
the  same  whether  a  man  eat,  or  drink,  or  cohabit,  or  sleep  sensually.  They 
are  but  one  appetite,  and  we  only  need  to  see  a  person  do  any  one  of  these 
things  to  know  how  great  a  sensualist  he  is.  The  impure  can  neither  stand 
nor  sit  with  purity.  When  the  reptile  is  attacked  at  one  mouth  of  his  burrow, 
he  shows  himself  at  another.  If  you  would  be  chaste,  you  must  be  temperate. 
What  is  chastity?  How  shall  a  man  know  if  he  is  chaste?  He  shall  not  know 
it.  We  have  heard  of  this  virtue,  but  we  know  not  what  it  is.  We  speak 
conformably  to  the  rumor  which  we  have  heard.  From  exertion  come  wis- 
dom and  purity;  from  sloth  ignorance  and  sensuality.  In  the  student  sensu- 
ality is  a  sluggish  habit  of  mind.  An  unclean  person  is  universally  a  slothful 
one,  one  who  sits  by  a  stove,  whom  the  sun  shines  on  prostrate,  who  reposes 
without  being  fatigued.  If  you  would  avoid  uncleanness,  and  all  the  sins, 
work  earnestly,  though  it  be  at  cleaning  a  stable.  Nature  is  hard  to  be 
overcome,  but  she  must  be  overcome.  What  avails  it  that  you  are  Christian, 
if  you  are  not  purer  than  the  heathen,  if  you  deny  yourself  no  more,  if  you 
are  not  more  religious?  I  know  of  many  systems  of  religion  esteemed  heathen- 
ish whose  precepts  fill  the  reader  with  shame,  and  provoke  him  to  new 
endeavors,  though  it  be  to  the  performance  of  rites  merely. 

I  hesitate  to  say  these  things,  but  it  is  not  because  of  the  subject—I  care 
not  how  obscene  my  words  are,— but  because  I  cannot  speak  of  them  without 
betraying  my  impurity.  We  discourse  freely  without  shame  of  one  form  of 
sensuality,  and  are  silent  about  another.  We  are  so  degraded  that  we  cannot 
speak  simply  of  the  necessary  functions  of  human  nature.  In  earlier  ages,  in 
some  countries,  every  function  was  reverently  spoken  of  and  regulated  by 
law.  Nothing  was  too  trivial  for  the  Hindoo  lawgiver,  however  offensive 
it  may  be  to  modern  taste.  He  teaches  how  to  eat,  drink,  cohabit,  void 
excrement  and  urine,  and  the  like,  elevating  what  is  mean,  and  does  not 
falsely  excuse  himself  by  calling  these  things  trifles. 

Every  man  is  the  builder  of  a  temple,  called  his  body,  to  the  god  he  wor- 
ships, after  a  style  purely  his  own,  nor  can  he  get  off  by  hammering  marble 
instead.  We  are  all  sculptors  and  painters,  and  our  material  is  our  own  flesh 
and  blood  and  bones.  Any  nobleness  begins  at  once  to  refine  a  man's  features, 
any  meanness  or  sensuality  to  imbrute  them. 

292         RELIGION    AND   ETHICS 


John  Farmer  sat  at  his  door  one  September  evening,  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  his  mind  still  running  on  his  labor  more  or  less.  Having  bathed,  he 
sat  down  to  re-create  his  intellectual  man.  It  was  a  rather  cool  evening,  and 
some  of  his  neighbors  were  apprehending  a  frost.  He  had  not  attended  to  the 
train  of  his  thoughts  long  when  he  heard  some  one  playing  on  a  flute,  and  that 
sound  harmonized  with  his  mood.  Still  he  thought  of  his  work;  but  the 
burden  of  his  thought  was,  that  though  this  kept  running  in  his  head,  and 
he  found  himself  planning  and  contriving  it  against  his  will,  yet  it  concerned 
him  very  little.  It  was  no  more  than  the  scurf  of  his  skin,  which  was  con- 
stantly shuffled  off.  But  the  notes  of  the  flute  came  home  to  his  ears  out  of 
a  different  sphere  from  that  he  worked  in,  and  suggested  work  for  certain 
faculties  which  slumbered  in  him.  They  gently  did  away  with  the  street,  and 
the  village,  and  the  state  in  which  he  lived.  A  voice  said  to  him,  Why  do  you 
stay  here  and  live  this  mean  moiling  life,  when  a  glorious  existence  is  possible 
for  you?  Those  same  stars  twinkle  over  other  fields  than  these.— But  how  to 
come  out  of  this  condition  and  actually  migrate  thither?  All  that  he  could 
think  of  was  to  practice  some  new  austerity,  to  let  his  mind  descend  into 
his  body  and  redeem  it,  and  treat  himself  with  ever  increasing  respect. 


ALBERT    EINSTEIN 


'dlld 


IT  WOULD  not  be  difficult  to  come  to  an  agreement  as  to  what  we  under- 
stand by  science.  Science  is  the  century-old  endeavor  to  bring  together 
by  means  of  systematic  thought  the  perceptible  phenomena  of  this  world  into 
as  thoroughgoing  an  association  as  possible.  To  put  it  boldly,  it  is  the  at- 
tempt at  the  posterior  reconstruction  of  existence  by  the  process  of  concep- 
tualization. But  when  asking  myself  what  religion  is,  I  cannot  think  of  the 
answer  so  easily.  And  even  after  finding  an  answer  which  may  satisfy  me  at 
this  particular  moment,  I  still  remain  convinced  that  I  can  never  under  any 
circumstances  bring  together,  even  to  a  slight  extent,  all  those  who  have 
given  this  question  serious  consideration. 

At  first,  then,  instead  of  asking  what  religion  is,  I  should  prefer  to  ask 
what  characterizes  the  aspirations  of  a  person  who  gives  me  the  impression 
of  being  religious:  a  person  who  is  religiously  enlightened  appears  to  me  to 
be  one  who  has,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  liberated  himself  from  the  fetters 
of  his  selfish  desires  and  is  preoccupied  with  thoughts,  feelings,  and  aspira- 
tions to  which  he  clings  because  of  their  super-personal  value.  It  seems  to 
me  that  what  is  important  is  the  force  of  this  super-personal  content  and  the 

From  Science,  Philosophy  and  Religion  by  Albert  Einstein.  Reprinted  by  permission 
of  the  Conference  on  Science,  Philosophy  and  Religion  and  Albert  Einstein. 

SCIENCE    AND   RELIGION         293 


depth  of  the  conviction  concerning  its  overpowering  meaningfulness,  re- 
gardless of  whether  any  attempt  is  made  to  unite  this  content  with  a  Divine 
Being,  for  otherwise  it  would  not  be  possible  to  count  Buddha  and  Spinoza 
as  religious  personalities.  Accordingly,  a  religious  person  is  devout  in  the 
sense  that  he  has  no  doubt  of  the  significance  and  loftiness  of  those  super- 
personal  objects  and  goals  which  neither  require  nor  are  capable  of  rational 
foundation.  They  exist  with  the  same  necessity  and  matter-of-factness  as  he 
himself.  In  this  sense  religion  is  the  age-old  endeavor  of  mankind  to  become 
clearly  and  completely  conscious  of  these  values  and  goals  and  constantly  to 
strengthen  and  extend  their  effects.  If  one  conceives  of  religion  and  science 
according  to  these  definitions  then  a  conflict  between  them  appears  impos- 
sible. For  science  can  only  ascertain  what  is,  but  not  what  should  be,  and 
outside  of  its  domain  value  judgments  of  all  kinds  remain  necessary.  Reli- 
gion, on  the  other  hand,  deals  only  with  evaluations  of  human  thought  and 
action;  it  cannot  justifiably  speak  of  facts  and  relationships  between  facts. 
According  to  this  interpretation,  the  well-known  conflicts  between  religion 
and  science  in  the  past  must  all  be  ascribed  to  a  misapprehension  of  the 
situation  which  has  been  described. 

For  example,  a  conflict  arises  when  a  religious  community  insists  on  the 
absolute  truthfulness  of  all  statements  recorded  in  the  Bible.  This  means  an 
intervention  on  the  part  of  religion  into  the  sphere  of  science;  this  is  where 
the  struggle  of  the  Church  against  the  doctrines  of  Galileo  and  Darwin  be- 
longs. On  the  other  hand,  representatives  of  science  have  often  made  an 
attempt  to  arrive  at  fundamental  judgments  with  respect  to  values  and  ends 
on  the  basis  of  scientific  method,  and  in  this  way  have  set  themselves  in 
opposition  to  religion.  These  conflicts  have  all  sprung  from  fatal  errors. 

Now,  even  though  the  realms  of  religion  and  science  in  themselves  are 
clearly  marked  off  from  each  other,  nevertheless  there  exist  between  the  two, 
strong  reciprocal  relationships  and  dependencies.  Though  religion  may  be 
that  which  determines  the  goal,  it  has,  nevertheless,  learned  from  science,  in 
the  broadest  sense,  what  means  will  contribute  to  the  attainment  of  the  goals 
it  has  set  up.  But  science  can  only  be  created  by  those  who  are  thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  aspiration  towards  truth  and  understanding.  This  source 
of  feeling,  however,  springs  from  the  sphere  of  religion.  To  this  there  also 
belongs  the  faith  in  the  possibility  that  the  regulations  valid  for  the  world 
of  existence  are  rational,  that  is  comprehensible  to  reason.  I  cannot  conceive 
of  a  genuine  scientist  without  that  profound  faith.  The  situation  may  be 
expressed  by  an  image:  science  without  religion  is  lame,  religion  without 
science  is  blind. 

Though  I  have  asserted  above,  that  in  truth  a  legitimate  conflict  between 
religion  and  science  cannot  exist,  I  must  nevertheless  qualify  this  assertion 
once  again  on  an  essential  point,  with  reference  to  the  actual  content  of  his- 


294 


RELIGION   AMD 


torical  religions.  This  qualification  has  to  do  with  the  concept  of  God.  Dur- 
ing the  youthful  period  of  mankind's  spiritual  evolution,  human  fantasy 
created  gods  in  man's  own  image,  who,  by  the  operations  of  their  will  were 
supposed  to  determine,  or  at  any  rate  to  influence,  the  phenomenal  world. 
Man  sought  to  alter  the  disposition  of  these  gods  in  his  own  favor  by  means 
of  magic  and  prayer.  The  idea  of  God  in  the  religions  taught  at  present  is  a 
sublimation  of  that  old  conception  of  the  gods.  Its  anthropomorphic  char- 
acter is  shown,  for  instance,  by  the  fact  that  men  appeal  to  the  Divine  Being 
in  prayers  and  plead  for  the  fulfilment  of  their  wishes. 

Nobody,  certainly,  will  deny  that  the  idea  of  the  existence  of  an  omnipo- 
tent, just  and  omnibeneficent  personal  God  is  able  to  accord  man  solace, 
help,  and  guidance;  also,  by  virtue  of  its  simplicity  the  concept  is  accessible 
to  the  most  undeveloped  mind.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  decisive 
weaknesses  attached  to  this  idea  in  itself,  which  have  been  painfully  felt 
since  the  beginning  of  history.  That  is,  if  this  Being  is  omnipotent,  then 
every  occurrence,  including  every  human  action,  every  human  thought,  and 
every  human  feeling  and  aspiration  is  also  His  work;  how  is  it  possible  to 
think  of  holding  men  responsible  for  their  deeds  and  thoughts  before  such 
an  Almighty  Being?  In  giving  out  punishment  and  rewards  He  would  to  a 
certain  extent  be  passing  judgment  on  Himself.  How  can  this  be  combined 
with  the  goodness  and  righteousness  ascribed  to  Him? 

The  main  source  of  the  present-day  conflicts  between  the  spheres  of  reli- 
gion and  of  science  lies  in  this  concept  of  a  personal  God.  It  is  the  aim  of 
science  to  establish  general  rules  which  determine  the  reciprocal  connection 
of  objects  and  events  in  time  and  space.  For  these  rules,  or  laws  of  nature, 
absolutely  general  validity  is  required— not  proven.  It  is  mainly  a  program, 
and  faith  in  the  possibility  of  its  accomplishment  in  principle  is  only  founded 
on  partial  success.  But  hardly  anyone  could  be  found  who  would  deny  these 
partial  successes  and  ascribe  them  to  human  self-deception.  The  fact  that 
on  the  basis  of  such  laws  we  are  able  to  predict  the  temporal  behavior  of 
phenomena  in  certain  domains  with  great  precision  and  certainty,  is  deeply 
embedded  in  the  consciousness  of  the  modern  man,  even  though  he  may 
have  grasped  very  little  of  the  contents  of  those  laws.  He  need  only  con- 
sider that  planetary  courses  within  the  solar  system  may  be  calculated  in 
advance  with  great  exactitude  on  the  basis  of  a  limited  number  of  simple 
laws.  In  a  similar  way,  though  not  with  the  same  precision,  it  is  possible  to 
calculate  in  advance  the  mode  of  operation  of  an  electric  motor,  a  trans- 
mission system,  or  of  a  wireless  apparatus,  even  when  dealing  with  a  novel 
development. 

To  be  sure,  when  the  number  of  factors  coming  into  play  in  a  phenomeno- 
logical  complex  is  too  large,  scientific  method  in  most  cases  fails  us.  One 
need  only  think  of  the  weather,  in  which  case  prediction  even  for  a  few  days 

•dXNCX   AND   RELIGION         295 


ahead  is  impossible.  Nevertheless  no  one  doubts  that  we  are  confronted  with 
a  causal  connection  whose  causal  components  are  in  the  main  known  to  us. 
Occurrences  in  this  domain  are  beyond  the  reach  of  exact  prediction  because 
of  the  variety  of  factors  in  operation,  not  because  of  any  lack  of  order  in 
nature. 

We  have  penetrated  far  less  deeply  into  the  regularities  obtaining  within 
the  realm  of  living  things,  but  deeply  enough  nevertheless  to  sense  at  least 
the  rule  of  fixed  necessity.  One  need  only  think  of  the  systematic  order  in 
heredity,  and  in  the  effect  of  poisons,  as  for  instance  alcohol  on  the  behavior 
of  organic  beings.  What  is  still  lacking  here  is  a  grasp  of  connections  of  pro- 
found generality,  but  not  a  knowledge  of  order  in  itself. 

The  more  a  man  is  imbued  with  the  ordered  regularity  of  all  events,  the 
firmer  becomes  his  conviction  that  there  is  no  room  left  by  the  side  of  this 
ordered  regularity  for  causes  of  a  different  nature.  For  him  neither  the  rule 
of  human  nor  the  rule  of  Divine  Will  exists  as  an  independent  cause  of  nat- 
ural events.  To  be  sure,  the  doctrine  of  a  personal  God  interfering  with 
natural  events  could  never  be  refuted,  in  the  real  sense,  by  science,  for  this 
doctrine  can  always  take  refuge  in  those  domains  in  which  scientific  knowl- 
edge has  not  yet  been  able  to  set  foot. 

But  I  am  persuaded  that  such  behavior  on  the  part  of  the  representatives 
of  religion  would  not  only  be  unworthy  but  also  fatal.  For  a  doctrine  which 
is  able  to  maintain  itself  not  in  clear  light  but  only  in  the  dark,  will  of  neces- 
sity lose  its  effect  on  mankind,  with  incalculable  harm  to  human  progress. 
In  their  struggle  for  the  ethical  good,  teachers  of  religion  must  have  the 
stature  to  give  up  the  doctrine  of  a  personal  God,  that  is,  give  up  that  source 
of  fear  and  hope  which  in  the  past  placed  such  vast  power  in  the  hands  of 
priests.  In  their  labors  they  will  have  to  avail  themselves  of  those  forces 
which  are  capable  of  cultivating  the  Good,  the  True,  and  the  Beautiful  in 
humanity  itself.  This  is,  to  be  sure,  a  more  difficult  but  an  incomparably 
more  worthy  task.1  After  religious  teachers  accomplish  the  refining  process 
indicated,  they  will  surely  recognize  with  joy  that  true  religion  has  been 
ennobled  and  made  more  profound  by  scientific  knowledge. 

If  it  is  one  of  the  goals  of  religion  to  liberate  mankind  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  bondage  of  egocentric  cravings,  desires,  and  fears,  scientific  reason- 
ing can  aid  religion  in  yet  another  sense.  Although  it  is  true  that  it  is  the 
goal  of  science  to  discover  rules  which  permit  the  association  and  foretelling 
of  facts,  this  is  not  its  only  aim.  It  also  seeks  to  reduce  the  connections  dis- 
covered to  the  smallest  possible  number  of  mutually  independent  conceptual 
elements.  It  is  in  this  striving  after  the  rational  unification  of  the  manifold 
that  it  encounters  its  greatest  successes,  even  though  it  is  precisely  this  at- 

A  This  thought  is  convincingly  presented  in  Herbert  Samuel's  book,  "Belief  and  Action." 

296        REUGION    AND   ETHICS 


tempt  which  causes  it  to  run  the  greatest  risk  of  falling  a  prey  to  illusions. 
But  whoever  has  undergone  the  intense  experience  of  successful  advances 
made  in  this  domain,  is  moved  by  profound  reverence  for  the  rationality 
made  manifest  in  existence.  By  way  of  the  understanding  he  achieves  a  far- 
reaching  emancipation  from  the  shackles  of  personal  hopes  and  desires,  and 
thereby  attains  that  humble  attitude  of  mind  towards  the  grandeur  of  reason 
incarnate  in  existence,  which,  in  its  profoundest  depths,  is  inaccessible  to 
man.  This  attitude,  however,  appears  to  me  to  be  religious,  in  the  highest 
sense  of  the  word.  And  so  it  seems  to  me  that  science  not  only  purifies  the 
religious  impulse  of  the  dross  of  its  anthropomorphism,  but  also  contributes 
to  a  religious  spiritualization  of  our  understanding  of  life. 

The  further  the  spiritual  evolution  of  mankind  advances,  the  more  certain 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  path  to  genuine  religiosity  does  not  lie  through  the 
fear  of  life,  and  the  fear  of  death,  and  blind  faith,  but  through  striving  after 
rational  knowledge.  In  this  sense  I  believe  that  the  priest  must  become  a 
teacher  if  he  wishes  to  do  justice  to  his  lofty  educational  mission. 


G.  GALLAGHER  Armored  with  genuine  faith 

JOHN  BUNYAN'S  allegory  is  as  good  a  beginning  as  any  for  this  discussion. 
Confronted  in  the  Valley  of:  Humiliation  by  an  horrendous  adversary, 
Christian  began  "to  be  afraid,  and  to  cast  in  his  mind  whether  to  go  back  or 
to  stand  his  ground.  But  he  considered  again  that  he  had  no  armour  for 
his  back.  .  .  .  Therefore,  he  resolved  to  venture  and  to  stand  his  ground." 

Valor  is  the  better  part  of  faith.  In  my  book,  valor  is  also  the  better  part  of 
discretion.  We  will  be  able  to  sing  of  the  land  of  the  free  only  as  long  as  it 
continues  to  be  the  home  of  the  brave.  What  is  true  of  our  secular  liberties  is 
true  a  fortiori  of  religious  freedoms  and  of  the  meaning  of  life— not  to  men- 
tion the  mere  continuance  of  life  itself. 

Our  forefathers  in  the  Hebraic-Christian  tradition  knew  these  things. 
Their  loins  were  girded  with  resolution  and  their  faith  was  a  shield  and 
breastplate  to  them.  How  else  did  Jews  endure  and  survive  the  pogrom  and 
the  ghetto?  How  else  did  Christians  defy  the  rack  and  survive  the  hostilities 
of  dominant  secularism?  They  are  wrong  who  suppose  that  faith  comes  to 
the  coward.  There  is  no  religious  resource  to  cover  the  nakedness  of  him 
who  runs  from  Apollyon. 


Reprinted  from  the  New  York  Herald  Tribune  Book  Review,  March  7,  1954,  by  per- 
mission of  the  publisher. 

ARMORED    WITH    GENUINE    FAITH         297 


A  massive,  awful,  terrible  apprehension  has  been  with  us  for  nearing  nine 
years.  Just  after  the  explosion  of  the  Atomic  Age,  Norman  Cousins  argued 
that  there  must  be  an  atomic  solvent  for  the  atomic  problem.  His  demand 
is  far  too  modest.  Nothing  short  of  a  cosmic  solution  will  suffice.  Man  has 
unleashed  the  ultimate  source  of  cosmic  energy.  He  must  avail  himself  of 
cosmic  controls— or,  what  states  the  same  thing  more  accurately,  he  must 
put  his  destiny  under  cosmic  controls.  Each  step-up  in  destructive  potential 
increases  the  dimensions  of  concern:  From  atomic  to  hydrogenic,  to  cobaltic 
bombs  we  go.  And  the  words  of  the  spiritual  were  never  more  true  than 
now:  "There's  no  hidin'  place  down  there." 

Where  fears  are  not  dominant,  fatigue  is.  The  war-weary  peoples  of 
Western  Europe  rally  with  slowness  to  NATO  or  to  any  other  measure 
which  calls  for  self -resolve. 

And  frustration  follows  on  fear  and  fatigue.  For  those  who  do  manage  to 
rally  themselves  to  idealistic  endeavor,  the  height  of  the  ideal  becomes 
merely  an  index  of  the  depth  of  frustration.  Cynicism,  which  is  idealism 
gone  sour,  follows  readily. 

The  only  armor  which  will  serve  our  purposes  in  this  day  of  fear,  fatigue, 
and  frustration  is  a  genuine  faith.  Pragmatic  realism  should  convince  us  of 
that,  just  as  it  did  Bunyan's  Pilgrim.  Deciding  not  to  run  but  to  stand  face- 
forward  toward  the  threat,  Christian  said,  "Had  I  no  more  in  mine  eye  than 
the  saving  of  my  life,  it  would  be  the  best  way  to  stand." 

But  the  reason  is  deeper  than  pragmatic.  It  strikes  to  the  character  of 
life  itself,  in  terms  of  cosmic  meaning.  Granted  a  cosmic  meaning  to  the 
moral  struggle,  we  can  face  the  present  with  hope  for  the  future.  Denied 
it,  we  have  armor  neither  for  our  backs  nor  our  breasts. 

What,  thefi,  is  the  difficulty?  Can  religion  and  religious  morality  provide 
the  medicine  of  this  hour? 

Two  principal  strands  make  up  the  essential  meaning  of  our  heritage  in 
Western  civilization.  They  may  be  suggested  by  two  great  legends— Greek 
and  Hebraic. 

Prometheus  stole  fire  from  the  gods.  According  to  this  view  the  slow 
progress  of  the  arts  and  sciences,  the  whole  of  technological  growth  and 
the  development  of  civilization  stems  from  man's  appropriation  of  knowl- 
edge which  belongs  to  the  gods.  But  that  knowledge  comes  at  great  pain 
and  with  a  price.  For  his  presumption,  Prometheus  is  chained  to  the  rock, 
and  through  eternity  "the  winged  hound  of  Zeus"  tears  out  his  liver  and  eats 
it.  For  man's  pride  and  presumption:  eternal  agony. 

The  story  of  Adam  gives  a  different  emphasis.  Created  in  perfection  and 
placed  in  Paradise,  man  needs  only  to  use  knowledge  and  power  wisely  and 
well.  Instead,  he  uses  them  ill  and  stupidly.  He  sins.  Unlike  the  Greek 

298         RELIGION   AND  ETHICS 


gods,  the  Hebrew  god  is  not  jealous  or  apprehensive  of  man's  power.  God 
commits  Himself  to  the  fact  of  man's  moral  freedom;  and  in  so  committing 
Himself,  shares  the  consequences.  Man's  pride  and  sin  lead  to  pain  and  a 
price:  agony  of  the  eternal! 

These  two  traditions  enshrine  variant  ideas  of  the  place  of  man  and  God  in 
the  cosmic  scheme,  and  of  the  relationship  of  man  to  knowledge,  power,  and 
morality.  The  essential  difference  is  an  emphasis  on  the  knowledge  which  is 
power,  as  against  the  righteousness  which  is  violated  at  great  peril.  Woven 
together  in  a  unified  pattern,  these  two  strands  of  Western  culture  provided 
the  synthesis  of  the  high  Middle  Ages,  a  seamless  unity  of  knowledge  with 
righteousness,  of  power  with  goodness.  In  Aquinas,  Aristotle  and  the 
prophets  become  one. 

But  temporary  gain  proved  ultimate  undoing.  Stability  was  the  prime 
need  of  Aquinas'  day:  preservation  of  a  crumbling  feudal  order.  To  preserve 
status  and  order,  thought  and  morality  must  be  static.  Therefore  morality 
and  theology  must  be  fixed  and  final,  and  knowledge  must  likewise  be  con- 
tained in  static  vessels.  Thus  was  science  constricted  and  brought  to  heel,  to 
serve  the  Queen  of  the  Sciences. 

Augustine  had  penned  his  pious  and  saintly  "Hymn  to  Unlearning,"  but 
perverse  Prometheus  did  not  easily  wear  the  uneven  yoke  which  tied  him 
to  Adam  in  the  medieval  synthesis.  And  since  the  static  patterns  which  were 
adequate  to  the  defenses  of  the  thirteenth  century  could  not  permanently 
restrain  the  ebullient  pressures  of  subsequent  times,  what  had  been  fash- 
ioned as  society's  coat  of  mail  finally  became  civilization's  strait  jacket. 

From  the  Renaissance  to  the  Enlightenment,  with  the  Reformation  and 
Counter-Reformation  sandwiched  in  between,  half  a  millennium  of  struggle 
followed.  It  was  the  struggle  by  which  Prometheus  severed  himself  from  his 
symbiotic  attachment  to  Adam.  When  Galileo  fought  for  the  Copernican  as 
against  the  Ptolemaic  cosmology,  he  was  only  trying  to  save  the  faith  from 
the  depredations  of  science  by  cutting  science  loose  from  its  entanglement 
with  religion.  When  Descartes  brought  to  its  provisional  climax  the  work 
Galileo  had  initiated,  he  made  the  same  affirmation.  Finally,  the  Church 
(both  Protestant  and  Catholic)  gladly  accepted  the  compromise  which  was 
devised.  Science  was  to  be  free  to  inquire  without  let  or  hindrance— pro- 
vided that  the  realms  of  First  Cause,  of  Ultimates,  and  of  the  world  of  souls 
in  between,  were  reserved  inviolate  for  theology.  This  tragic  separation  of 
science  and  religion,  while  it  is  understandable  as  seen  in  historical  perspec- 
tive, nevertheless  has  brought  us  to  the  brink  of  atomic  destruction. 

From  the  seventeenth  century  onwards,  Adam  has  been  in  eclipse,  Prome- 
theus in  control.  As  Francis  Bacon  lyrically  put  it,  "Knowledge  is  power!" 
Not  until  the  twentieth  century  was  religion  to  rise  again  in  majesty  and 

ARMORED   WITH    GENUINE    FAITH         299 


reassert  its  full  claims  to  enter  into  the  whole  of  life.  And  then  it  was  to  be 
discovered  that  the  abdicator  regains  a  throne  with  extreme  difficulty.  In- 
deed, the  former  Queen  of  the  Sciences  is  now  challenged  as  a  usurper. 

The  blinding  explosion  over  Hiroshima  on  Aug.  5,  1945  is  the  precise 
equivalent  of  the  legend  of  Prometheus,  with  one  profound  difference.  Hiro- 
shima is  not  myth  but  fact.  Possessed  of  the  knowledge  of  nuclear  fission 
and  union,  Promethean  man  is  about  to  learn  in  fact  that  such  knowledge 
comes  at  great  pain  and  with  a  price.  The  question— and  I  mean  the 
question—is  whether  Prometheus  will  now  be  joined  to  Adam,  and  this  time 
not  in  static  but  dynamic  terms. 

I  hold  that  annihilation  is  not  inevitable:  it  is  evitable.  Fatalism  is  not 
the  only  possible  fruitage  of  fear,  fatigue,  and  frustration. 

In  this  fateful  moment  of  history,  which  will  be  brief  if  we  do  not  act, 
there  is  laid  upon  us  the  tremendous  task  of  remaking  religion  so  that  it 
has  something  to  say  which  is  understandable  by  and  relevant  to  the  present 
crisis.  It  has  been  done  before.  Catholicism,  for  example,  made  the  tre- 
mendous polar  shift  from  Plato  and  Augustine  to  Aristotle  and  Aquinas; 
Protestantism,  in  its  turn,  has  digested  the  results  of  its  Fundamentalist- 
Modernist  controversy;  while  Judaism  makes  its  corresponding  adjustments 
to  the  dynamics  of  new  demands. 

One  thing  is  different  now.  The  time  is  short.  However  much  Prometheus 
may  rationally  and  emotionally  sense  his  need  of  Adam  (and  scientists  are 
among  those  most  loudly  calling  for  moral  controls  in  the  name  of  survival), 
Adam  in  his  turn  has  yet  clearly  to  recognize  and  assume  his  responsibility. 
Since  the  day  when  ( in  the  words  of  Horace ) 

Prometheus  first  transmuted 
Atoms  culled  for  human  clay, 

down  to  this  present  hour  in  which  atomic  power  without  moral  control 
promises  to  give  humanity  back  to  the  dust,  man  has  never  stood  in  more 
urgent  peril.  Therein  lies  our  hope  of  action. 

If  some  one  now  suggests  that  religion  is  a  weak  reed  to  lean  upon  in  a 
day  when  postponement  of  the  atomic  debacle  appears  merely  to  provide 
opportunity  for  increasing  demagoguery  at  home  and  for  spreading  Com- 
munist imperialism  abroad,  I  give  him  Pilgrim's  answer.  I  want  none  of  a 
religion  which  claims  to  give  man  armor  for  his  back.  The  only  religion  I 
recognize  as  genuine  is  one  which  enables  a  man  of  faith  to  stand  his  ground. 


300         RETJGION   AND    ETHICS 


MASS  MEDIA 


THE  mass  media  are  the  means  of 
communication,  such  as  television, 
the  moving  picture,  radio,  and  the  press, 
which  reach  vast  numbers  of  Ameri- 
cans. Members  of  the  great  audiences 
to  which  they  appeal  are  tremendously 
influenced  by  them  in  their  ways  of 
thinking  and  looking  at  things.  In  a 
democracy,  therefore,  these  media  are  of 
great  importance.  Their  audiences  have 
the  responsibility  of  knowing  them  for 
what  they  are,  of  gauging  them,  of 
judging  them.  Those  in  control  of  them 
have  the  responsibility  of  using  them 
wisely  and  fairly.  The  first  passage  in 
this  section,  a  part  of  the  autobiography 
of  Eric  Sevareid,  journalist  and  radio 
and  television  commentator,  tells  how 
Sevareid,  working  on  a  newspaper  when 
he  was  eighteen,  became  aware  of  some 


of  the  problems  of  the  press.  Edgar 
Dale's  "The  Effects  of  the  Mass  Media" 
notes  the  significant  effects  of  mass  me- 
dia in  general,  and  suggests  some  prac- 
tical ways  of  assuring  that  these  forces 
for  good  or  evil  will  be  put  to  the  best 
use.  Arthur  Mayer's  "Hollywood  Ver- 
dict: Gilt  but  Not  Guilty"  discusses  the 
responsibilities  of  motion  picture  audi- 
ences. George  Gallup 's  "Mass  Informa- 
tion or  Mass  Entertainment"  deals 
with  the  responsibility  of  radio  and  tele- 
vision audiences  to  make  use  of  these 
media  for  gaining  information.  Adlai  E. 
Stevenson's  "The  One-Party  Press"  criti- 
cizes America's  newspapers  for  what  he 
considers  their  partiality  to  one  political 
party— a  partiality  which  did  not  appeal 
to  him  since  he  was  a  presidential  can- 
didate of  the  other  party. 


ERIC    SEVAREID 


Cub 


A  personal  discovery 

IF  A  YOUNG  MAN  goes  directly  from  secondary  school  to  the  university, 
and  completes  the  study  of  his  profession  in  theory  and  principle  be- 
fore entering  his  first  office,  everything  is  quite  different.  The  faces,  the 
titles,  the  very  arrangement  of  the  desks  and  departments  he  sees  as  a  func- 
tional pattern.  He  has  his  mind  on  the  end  product  of  the  concern;  he 
knows  how  and  why  his  product  came  about  in  modern  society;  he  knows 
its  present  status  in  terms  of  history,  and  he  no  doubt  understands  the  rela- 
tionship of  himself  and  his  work  to  the  times  in  which  he  lives.  It  must  be 
a  great  advantage  to  begin  that  way,  but  it  also  means  missing  a  brief 
period  of  complete  enchantment.  The  old  Minneapolis  Journal,  no  longer 


Reprinted  from  Not  So  Wild  a  Dream  by  Kric  Sevareid,  by  permission  of  Alfred  A. 
Knopf,  Inc.   Copyright  1946  by  Eric  Sevareid. 


CUB  REPORTER        301 


extant,  was  an  imposing  and  venerable  institution  in  that  northwest  coun- 
try, identified  with  the  permanent  structures  of  the  landscape— the  original 
buildings  of  Fort  Snelling,  the  first  dam  on  the  upper  Mississippi,  the  first 
roadbed  laid  by  Jim  Hill,  the  Empire  Builder.  It  spoke  with  authority  in 
the  land,  if  not  with  wisdom,  and  it  was  an  interconnecting  cog  in  the 
social  machineiy  of  a  widely  scattered  civilization.  I  was  unaware  that 
its  directors  were  in,  hand  and  glove,  with  the  potentates  of  railroad,  tim- 
ber, and  milling  who  for  a  very  long  time  dictated,  as  if  by  kingly  right, 
the  political  and  economic  affairs  of  this  civilization.  I  was  unaware  that 
the  men  who  wrote  its  pages  were  aware,  bitterly  so,  of  the  paper's  true 
function.  To  me  at  eighteen  it  was  that  most  remarkable,  most  fascinating 
of  all  human  institutions,  a  daily  newspaper,  peopled  with  those  glamorous, 
incomparable  men  known  as  reporters  and  editors,  actually  there,  alive, 
touchable,  knowable.  The  ceremony  of  the  "ghost  walking"  with  the  pay 
envelopes  on  Saturday  afternoon  was  merely  one  of  the  more  delightful 
moments  of  the  week,  a  necessary  bit  of  the  engrossing  ritual  that  preceded 
the  ceremony  of  drinking  beer  down  below  at  the  "Greasy  Spoon."  The 
pay  check  of  course  was  not  really  essential,  these  superhuman  creatures 
being  above  anything  so  prosaic  as  the  need  for  food,  but  was  merely  a 
kind  of  token  and  badge  to  signify  that  one  Belonged.  There  was  a  posi- 
tive sensual  pleasure  when  one  hurried  from  below-zero  weather,  so  early 
it  was  scarcely  light,  into  the  warmth  and  smells  of  the  city  room  where 
the  telegraph  editor  was  already  waiting  for  the  first  yellow  strips  from 
the  press  association  machines,  into  the  warmer,  noisier,  greasier  compos- 
ing room  upstairs  where  the  limp,  moist  galley  proofs  of  overset  matter 
were  piled  and  waiting  for  distribution  below.  The  movement  and  noise 
built  up  with  every  hour,  with  the  ordered  cacophony  of  improvised  sym- 
phony to  the  thundering  finale  by  the  great  presses  below  the  street,  fol- 
lowed by  the  quiet  aftermath  of  triumph  when  I  would  stagger  into  the 
city  room  with  fifty  fresh,  pungent  copies  in  my  arms  for  the  relaxing  virtuosi 
who  waited  there,  feet  upon  their  instruments,  gifted  fingers  lighting 
cigarettes. 

This  was  my  entry  into  the  world  of  private  enterprise  in  which  most 
Americans  pass  their  earthly  existence.  Surely,  this  was  the  best  of  all 
possible  systems  of  life,  where  one  simply  chose  the  thing  he  most  wanted 
to  do,  and,  because  he  loved  it,  worked  as  hard  as  he  could,  and,  because 
he  worked  hard,  steadily  rose  from  position  to  position,  until  he  had 
"arrived,"  when  the  world  would  hold  no  more  secrets  or  problems,  and 
life  gracefully  leveled  out  on  a  plane  of  confidence,  security,  and  happiness. 
I  was  convinced  of  the  truth  of  this  when  after  only  six  weeks  as  a  copy 
runner  I  was  made  a  reporter,  with  a  desk  of  my  own,  admission  to  the 
Saturday  night  poker  game  around  the  copy  desk,  and  fifteen  dollars  a 

302         MASS   MEDIA 


week.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  never  made  an  enemy,  never  known  anyone 
to  feel  that  I  was  a  threat  to  him,  nor  felt  that  anyone  else  was  a  threat 
to  me.  When  I  broke  the  great  news  that  I  was  to  become  a  repcsrter,  to 
a  rewrite  man  I  worshipped,  I  received  the  first  shock  and  hurt  and  began 
to  learn.  I  expected  warm  congratulations  and  perhaps  admiring  predic- 
tions of  future  greatness.  Instead,  the  Godlike  journalist  looked  at  me 
coldly  and  said:  "For  Christ's  sake.  The  bastards."  It  was  some  time  before 
I  realized  that  experienced  reporters,  family  men  who  required  more  than 
fifteen  dollars  a  week,  were  being  rebuffed  each  day  in  their  search  for 
employment. 

My  one  regular  chore  on  the  paper,  the  inescapable  heritage  of  the 
newest  and  rawest  cub,  was  to  spend  each  Friday  as  "religious  editor," 
which  meant  putting  together  a  page  of  copy  with  a  summed-up  story  of 
Sunday's  events,  followed  by  several  columns  of  "church  notices"  in  six- 
point  type.  It  meant  interviewing  a  few  visiting  clerics  of  distinction,  who 
never  turned  down  the  request.  One  of  these  was  Billy  Sunday,  the  evan- 
gelist, then  in  his  last  days.  In  his  case,  no  questions  were  needed.  He 
bounded  about  the  hotel  room,  now  peering  intently  out  the  window  with 
one  foot  on  the  sill,  now  grasping  the  dressing  table  firmly  in  both  hands 
while  lecturing  his  reflection  in  the  mirror.  I  never  opened  my  mouth  after 
introducing  myself  and  scarcely  remembered  a  word  of  what  he  said.  Sud- 
denly he  ceased  talking  and  darted  out  of  the  room,  whereupon  "Ma"  Sun- 
day unhooked  a  half-dozen  typewritten  sheets  from  a  loose-leaf  folder  and 
handed  them  to  me.  This  was  the  interview,  all  prepared,  his  emphasis 
marked  by  capitalized  words  and  phrases  in  red  ink  with  many  exclama- 
tion marks.  When  I  first  took  over  this  task  on  the  paper  I  mentioned  it 
one  day  to  a  Protestant  pastor  I  happened  to  know  rather  well.  He  clasped 
his  hands  together,  cast  a  brief  glance  upwards,  and  said:  "Thank  God  for 
that!  I  have  been  grieving  over  the  lack  of  publicity  for  our  little  church." 
He  gripped  my  shoulder  in  a  brotherly  manner  and  said:  "I  hope  this  will 
be  the  answer  to  my  prayers."  I  was  quickly  to  learn  that  of  all  the  citi- 
zens who  rang  the  newspaper  or  came  to  the  lobby  seeking  publicity,  the 
men  of  the  church  were  the  most  demanding  and  insatiable.  I  was  fre- 
quently embroiled  in  controversy  with  pastors  who  would  demand  why 
I  had  not  run  the  photographs  of  themselves  which  they  had  just  sent  in, 
whereas  Pastor  X  had  had  his  picture  in  the  paper  twice  in  the  last  three 
months.  The  rabbis  were  equally  desirous,  but  generally  more  clever  about 
it,  while  the  important  Catholic  priests  simply  let  their  assistants  handle 
the  publicity  question  and  rarely  entered  the  negotiations  in  person.  I 
learned  that  the  newspaper  was  frightened  of  the  preachers.  The  city  desk 
could  tell  a  vaudeville  press  agent  to  go  to  hell  when  his  demands  over- 
reached the  decent  limit,  but  nobody  ever  spoke  anything  but  soft  words 

CUB   REPORTER         303 


to  the  press  agent  of  a  church.  I  could  see  why  nobody  else  wanted  my 
task,  but  no  doubt  it  was  good  training  in  basic  diplomacy. 

I  was  firmly  convinced  that  a  newspaper  reporter  "saw  life"  as  did  no 
one  else  in  current  society.  (He  sees  no  more  of  life  than  the  iceman 
does,  but  he  is  compelled  to  note  down  and  comment  and  thus  acquires 
some  habit  of  observation,  if  not  reflection.  That's  all  the  difference  there 
is.)  I  wanted  to  observe  "human  nature"  and  for  some  reason  did  not 
believe  preachers  exhibited  any  manifestations  of  human  nature.  So  I  seized 
any  other  kind  of  assignment  anybody  else  was  too  lazy  or  too  wise  to 
want:  interviews  with  the  drinkers  of  canned  heat  who  lived,  and  often 
died,  in  the  caves  and  shacks  along  the  riverbed,  with  movie  stars  of  more 
majestic  condescension  than  any  bishop.  Once  I  dressed  as  a  waiter  and 
served  Katharine  Hepburn  her  breakfast  in  bed  after  she  had  kept  the  re- 
porters waiting  in  bitter  cold  for  two  hours  at  the  station,  then  refused  to 
see  them.  I  have  a  vivid  memory  of  knocking  at  apartment  doors  in  the  dead 
of  night,  to  inform  a  young  wife  that  her  husband  had  just  been  killed  in 
an  accident  or  a  police  shooting,  and  did  she  have  a  photograph  of  him? 
Usually  she  turned  white  and  ran  to  grab  up  the  baby  from  its  crib.  These 
experiences  left  me  limp  and  shaking.  But  somehow  these  wretched  people 
—if  they  were  poor,  with  poor  people's  belief  that  newspapers  are  powerful 
things  with  unquestioned  rights— would  find  a  photograph,  would,  be- 
tween sobs,  answer  my  questions.  It  was  a  surprise  to  find  that  the  rich 
did  not  react  the  same  way.  When  I  went  to  ask  questions  of  the  wife 
of  a  manufacturer  who  had  killed  a  man  in  disgraceful  circumstances,  she 
waited  until  I  had  spoken,  then  coolly  requested  me  to  leave  the  premises 
before  she  called  the  police.  I  spent  three  weeks  in  police  headquarters,  in 
Washington  Avenue  saloons,  in  the  parlors  of  innumerable  citizens,  trying 
to  solve  the  celebrated  local  mystery  of  the  missing  baby,  stolen  from  the 
bed  of  its  fifteen-year-old  "unwed  mother"  in  the  city  hospital.  I  worked 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  uncovered  various  bits  of  evidence,  and  finally 
located  a  youthful  suspect  who  the  police  were  convinced  was  the  kid- 
napper, but  whom  they  were  unable  to  convict.  I  had  always  had  the 
normal  citizen's  respect  for  the  police,  but  during  this  experience  dis- 
covered to  my  surprise  that  we  reporters  were  frequently  hours  and  days 
ahead  of  them  unraveling  the  mystery. 

One  became,  at  that  age,  aware  of  social  structure  but  not  of  social 
forces.  One  knew  that  certain  individuals  represented  certain  levels  of 
the  structure,  in  the  city  and  inside  the  office,  but  one  was  scarcely  aware 
that  these  individuals  themselves  were  pushed  and  pulled  by  invisible 
pressures  of  a  class  allegiance,  in  society  and  business.  It  took  me  a  long 
time  to  understand  that  the  publisher  had  far  more  in  common  with,  far 
more  loyalty  to,  the  bankers  or  grain  merchants  with  whom  he  lunched 

304        MASS  MEDIA 


at  the  Minneapolis  Club  than  to  the  editors  and  reporters  who  worked  with 
him  to  produce  the  paper.  I  began  work  with  an  idealistic  view  of  the 
newspaper  as  the  mounted  knight  of  society,  pure  in  heart,  its  strength  as 
the  strength  of  ten,  owing  no  favor,  fearing  no  man.  I  did  not  know  that, 
while  many  great  organs  had  begun  that  way  (a  few  retained  their  integ- 
rity) with  rugged,  incorruptible  founders,  they  had  been  handed  down 
to  sons  and  grandsons  who  were  less  interested  in  the  true  social  function 
of  the  institution  than  in  its  money-making  capacities  which  secured  their 
position  in  the  luxury  class  to  which  they,  unlike  their  fathers  and  grand- 
fathers, were  born.  You  learned.  You  learned  by  listening  to  the  servile 
voices  of  the  women  who  wrote  the  society  pages  as  they  asked  the  great 
ladies  of  Lowry  Hill  to  be  so  very  kind  as  to  give  them  the  names  of  their 
reception  guests.  You  learned  by  discovering  that  if  you  became  involved 
in  controversy  with  an  important  businessman  about  the  handling  of  a 
given  story,  you  were  always  wrong  and  the  businessman  was  always  right. 
You  learned  by  finding  that  if  a  picture  were  published  of  a  Negro,  how- 
ever distinguished,  and  one  of  the  great  ladies,  who  happened  to  be  from 
Georgia,  telephoned  to  protest  that  she  was  offended,  profuse  apologies 
would  be  offered  the  sensitive  creature. 

With  this  general  discovery  of  the  structure  of  community  life  came  the 
simultaneous  discovery  that  nearly  all  men,  working  in  a  large  American 
concern,  did  their  daily  work  under  the  tyranny  of  fear.  It  varied  in  in- 
tensity from  man  to  man,  from  prosperity  to  depression,  but  it  was  always 
there.  The  reporters  were  afraid  of  the  city  editor,  the  assistant  city  editor 
was  afraid  of  the  city  editor,  and  the  city  editor,  worried  about  his  job, 
was  atraid  of  his  assistant.  All  were  afraid  of  the  managing  editor,  who  in 
turn  was  afraid  of  the  publisher.  None  of  them  wanted  to  feel  that  way, 
few  were  really  "after"  another's  position,  but  each  understood  the  pres- 
sures on  the  other  which  might  at  any  moment  cause  the  latter  in  self- 
protection  to  bear  down  upon  the  former.  I  might  have  learned  all  this 
much  earlier,  as  most  boys  do  from  their  fathers,  who  come  home  at  night 
and  relate  to  their  wives  at  dinner  the  latest  move  in  their  "office  politics." 
But  my  father  had  been  an  independent  operator  most  of  his  life,  and  even 
when  he  did  join  a  large  establishment  his  sense  of  personal  dignity  and 
honor  forbade  him  to  discuss  his  superiors  or  inferiors,  even  with  his  fam- 
ily. And  so  I  had  begun  working  life  in  the  simple  faith  that  one's  rise  or 
fall  was  a  matter  solely  of  one's  own  capacities. 

There  was  a  charming  old  man  who  lived  like  an  office  hermit  in  a  musty 
room  in  the  interior  labyrinths  of  the  Journal.  He  was  a  scholar  of  some 
distinction,  in  love  with  the  history  of  the  northwest  country,  and  he  wrote 
graceful  essays  and  homilies  for  the  Sunday  edition.  I  was  charmed  by  his 
style  and  occasionally  would  take  my  portable  lunch  and  bottle  of  milk 

CUB   REPORTER         305 


at  noon  to  eat  with  him.  I  assumed  that  with  his  literary  attainments  he 
was  an  important  and  respected  person  in  the  establishment.  Once  I  stayed 
longer  than  usual;  we  were  both  spellbound  with  his  own  fascinating  ac- 
count of  a  vanished  village.  He  looked  suddenly  at  his  watch.  He  became 
extremely  agitated,  grabbed  up  his  copy  in  trembling  fingers,  and  said: 
"Excuse  me,  excuse  me.  The  editors.  They  will  be  very  rough  with  me. 
I  am  very  late."  His  bent  figure  shuffled  rapidly  from  the  room.  He  had 
spent  his  life  on  that  newspaper. 

The  financial  editor  worked  at  a  desk  directly  behind  my  own.  One 
night  when  I  was  working  exceptionally  late,  he  came  in  slightly  unsteady 
from  drinking.  He  emptied  into  a  suitcase  the  contents  of  his  locker,  a  few 
books,  a  batch  of  clippings,  a  pair  of  golf  shoes.  I  asked  in  surprise  if  he 
was  leaving.  He  said:  "I've  been  on  this  paper  eighteen  years,  son.  I've 
just  been  fired  by  a  guy  I  used  to  teach  where  to  put  commas."  He  stag- 
gered out,  leaving  me  with  a  sick,  hollow  feeling  in  the  pit  of  my  stomach 
and  a  dark  light  dawning  in  my  head.  Innocence  departed.  Life,  it  seemed, 
was  a  relentless,  never-ending  battle;  one  never  "arrived";  loyalty,  achieve- 
ment, could  be  forgotten  in  a  moment;  a  single  man's  whim  could  ruin  one. 
I  began  to  take  stock  of  the  situation  and  discovered  that  the  men  who  got 
to  the  top,  no  matter  how  long  they  stayed  there,  were  nearly  all  men  who 
had  studied  in  universities,  who  knew  something  besides  the  routine  of 
their  own  desks.  It  was  fear  as  much  as  anything  else  that  drove  me  to  col- 
lege, purely  personal  ambition  as  much  as  curiosity  about  the  world  I  lived 
in  and  what  had  made  it  the  way  I  found  it  to  be. 


EDGAR  DALE  The  effects  of  the  mass  media 

MAYOR  Jimmy  Walker  of  New  York  City  once  challenged  the  censors 
by  pointing  out  that  he  had  never  heard  of  any  girl  being  ruined 
by  a  book.  Morris  Ernst,  noted  exponent  of  civil  liberties,  asked  members 
of  an  audience  whether  any  of  them  had  ever  been  morally  injured  by 
reading  any  book,  or  seeing  a  play  or  motion  picture.  The  inference  in 
both  cases  was  that  no  girl  was  ever  ruined  by  a  book  or  that  no  individual 
was  ever  hurt  by  the  mass  media. 

Are  these  men  saying  that  books,  or  movies,  or  plays  have  no  effects- 
good  or  bad?  Morris  Ernst  would  hardly  have  written  The  First  Freedom 
just  for  his  own  pleasure.  If  books  have  no  effect,  then  why  concern  our- 

From  The  News  Letter,  November  1953,  edited  by  Edgar  Dale,  Professor  of  Educa- 
tion, Bureau  of  Educational  Research,  Ohio  State  University. 

306        MASS   MEDIA 


selves  about  the  censorship  of  such  books?  It  seems  to  me  that  those  who 
argue  against  censorship  on  the  ground  that  the  mass  media  have  no 
significant  effects  on  behavior  are  on  shaky  ground.  We  oppose  censorship 
of  books,  newspapers,  films,  or  television  precisely  because  these  media  do 
have  significant  effects. 

Further,  we  are  for  free  and  open  discussion  of  ideas  because  this  is  one 
way  of  trying  to  figure  out  just  what  effects  such  ideas  may  have.  It  is  also 
a  way  of  changing  the  effects,  as  I  shall  point  out  later.  We  prohibit  the 
communication  of  ideas  only  when  they  are  obscene  or  when  harmful 
action  may  follow  the  communication  so  closely  that  there  will  be  no  time 
for  discussing  and  evaluating  the  ideas.  You  can  go  to  jail  for  yelling  "Fire!" 
in  a  theater  only  because  the  immediate  effect  is  likely  to  be  panic.  You 
can  yell  "Fire!"  in  a  park  to  your  heart's  content— even  though  there  is  no 
fire.  Listeners  may  conclude  that  you  are  either  crazy  or  a  congenital  liar. 
We  see,  then,  that  the  situation  helps  determine  what  the  effect  will  be. 

But  let  us  look  a  little  more  closely  at  the  word  "effect."  One  of  our 
problems  in  discussing  the  effects  of  the  mass  media  is  one  of  definition. 
If  we  use  the  word  "effect"  as  meaning  only  a  precipitating  event,  the  last 
event  in  a  chain  of  related  events,  the  final  triggering  action,  we  would 
have  to  admit  that  a  book,  a  film,  a  letter,  or  many  communication  devices 
can  finally  trigger  off  an  action. 

Thus,  if  a  boy  commits  a  robbery  by  imitating  a  specific  method  shown 
in  a  movie  or  TV  program,  we  must  first  ask  what  kind  of  boy  he  was.  Was 
he  ready  to  rob  in  any  of  another  half  dozen  ways?  If  he  had  not  seen  the 
movie,  is  it  likely  he  would  have  made  no  other  attempt?  Did  the  movie 
"load  the  gun,"  or  merely  pull  the  trigger? 

We  could  hardly  expect  that  television  and  other  media  could  refrain 
from  portrayal  of  all  actions  which  might  be  imitated  with  disastrous  effects. 
A  playmate  of  mine  seeing  a  circus  acrobat  dive  into  a  net  decided  after 
reaching  home  to  dive  out  of  the  haymow  onto  a  spring  mattress,  thus  per- 
manently injuring  his  spine.  But  we  could  hardly  argue  that  high  diving 
should  not  be  permitted  in  circuses  because  little  boys  may  imitate  it  with 
dangerous  results. 

When  we  talk  about  the  mass  media,  therefore,  we  must  distinguish  be- 
tween those  immediate  triggering  effects  which  might  also  be  set  off  by 
other  activities  exclusive  of  mass  media  and  those  influences  which  have 
"a  persistent,  shaping  effect  upon  the  thought  and  behavior  of  human  be- 
ings, singly  or  collectively,"  as  noted  by  Louis  Gottschalk  in  his  book 
Understanding  History. 

What  are  some  of  these  possible  shaping  effects  upon  our  ways  of  using 
leisure  time?  At  least  five  thousand  motion  picture  theaters  have  closed 

THE   EFFECTS    OF   THE    MASS   MEDIA         307 


in  the  last  few  years.  This  has  an  effect  on  the  way  former  patrons  will  now 
use  their  leisure  time.  Perhaps  they  now  attend  a  larger  movie  theater,  but 
more  than  likely  they  are  spending  the  movie  time  looking  at  television. 
They  have  changed  their  habits,  but  whether  for  good  or  ill  is  an  extraor- 
dinarily difficult  question  to  answer.  But  a  truly  massive  effect  has  alread) 
been  made  upon  the  way  they  spend  their  leisure  time. 

Do  the  mass  media  have  a  persistent  shaping  effect  upon  specific  be- 
havior? Some  maintain  that  the  mass  media  do  influence  behavior  but  only 
on  the  good  side  of  the  ledger.  The  mass  media  can  reinforce  good,  they 
say,  but  not  the  bad.  However,  if  it  is  reasonable  to  assume  that  a  medium 
can  have  "bencficiar  effects,  then  we  must  also  assume  that  it  can  produce 
"harmful"  effects.  Consequent  behavior  can  move  in  socially  disapproved  or 
socially  approved  directions. 

As  one  reads  the  literature  on  the  effects  of  the  mass  media,  he  notes 
the  hardly  debatable  conclusion  that  it  is  much  easier  to  reinforce  present 
values  than  to  change  values.  It  will  obviously  be  easier  to  bring  about 
more  learning  in  a  particular  field  than  to  get  unlearning  plus  relearning. 
Thus  it  is  usually  less  difficult  to  interest  a  man  in  improving  his  golf  game 
than  it  is  to  persuade  him  to  quit  it  and  learn  another  sport.  One  may  also 
conclude  that  transfer  of  learning  will  occur  under  certain  conditions. 
It  took  twenty  years  of  work  with  mass  media  and  demonstration  to  get 
Iowa  farmers  to  accept  hybrid  corn.  But  the  introduction  of  hybrid  oats, 
following  hybrid  corn,  took  only  three  years. 

What  about  the  effect  of  the  mass  media  upon  the  shaping  of  specific  atti- 
tudes? On  this  point  Joseph  T.  Klapper  in  The  Effects  of  Mass  Media  says: 
"Thousands  of  experiments  have  established  beyond  reasonable  doubt  that 
persuasion  can  be  achieved  by  the  planned,  or  even  unplanned  presenta- 
tion of  appropriate  content  through  mass  media." 

One  finds  this  specifically  documented  in  the  Payne  Fund  studies  of 
Thurstone  and  Peterson,  Motion  Pictures  and  Attitudes  of  Children.  Their 
major  conclusion  was  "that  motion  pictures  have  definite,  lasting  effects  on 
the  social  attitudes  of  children  and  that  a  number  of  pictures  pertaining 
to  the  same  issue  may  have  a  cumulative  effect  on  attitude." 

The  fact  that  films  or  radio  programs  or  written  material  can  be  used 
to  change  attitudes  does  not  mean  that  it  is  easy  to  do  it.  About  half  of  the 
films  selected  by  Thurstone  and  Peterson  to  study  for  possible  effects  did 
not  produce  the  expected  effect.  One  film  brought  about  the  exact  oppo- 
site of  what  had  been  predicted.  Carefully  laid  public  relations  programs 
sometimes  boomerang.  As  noted  above,  it  is  easier  to  produce  an  effect 
which  means  merely  giving  increased  momentum  to  one's  attitudes  than 
it  is  to  decelerate  and  reverse  the  attitude. 

308         MASS   MEDIA 


What  about  the  use  of  the  mass  media  in  shaping  erroneous  ideas  about 
people,  in  causing  them  to  accept  false  information  as  true?  Here  again, 
the  findings  are  like  those  relating  to  attitudes.  There  is  a  tendency  to 
accept  as  true  what  is  seen  on  the  screen  unless  it  is  patently  false  or  unless 
the  person  already  has  sound  information  with  which  to  evaluate  it.  Thus, 
if  you  don't  know  what  college  is  like,  you  are  likely  to  accept  the  picture 
presented  in  a  movie.  If  you  have  good  sense  about  what  the  world  is 
like,  nonsense  can  take  care  of  itself.  It  will  be  seen  as  foolish,  or  funny 
or  fantastic.  But  when  the  truth  is  not  known,  the  inaccurate  is  accepted 
as  truth  and  the  dream  is  seen  as  reality. 

One  of  the  most  illuminating  findings  about  effects  of  mass  media  relates 
to  latency.  Thus  in  the  studies  in  the  armed  forces  it  was  discovered  that 
some  expected  effects  were  not  found  just  after  the  film  exposure  but  that 
they  did  appear  several  months  later. 

The  mass  media,  then,  do  have  significant  effects.  Some  are  merely 
triggers  to  set  off  a  gun  that  somebody  else,  some  other  agency  of  commu- 
nication, has  loaded  and  cocked.  But  the  mass  media  play  their  own  role, 
too,  and  influence  the  ideas,  the  attitudes,  and  the  stock  of  information 
which  people  have  about  the  real  world. 

What  can  we  do  about  it?  First,  we  must  try  to  convince  people  that  they 
are  not  immune  to  the  symbolic  world  as  brought  to  us  through  movies, 
television,  radio,  and  the  press.  It  is  subtly  influencing  our  ways  of  thinking. 

Second,  we  reject  the  idea  that  the  free  flow  of  ideas  should  be  impeded 
either  by  censorship  or  by  monopoly  control.  There  is  no  simple  answer 
to  the  problem  of  one-newspaper  towns,  newspaper  chains,  four  television 
networks,  concentration  of  film  production.  Some  argue  cogently  that  large- 
scale  operation  is  a  necessity  and  that  competition  among  the  various  media 
makes  monopoly  difficult. 

We  need  to  make  certain  that  the  mass  media  are  not  monopolized  by 
persons  who  have  the  same  ideas  about  labor,  capital,  religion,  taxation, 
or  whatever  the  field  may  be.  Perhaps  we  need  some  more  Christian  Sci- 
ence Monitors  or  labor  dailies.  There  should  be  competition  of  ideas  in  the 
marketplace  of  opinion.  In  all  the  shouting  of  the  mass  media  there  must 
be  room  for  the  opposing  voices  to  be  heard. 

Third,  we  must  bend  every  effort  to  develop  the  discriminating  viewer, 
listener,  and  reader.  There  are  so  many  falsehoods  presented  through  the 
mass  media  (e.g.,  the  toothpaste  ads),  so  many  accusations,  so  many  diver- 
gent claims,  that  we  must  develop  some  rough  yardsticks  as  to  whom  to 
believe.  The  remedy  for  this  avalanche  of  claims  and  counterclaims  is  not 
to  doubt  everything  but  to  learn  how  to  tell  what  is  true  and  what  is  false, 
a  truly  tough  job. 

THE    EFFECTS    OF    THE    MASS    MEDIA         309 


Our  schools  must  give  students  contact  with  excellence  wherever  it  ap- 
pears in  the  mass  media.  Provision  must  be  made  in  colleges,  for  example, 
for  students  to  see  the  best  in  films— theatrical,  documentary,  and  educa- 
tional films.  This  association  with  excellence  is  good  vaccination  against 
what  is  phony.  Students  should  have  an  opportunity  somewhere  in  their 
English  or  social  studies  curriculum  to  become  acquainted  with  excellent 
magazines  and  daily  newspapers. 

Certainly  we  can  expect  that  there  will  be  discriminating  teaching  in 
reference  to  television.  Students  can  be  asked  to  report  on  programs  best 
and  least  liked  and  to  give  reasons  for  their  choices.  They  can  sample  pro- 
grams recommended  by  fellow  students  or  by  teachers.  They  can  contrast 
and  evaluate  styles  of  news  commentators.  They  can  discuss  which  ones 
seem  to  appeal  primarily  to  one's  emotions  and  which  depend  upon  facts 
and  reasoning  for  their  judgments. 

If  mass  media  are  having  a  persistent  shaping  effect  upon  our  informa- 
tion, our  outlook,  our  attitudes,  then  parents,  schools,  and  colleges  have  an 
obligation  to  help  children  and  young  people  to  think  through  what  these 
effects  are  and  whether  they  are  good  or  bad.  If  the  effects  are  deemed 
desirable,  then  we  ask  how  such  effects  may  be  accelerated.  If  the  effects 
are  contrary  to  sound  parental  teachings  or  to  public  policy,  then  we  must 
ask  how  harmful  effects  can  be  minimized  or  eliminated.  We  must  work 
with  national  organizations  which  are  constructively  trying  to  improve  taste 
in  television.  Perhaps  more  than  anything  else,  the  consumer  of  the  mass 
media  should  not  think  of  them  as  "out  of  this  world."  They  are  in  the 
same  world  he  is,  and  he  should  make  the  most  of  it. 


ARTHUR  MAYER  Hollywood  verdict:  gilt 
but  riot  guilty 

I  HAVE  a  profound  respect  for  experts— in  all  fields  except  my  own.  When 
they  assure  us  that  there  has  been  a  substantial  advance  in  the  past 
decade  in  American  appreciation  of  literature,  drama,  and  music  I  un- 
hesitatingly accept  their  happy  findings.  But  when  they  assert,  as  they 
frequently  do,  that  similar  progress  has  taken  place  in  movie  taste  I  can 
only  caution  hold  your  horses— or  at  least  your  3-D  glasses. 


Reprinted  from  The  Saturday  Review,  October  31,  1953.    Copyright,  1953,  by  Satur- 
day Review  Associates,  Inc. 

310         MASS    MEDIA 


There  is  considerable  justification  for  the  indictment  so  frequently  pre- 
sented against  the  movie  moguls  that  they  themselves  have,  over  the  years, 
fashioned  their  own  audience  and  are  now  saddled  with  it— an  audience 
avid  for  escape,  acquiescent  to  saccharine  formulae,  and  allergic  to  what 
it  disparagingly  terms  "message"  pictures.  On  the  other  hand,  I  am  unfor- 
tunately so  venerable  that  I  vividly  recall  the  resentment  of  picturegoers 
when  Goldwyn  released  "The  Cabinet  of  Dr.  Caligari,"  the  first  full-length 
film  to  challenge  the  reign  of  realism  on  the  screen;  I  remember,  too,  the 
catastrophic  failure  of  Von  Stroheim's  "Greed,"  probably  the  most  cinemati- 
cally  imaginative  American  picture  ever  made,  and  the  other  similar  mis- 
haps too  numerous  to  catalogue  which  overtook  adventurous  pioneers  who 
in  early  movie  days  overestimated  the  intelligence  of  their  public.  Little, 
however,  can  be  gained  by  seeking  to  establish  the  relative  guilt  of  pro- 
ducers, exhibitors,  and  the  public.  They  all  share  in  the  errors  of  the  past 
and  the  perplexities  of  the  present. 

At  least  I  am  perplexed,  although  not  my  highbrow  friends.  Almost  daily 
for  the  past  thirty  years  they  have  assured  me  that  the  public  is  at  last  eager 
for  more  adult,  thought-provoking  pictures  than  it  is  receiving.  Whether 
they  have  arrived  at  this  cheerful  conclusion  through  research,  revelation, 
or  merely  wishful  thinking  I  am  not  aware.  It  seems  to  me,  after  a  lifetime 
largely  devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  patrons,  that  there  are  many  publics,  and 
that  nobody  knows  with  any  degree  of  consistency  what  any  of  these  pub- 
lics wants— neither  Spyros  Skouras,  the  indefatigable  president  of  Twentieth 
Century-Fox,  nor  his  critics,  nor  the  various  publics  themselves.  Of  the 
three,  however,  I  distrust  Mr.  Skouras's  judgments  the  least.  He,  at  any  rate, 
makes  his  guesses  neither  on  the  basis  of  hunch  nor  hope  but  on  a  continu- 
ing study  of  his  company's  finances  and  their  fluctuations  with  its  films- 
good,  bad,  and  indifferent.  Indeed,  if  we  really  desire  to  be  helpful  rather 
than  hep  it  would  be  well  to  stop  indulging  in  the  time-honored  sport  of 
throwing  spite-balls  at  Mr.  Skouras  and  his  fellow  movie  magnates— if  for 
no  other  reason  than  that  they  have  become  experts  at  dodging  them.  More- 
over, as  the  captain  of  the  Texas  shouted  to  his  sailors  when  the  Spanish 
ships  off  Santiago  were  sinking,  "Don't  cheer,  those  poor  devils  are  dying." 
If  we  are  genuinely  interested  in  the  production  of  more  "mature  films"  (to 
use  a  phrase  that  I  detest  but  do  not  know  how  to  improve )  let's  stop  talk- 
ing loosely  about  how  the  producers  underestimate  their  public  and  analyze 
what  have  been  the  roadblocks  encountered  by  such  films  and  to  what  ex- 
tent they  can,  under  existing  conditions,  be  destroyed  or  bypassed. 

Briefly,  they  can  be  summarized  as  follows: 

(1)  The  fabulous  financial  success  of  the  industry  discouraged  experi- 
mentation and  the  search  for  marginal  markets. 

HOLLYWOOD   VERDICT:    GILT   BUT    NOT   GUILTY         311 


(2)  The  equally  fabulous  cost  of  Hollywood  picture-producing  made 
mass  appeal  the  safest  and  quickest  method  of  assuring  a  profit. 

(3)  Most  of  the  so-called  "prestige"  movies  which  were  produced,  and 
the  foreign  films  which  were  imported,  failed  to  receive  sufficient  public 
support  to  encourage  increased  activities  of  this  nature. 

At  the  outset  we  must  disabuse  our  minds  of  the  stereotype  of  the  illiterate 
movie  tycoon  with  the  twelve-year-old  mentality.  Anyone  who  regards 
Mr.  Schenck  of  M-G-M  or  Mr.  Balaban  of  Paramount  as  lacking  horse  sense 
had  better  not  try  horse  trading  with  them.  Neither  of  these  unassuming, 
likable  gentlemen  went  to  college,  but  if  they  had  they  surely  would  have 
made  Phi  Beta  Kappa  and  been  elected  "the  man  most  apt  to  succeed"  in 
their  respective  classes. 

They  and  their  competitors  have  only  seen  fit  to  submit  to  the  iron  laws 
of  capitalist  economics  rather  than  to  the  equally  inflexible  precepts  of 
contemporary  uplifters.  If,  as  they  found  out  early  in  their  careers,  wonder- 
ful pictures  like  Bob  Flaherty's  starve  and  Shirley  Temple  films  break  at- 
tendance records,  it  appeared  prudent  to  them  to  pay  more  deference  to 
little  girls  with  dimples  than  to  distinguished  explorers  with  a  yen  for 
showing  how  strange  people  live  and  think  in  distant  places.  If  controversial 
films  provided  little  cash  and  many  repercussions  from  pressure  groups  of 
every  hue,  company  presidents  anxious  to  retain  their  jobs  and  emoluments 
decreed  fewer  dramatic  treatments  of  the  burning  issues  of  the  day  like 
'The  Watch  on  the  Rhine"  and  more  excursions  into  never-never  land  like 
"Lost  Horizon."  If  Robert  Montgomery  fans  were  shocked  when  he  ap- 
peared in  "Night  Must  Fall"  as  a  psychopathic  murderer  rather  than  in  his 
customary  role  of  a  light  and  debonair  lover,  studio  executives  concluded 
that  type-casting  was  what  their  public  preferred  and  thenceforward  heroes 
remained  heroic  and  bad  men  persisted  in  their  villainies. 

There  were  annual  gestures,  indeed  more  than  are  generally  acknowl- 
edged, in  the  direction  of  biography,  art,  and  defiance  of  formula,  such  as 
"Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois,"  "The  Long  Way  Home,"  and  "The  Ox-Bow  Inci- 
dent," but  they  met  with  so  little  popular  favor  that  prudent  presidents  fol- 
lowed the  line  of  least  resistance,  and— like  the  manufacturers  of  automo- 
biles or  zippers— gave  the  customers  what  they  seemed  most  eager  to  pay 
for.  They  regarded  their  obligation  to  their  stockholders  as  more  pressing 
than  the  educational  and  cultural  needs  of  the  nation.  While  we  must  de- 
plore this  strictly  commercial  approach  to  the  operation  of  a  great  medium 
of  communication,  we  must  also  remember  that  had  they  acted  otherwise 
they  would  quickly  have  been  replaced  by  hungry  rivals  more  rapacious  and 
even  less  civic-minded. 

Conducting  the  industry  as  a  business  rather  than  as  a  social  trust,  they 


312 


MASS    MEDIA 


created  a  worldwide  entertainment  empire  the  like  of  which  had  never  been 
conceived  before.  The  courts  have  judged  them  guilty  of  conspiracy  in  the 
distribution  and  exhibition  of  their  wares,  but  in  production  cut-throat 
competition  prevailed.  The  battle  for  stars,  stories,  and  technicians  beggars 
description  and  would  have  beggared  any  less  indestructible  an  enterprise. 
Production  budgets  zoomed  to  astronomic  heights.  Efficiency  experts  rep- 
resenting banks  and  other  gimlet-eyed  investors  journeyed  regularly  to 
Hollywood  to  see  who  was  crazy  and  returned  home  raving  maniacs  them- 
selves. As  costs  continued  to  soar,  so  inevitably  did  the  pressure  for  a  mass 
market.  During  the  Thirties  and  Forties  this  was  maintained  by  trade  prac- 
tices such  as  producer-ownership  of  the  leading  theatre  circuits  and  the 
block-booking  system  under  which  exhibitors  seeking  to  purchase  major 
box-office  attractions  were  also  compelled  to  buy  the  less  desirable  pictures. 
When  the  courts  eventually  declared  these  procedures  illegal,  and  every 
picture  had  to  be  sold  strictly  on  its  merits,  or  what  passed  for  merits,  it 
had  to  be  fashioned  and  merchandised  even  more  than  previously  for  its 
appeal  to  the  widest  (frequently  interpreted  as  synonymous  with  the  low- 
est) common  denominator  of  public  taste.  Under  the  much-abused  system 
of  block-booking  unpretentious  films  with  novel  situations  and  fresh  atti- 
tudes, such  as  "A  Man  to  Remember"  or  "The  Curse  of  the  Cat  People," 
occasionally  crept  through  and  were  crammed  down  the  throats  of  helpless 
exhibitors.  Now,  in  the  classic  words  of  Variety,  it  was  "boffo  or  busto," 
meaning  there  was  no  longer  any  middle  ground  and  every  picture  was 
either  a  click  or  a  cluck. 

Most  commentators  fret  about  the  ethics  of  the  industry,  but  what  actu- 
ally went  hopelessly  haywire  was  its  economics.  The  average  negative  cost 
at  Twentieth  Century-Fox  in  1949  was  $2,200,000  and  other  major  studios 
did  not  lag  far  behind.  Orson  Welles  recently  remarked:  "If  I  am  a  painter 
and  want  to  paint  I  go  out,  buy  an  easel,  some  paints  and  brushes,  and 
go  to  work.  I  am  an  artist.  But  if  I  want  to  make  a  moving  picture  I  have 
to  raise  a  million  dollars.  And  when  I  do  that  I  become  a  businessman." 

A  modest  theatrical  production  can  be  staged  for  $40,000;  a  novel  with  a 
sale  of  some  8,000  copies  can  pay  its  way;  CBS  regards  a  listening  audience 
of  a  million  as  "impressive."  But  the  average  Hollywood  feature  film  to 
return  its  investment  must  be  seen  by  at  least  15,000,000  people.  In  the  face 
of  the  need  for  so  vast  an  audience  only  an  occasional  daring  producer,  such 
as  John  Huston  or  Stanley  Kramer,  tempts  fate  with  a  "Red  Badge  of  Cour- 
age" or  a  "Member  of  the  Wedding."  Such  pictures  frequently  are  referred 
to  as  "artistic  failures"  although  they  may  play  to  audiences  of  five  to  ten 
million  which,  by  any  other  standard  than  Hollywood's  inflated  production 
costs,  would  be  ample  to  return  a  huge  profit.  Under  its  present  set-up  the 

HOLLYWOOD  VERDICT:    GILT  BUT   NOT   GUILTY        313 


industry  can  and  does  turn  out  fine  entertaining  pictures  which  appeal  to 
every  class  in  the  community  such  as  "From  Here  to  Eternity"  or  "Roman 
Holiday"  but  those  who  seek  subtlety  or  sophistication  will  not  find  it  in 
their  movies  any  more  frequently  than  they  do  so  in  the  pages  of  the  Ladies 
Home  Journal  or  Cosmopolitan. 

Because  of  this  or  in  spite  of  it,  or  probably  because  all  other  desirable 
commodities  were  rationed  while  cash  was  plentiful,  the  public  flocked  to 
the  movies  in  the  years  following  World  War  II  as  never  before.  The  profits 
of  the  six  leading  companies  in  1946  amounted  to  332  million  dollars. 
Weekly  domestic  theatre  attendance  was  estimated,  probably  somewhat 
generously,  at  80,000,000. 

And  then  almost  overnight  television  reared  its  ugly  antennae  on  the 
rooftops  of  the  nation.  Within  four  years  twenty-five  million  living  rooms 
were  converted  into  miniature  theatres.  Movie  men,  softened  by  years  of 
easy  success,  faced  a  youthful  aggressive  competitor  which  was  prepared, 
through  commercial  sponsorship,  to  furnish  entertainment  gratis— maybe 
not  so  lavish  or  star-studded  as  Hollywood's,  but  entertainment  minus 
queues,  minus  parking,  minus  baby  sitters,  minus  box  office. 

Producers  and  exhibitors  alike  reeled  under  the  impact.  Receipts  declined 
44  per  cent  and  over  5,000  of  the  18,500  conventional  indoor  type  of  theatres 
closed.  To  combat  the  challenge  of  television  M-G-M  and  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury-Fox, at  that  time  the  best  organized  and  most  alert  studios  in  Holly- 
wood (though  maybe  I  think  so  only  because  they  diagnosed  the  malady 
much  as  I  did),  decided  that  the  time  was  ripe  to  supply  the  screens  of 
the  nation  with  a  product  directed  at  a  higher  intellectual  level  than  had  in 
the  past  proved  palatable  or  profitable.  The  addicts  of  quantity  in  enter- 
tainment could,  they  figured,  linger  at  home,  hugging  their  consoles  as  well 
as  their  consorts,  while  those  who  preferred  quality  would  at  long  last  find 
their  more  rarefied  tastes  gratified  with  greater  frequency  at  their  local 
theatre. 

Never  before  had  these  two  companies,  thanks  to  their  gifted  studio 
heads,  Dore  Schary  and  Darryl  Zanuck,  so  copiously  expended  their  re- 
sources and  talents  to  create  a  superior  product.  Never  before  had  they 
turned  out  so  high  a  percentage  of  adult  films.  And  never  before  did  they 
suffer  such  catastrophic  consequences.  Movies  were  better  than  ever,  but 
business  was  worse.  "Intruder  in  the  Dust,"  "Asphalt  Jungle,"  "Magnificent 
Yankee,"  "Fourteen  Hours,"  "S.S.  Teakettle,"  "Decision  Before  Dawn,"  one 
after  another  proved  resounding  flops.  If  they  had  not  released  a  few  mas- 
sive spectacles  like  "Quo  Vadis"  and  "David  and  Bathsheba"  and  a  few 
smash  musicals  like  "The  Great  Caruso"  and  "Showboat,"  and  if  their  for- 
eign markets  had  not  greatly  expanded,  both  companies  would  have  shown 

814        MASS  MEDIA 


heavy  losses.  As  it  was,  Twentieth's  earnings  at  the  height  of  its  liaison  with 
the  adult,  if  not  the  adulterous,  nose-dived  to  one  cent  per  share. 

Confronted  by  disaster,  they  rapidly  reversed  their  field.  The  sensational 
success  of  Cinerama  and  of  the  first  3-D  quickie,  "Bwana  Devil,"  suggested 
a  new  and  more  promising  method  of  enticing  patrons  back  to  the  picture 
palaces.  Overnight  the  industry  was  again  looking  at  the  future  through 
rose-colored  glasses,  if  only  by  courtesy  of  the  Polaroid  Company  of  Amer- 
ica. What  price  maturity  if  Warner's  "House  of  Wax"  or  Paramount's  "San- 
garee"  could  bring  out  crowds  the  like  of  which  had  not  been  seen  since 
1947?  Mr.  Harry  Warner  was  so  enthralled  that  he  prophesied  that  a  pair 
of  polarizing  glasses  would  soon  become  as  essential  to  the  average  man's 
wardrobe  as  a  wristwatch  or  a  fountain  pen.  Mr.  Milton  Gunzberg,  propo- 
nent of  something  called  "natural  vision,"  declared  that  those  who  attended 
it  "received  as  much  eye  benefit  in  some  instances  as  they  might  from 
experiencing  a  dozen  treatments  for  exercises  in  a  doctor's  office." 

Suddenly  we  all  became  authorities  on  interaxial  spacing,  distorted  con- 
vergence, and  anamorphic  lenses.  Never  since  the  advent  of  sound  had 
there  been  so  much  excitement  in  Hollywood,  and  never— even  then— so 
much  confusion.  Almost  every  day  the  trade  papers  heralded  the  invention 
of  some  new  scheme  for  showing  stereoscopic  or  wide-screen  pictures  or 
both.  There  was  Depth-O-Vision,  Metrovision,  and  Paravision,  Vistorama, 
Triorama,  TriOpticon,  True  Stereo,  and  Bolex  Stereo.  The  Russians,  as  was 
to  be  anticipated,  announced  that  they  had  scooped  the  universe  and  had 
been  showing  3-D  films  without  glasses  for  lo  these  many  years. 

This  is  neither  the  suitable  place,  nor  am  I  the  suitable  authority,  to  ade- 
quately explain  these  technical  innovations.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  in- 
domitable Mr.  Skouras  emerged  with  perhaps  the  best  and  certainly  the 
most  publicized  process.  Christened  CinemaScope,  it  dispenses  with  the 
glasses  required  for  3-D  and  the  three  projectors  which  make  Cinerama  too 
costly  for  widespread  theatre  installation.  It  is  projected  on  a  huge  curved 
screen,  with  a  width  more  than  2/2  times  its  height,  and  accompanied  by 
a  cacophonic  roar  known  as  stereophonic  sound.  Actually,  the  picture 
projected  is  not  stereoscopic,  but  is  designed  to  engulf  and  overwhelm 
theatre  patrons  to  such  an  extent  that  they  feel  themselves  part  and  parcel 
of  what  they  are  witnessing.  At  least  on  the  initial  week  of  its  showing  at 
the  Roxy  Theatre,  "The  Robe,"  Twentieth  Century-Fox's  first  CinemaScope 
masterpiece,  overpowered  the  New  York  public  to  the  tune  of  $317,000  (in- 
cluding taxes),  establishing  an  all-time  theatrical  box-office  record. 

Mr.  Skouras  has  announced  that  hereafter  all  of  his  company's  produc- 
tions will  be  shot  exclusively  for  CinemaScope,  and  although  exhibitors  may 
bewail  the  cost  of  new  equipment  and  esthetes  its  "mail  slot"  proportions, 

HOLLYWOOD  VERDICT:    GILT   BUT   NOT   GUILTY         315 


there  can  be  little  question  that  CinemaScope  or  some  similar  process  has 
come  to  stay.  There  are  now  in  production,  or  about  to  be  produced  by 
different  companies,  124  films  designed  either  for  3-D  or  the  wide  screen. 
The  new  processes  call  for  "big  pictures"— for  the  spectacular  and  the  epic, 
rather  than  for  the  intimate  and  the  tender.  While  these  techniques  are  in 
the  ascendancy,  "Quo  Vadis"  will  be  the  prevalent  movie  model  rather 
than  "Lili." 

The  expense  of  producing  such  pictures  will  make  all  previous  records 
appear  miserly.  Twentieth  Century-Fox  has  appropriated  $35,000,000  for 
its  first  fourteen  CinemaScope  productions.  What  "Oklahoma!"  will  cost 
Todd  A.  O.  and  "Seven  Wonders  of  the  World"  Cinerama,  no  one  has  even 
dared  to  announce.  There  will  not  be  over  250  pictures  made  by  the  major 
companies  in  1954— less  than  half  the  number  which  Hollywood  in  its  hey- 
day used  to  produce— but  the  total  outlay  will  probably  be  the  greatest  in 
its  history. 

The  prospects  for  the  future,  however,  are  not  as  bleak  and  forbidding 
as  all  this  may  sound.  There  are  many  theatres  which  because  of  their  lim- 
ited size,  bankroll,  or  enthusiasm,  are  unprepared  to  install  3-D  and/or 
wide-angle  lenses.  There  are  many  picturegoers  who  will  find  themselves 
unable  to  adjust  to  the  eye  and  ear  strain  of  the  stereoscopic  and  stereo- 
phonic and  who  will  declare  themselves  allergic  to  colossal  closeups,  lengthy 
scenes,  and  diminished  tempo. 

These  recalcitrant  exhibitors  and  patrons  constitute  potential  recruits 
for  what  are  now  unfortunately  known  as  "art  houses."  Actually,  their  name 
is  no  more  misleading  than  are  the  reports,  sedulously  circulated  by  wishful 
thinkers,  concerning  their  rapidly  expanding  numbers  and  prosperity.  They 
rarely,  except  as  an  added  attraction,  play  genuine  art  films  such  as  "The 
Titan"  or  "Leonardo  Da  Vinci"— their  current  plight,  if  they  did,  would  be 
even  worse.  Only  those  who  occasionally  manage  to  book  such  Hollywood 
forays  into  the  adult  world  as  "The  Moon  Is  Blue"  or  "Death  of  a  Salesman" 
show  a  reasonable  return,  if  any,  on  their  investment. 

At  present  less  than  500  theatres  play  foreign  and  English  films  with 
reasonable  consistency,  and  the  majority  of  these  do  so  only  when  a  suit- 
able product  is  available— said  product  being  more  apt  to  consist  of  "Bitter 
Rice"  or  "Anna,"  with  sex  appeal  thinly  disguised  as  art,  than  of  Continental 
films  of  genuine  distinction  such  as  "The  Little  World  of  Don  Camillo"  or 
"Forbidden  Games."  One  hundred  twenty  of  them  are  located  in  the  New 
York  metropolitan  area,  forty-four  in  Los  Angeles,  and  thirty-four  in  San 
Francisco.  In  all,  they  exist  in  only  seventy  communities  and  they  represent 
less  than  3  per  cent  of  the  total  number  of  theatre  seats  in  the  United  States. 

The  existence  of  this  handful  of  houses  is,  however,  of  far  greater  con- 

316         MASS   MEDIA 


sequence  than  their  limited  number  or  success  would  indicate.  Its  real  sig- 
nificance is  suggested  by  Frederick  Lewis  Allen  in  "The  Big  Change,"  when 
he  writes  in  quite  another  connection:  "The  job  before  those  Americans  who 
would  like  to  see  the  United  States  a  Greece  rather  than  a  Carthage  is  to  try 
to  develop,  alongside  the  media  of  entertainment  and  equipment  which 
satisfy  the  people's  present  needs,  others  which  will  satisfy  more  exacting 
taste  and  will  be  on  hand  for  them  when  they  are  ready  for  more  reward- 
ing fare."  Those  of  us  who,  like  Mr.  Allen,  realize  the  necessity  for  such  out- 
posts of  culture  would  be  of  greater  service  to  our  cause  if  we  talked  less 
glowingly  about  the  progress  of  the  art  houses  and  sought  more  zealously 
to  understand  the  nature  of  their  current  status. 

Their  problems  are  many.  The  two  primary  difficulties,  however,  consist 
of  a  scarcity  of  pictures  and  of  patrons.  The  Sutton  or  the  Paris  Theatres 
in  New  York  can  flourish  with  three  or  four  successful  pictures  a  year,  the 
Squirrel  Hill  in  Pittsburgh  may  need  twenty,  but  before  the  Roxy  of  Fargo, 
North  Dakota,  for  example,  can  feel  reasonably  safe  in  abandoning  a  strictly 
commercial  policy  it  requires  the  assurance  of  a  steady  flow  of  product. 
And  until  we  have  art  theatres  in  the  Fargos  as  well  as  in  New  York  and 
Pittsburgh  the  movement  will  never  be  built  on  a  solid  national  foundation. 
Nor  can  it  have  such  a  solid  foundation  without  ardent  local  supporters. 
The  reactions  of  the  non-habitual  moviegoers  are,  at  best,  tardy.  It  does  not 
make  a  vital  difference  to  a  publisher  if  his  book  sells  in  the  first  week  of  its 
publication  or  in  the  tenth,  but  with  movies  prompt  patronage  is  of  the 
essence.  Every  first-run  theatre  has  a  weekly  holdover  figure.  If  a  picture 
faJls  below  this  amount  of  business  it  is  losing  money  and  few  exhibitors 
have  the  intestinal  fortitude  to  prolong  the  engagement  in  the  hope  that 
patronage  will  "build."  After  an  unsuccessful  showing  of  this  nature  it  be- 
comes almost  impossible  to  obtain  subsequent  runs  for  a  picture.  The  finest 
French  film  of  the  Resistance,  "Bataille  Du  Rail,"  for  example,  has  been 
exhibited  on  less  than  half-a-dozen  occasions.  Time  after  time  friends  have 
told  me  that  they  heard  that  a  picture  which  I  was  handling  was  superb 
and  that  they  fully  intended  to  see  it.  Before  they  could  tear  themselves 
away,  however,  from  such  agreeable  pastimes  as  discussing  how  juvenile 
were  most  movies,  it  had  been  relegated  to  a  can  on  a  shelf,  only  occasion- 
ally dusted  off  for  a  select  showing  at  a  university  or  an  art  museum. 

The  success  of  a  limited  number  of  English  importations  like  "Tight  Little 
Island,"  "Kind  Hearts  and  Coronets,"  and  "The  Cruel  Sea"  at  New  York 
City  small  first-run  houses  has  led  to  premature  rejoicing  among  myopic 
Manhattanites.  West  of  the  Hudson,  however,  and  south  of  the  Bay,  such 
films  are  still  regarded  with  profound  suspicion.  Small-town  patrons 
find  their  Oxford  intonation  so  unintelligible  that  they  suggest  the  need 

HOLLYWOOD   VERDICT:    GILT   BUT   NOT   GUILTY         317 


of   subtitles   similar  to   those  used  for   French   or   Italian  importations. 

Two  years  ago  my  associates  and  I  imported  an  English  melodrama, 
"Seven  Days  to  Noon/'  which  dealt  with  the  threat  to  mankind  encased 
in  the  atomic  bomb.  The  picture  grossed  less  than  $225,000  and  of  this 
disappointing  figure  we  took  about  65  per  cent  out  of  the  New  York  metro- 
politan area.  The  average  for  a  Hollywood  picture  for  that  territory  is  15 
per  cent!  "Hamlet"  and  "Henry  V,"  aided  by  the  vigorous  support  of  Wom- 
en's Clubs,  school  authorities,  and  other  public-spirited  groups,  which  ap- 
parently Shakespeare  can  enlist  but  which  we  have  never  been  able  to 
muster  for  authors  who  have  the  misfortune  to  be  alive,  both  grossed  over 
two  and  a  half  million  dollars.  But  for  every  "Henry  V"  there  are  a  dozen 
other  English  pictures  which  fail  even  to  return  the  cost  of  prints,  acces- 
sories, and  advertising.  Such  splendid  features  as  "Cry  the  Beloved  Coun- 
try," "Ivory  Hunter,"  and  "The  Brave  Don't  Cry,"  will  not  transfer  an  Ameri- 
can dime  to  their  dollar-hungry  creators.  As  for  foreign-language  films,  their 
business,  contrary  to  the  general  impression,  has  been  steadily  shrinking 
since  the  halcyon  days  of  "Open  City"  and  "Paisan."  Rarely  do  they  succeed 
in  obtaining  200  bookings;  fifty  is  much  closer  to  the  average,  and  many 
secure  even  less. 

If  the  art  theatre  is  to  justify  its  existence  it  must  free  itself  from  its  pres- 
ent bondage  to  the  films  of  foreign  nations.  Much  as  we  may  appreciate 
European  realism  and  candor,  it  does  not  appear  to  me  unduly  jingoistic 
to  believe  that  we  also  require  pictures  about  the  American  scene  written 
by  American  authors,  directed  by  men  with  an  American  point  of  view, 
and  performed  by  American  actors.  Fortunately,  or  unfortunately,  there 
are  many  such  men  and  women  now  available.  Some  of  them  are  Holly- 
wood exiles  whose  youthful  idealism  misled  them  into  joining  organiza- 
tions which  a  decade  or  more  ago  gave  the  impression  of  being  wholly 
praiseworthy  in  their  objectives.  Many  of  them  in  the  past  participated  in 
making  some  of  our  best  pictures.  They  are  now  out  of  work  and  eager 
to  demonstrate  their  devotion  to  democratic  rather  than  totalitarian  ideals. 
In  addition,  there  are  the  old-time  non-ideological  rebels  who  never  were 
able  to  adjust  themselves  to  big  studio  practices  or  politics,  not  to  men- 
tion the  1953  brand  of  irreconcilables  bitterly  averse  to  the  new  epic  tech- 
niques. Lastly,  there  is  a  talented  younger  generation  knocking  on  the 
door— a  door  which  with  a  production  cut  of  probably  50  per  cent  will  prove 
harder  to  pry  open  than  ever  before. 

In  the  past,  independent  pictures— except  for  the  costly  creations  of  such 
intrepid  entrepreneurs  as  Goldwyn  and  Selznick— have  been  almost  exclu- 
sively imitative  in  intent.  The  films  distributed  by  Lippert  or  Monogram 
were  designed  solely  to  duplicate  with  inferior  casts,  stories,  and  produc- 

318         MASS   MEDIA 


tion  facilities  the  successes  of  their  bigger  rivals.  They  were  never  intended 
for  art-house  showing  but  only  to  serve  as  secondary  attractions  on  double- 
feature  bills. 

There  have,  however,  been  a  handful  of  exceptions,  enough  to  prove  that 
it  is  only  by  suffrance  that  Europe  continues  to  enjoy  its  present  monopoly 
in  the  field  of  the  experimental  or  the  sophisticated  cinema— exceptions 
such  as  "The  Quiet  One,"  "Navajo  Boy,"  "The  Well,"  and  "The  Little  Fugi- 
tive." Bucking  the  present  tendency  towards  the  lush  and  the  lavish,  there 
are,  even  in  Hollywood,  young  men  like  Clarence  Greene,  Russell  Rouse, 
and  others  who  apparently  have  mastered  the  art  of  making  for  $150,000 
films  that  are  not  an  insult  to  the  intelligence. 

Under  existing  conditions,  however,  pictures  budgeted  even  at  this  low 
figure  are  unable  to  return  a  profit  if  exhibited  exclusively  in  art  houses. 
To  cure  this  situation  there  should  be  at  least  50  per  cent  more  such  theatres. 
They  cannot  continue  to  be  confined  to  a  limited  number  of  highly  competi- 
tive situations  but  must  be  spread  across  the  country  until  there  is  one  in 
each  of  the  106  American  cities  with  populations  of  over  100,000,  and  at 
least  two  or  three  in  the  larger  communities.  What  with  bad  business,  short- 
ages of  product,  and  the  dilemma  of  the  new  techniques,  there  are  a  pleth- 
ora of  commercial  theatres  prepared  to  experiment  with  a  new  policy. 
They  will  do  so  just  as  soon  as  suitable  pictures  in  adequate  quantities  are 
available.  And  such  pictures  will,  in  turn,  be  available  just  as  soon  as  more 
patrons  rally  to  the  support  of  those  now  in  circulation. 

Neither  of  the  ancient  bogeys— Hollywood  moguls  or  inflexible  exhibitors 
—stand  in  the  way.  All  that  is  necessary  is  for  the  intellectuals  to  stop  pay- 
ing lip  service  to  the  better  cinema  and  to  start  paying  admission.  When 
they  do  so  the  exciting  thing  about  American  movies  will  be,  not  how  much 
wider  they  are,  but  how  much  better. 


GEORGE  GALLUP  Mass  information 

or  mass  entertainment 

ONE  OF  the  real  threats  to  America's  future  place  in  the  world  is  a  citi- 
zenry which  daily  elects  to  be  entertained  and  not  informed. 
From  the  time  the  typical  citizen  arises  and  looks  at  his  morning  news- 
Reprinted  from  Vital  Speeches,  May  15,  1953,  by  permission  of  the  author  and  pub- 
lisher.   Delivered  at  the  time  capsule  ceremonies  of  the  new  Communication  Center, 
State  University  of  Iowa,  April  14,  1953. 

MASS   INFORMATION   OR   MASS   ENTERTAINMENT        319 


paper  until  he  turns  off  his  radio  or  television  set  before  going  to  bed,  he 
has  unwittingly  cast  his  vote  a  hundred  times  for  entertainment  or  for 
education. 

Without  his  knowing  it,  he  has  helped  to  determine  the  very  character 
of  our  three  most  important  media  of  communication:  the  press,  radio,  and 
television. 

The  sad  and  irrefutable  fact  is  that  the  choice  of  the  American  public  is 
going  so  heavily  in  favor  of  entertainment  that  we  may,  as  the  saying  goes, 
eventually  "kill  ourselves  laughing." 

What  is  the  evidence?  Let's  look  first  at  television.  To  appreciate  the 
extent  to  which  entertainment  has  taken  over  this  medium,  one  should 
glance  over  the  newspaper  listing  of  the  programs,  for  just  one  week.  Or 
better  still,  study  the  popularity  ratings  of  all  shows  on  TV.  The  variety 
shows,  mysteries,  comedies,  westerns,  completely  dominate  the  lists.  You'll 
find  only  a  handful  of  shows  which  I  would  describe  as  truly  informational. 

The  fault  can't  be  attributed  to  the  medium  nor  to  the  advertisers  who 
make  the  final  decision  as  to  which  shows  they  will  sponsor.  The  fault  is 
almost  entirely  with  the  television  viewers. 

I  have  known  many  a  valiant  attempt  on  the  part  of  advertisers  to  put 
information  shows  on  the  air,  only  to  be  compelled  by  good  business  prac- 
tice to  withdraw  them  after  it  was  clearly  demonstrated  that  the  public  was 
not  interested  in  this  type  of  serious  fare. 

Those  who  own  and  control  the  networks  and  independent  stations  of 
the  country  would  prefer  a  better  balance,  if  the  public  could  somehow 
be  induced  to  give  relatively  more  time  to  information  and  less  to  entertain- 
ment. 

The  present  lack  of  interest  in  the  informative  type  of  television  show  is 
shocking.  The  total  number  of  hours  devoted  by  the  American  public  to 
just  two  shows,  "I  Love  Lucy"  and  the  "Show  of  Shows'*  is  greater  than 
the  total  number  of  hours  spent  on  all  information  or  educational  shows  put 
together. 

And  perhaps  here  I  need  to  make  myself  clear  on  one  point.  I  am  not  in 
any  sense  opposed  to  entertainment  shows.  The  American  public  can  not 
be  criticized  for  its  love  of  entertainment.  That  is  one  of  our  more  attrac- 
tive qualities  as  a  people.  I  do  wish  to  argue  strenuously,  however,  that 
there  should  be  a  better  balance  between  entertainment  and  education. 

The  situation  in  respect  to  radio  programs  is  essentially  the  same  as  in 
the  case  of  television,  In  the  entire  history  of  this  medium  not  one  serious, 
educational  show  has  ever  reached  a  top  rating.  And  most  programs  of  this 
type  have  such  small  audiences  that  they  are  kept  on  the  air  solely  for  pres- 


320 


MASS   MEDIA 


tige  purposes,  that  is  to  say,  to  prove  to  legislators  and  critics  that  it  is 
possible  to  find  a  few  educational  shows  amongst  the  hundreds  of  entertain- 
ment shows  offered  weekly  by  this  medium. 

There  has  been  a  rash  of  quiz  shows  on  radio  and  to  a  lesser  extent  on 
television.  But  I  have  never  found  much  justification  for  listing  these  as 
educational.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  makes  little  difference  whether  the 
people  of  this  country  know  how  long  a  fly  can  stand  on  the  ceiling  or 
whether  Martha  Washington  had  an  upper  plate.  Without  the  lavish  prizes 
that  are  handed  out  to  almost  anyone  who  can  remember  his  own  name, 
these  shows  would  all  have  died  a-borning. 

The  newspaper  itself  has  had  to  make  great  concessions  to  this  ever- 
growing demand  on  the  part  of  the  public  to  be  entertained.  Within  the 
last  two  decades  the  number  of  comic  strips  printed  daily  and  Sunday  has 
increased  by  many  times.  And  don't  for  one  minute  assume  that  only  chil- 
dren read  them.  Actually,  more  adults  read  the  most  popular  comic  strip 
on  a  typical  day  than  read  the  most  important  news  story  on  the  front  page. 

During  the  last  war  one  of  the  saddest  sights  to  me  was  to  see  grown 
men,  most  of  them  with  high  school  or  college  training,  poring  over  comic 
books  in  railroad  and  bus  stations  and  apparently  wholly  unconcerned  with 
the  happenings  in  the  world,  which  would  almost  certainly  affect  their 
destiny. 

In  a  recent  study  of  metropolitan  newspapers,  it  was  found  that  the 
average  amount  of  time  which  a  reader  spends  daily  on  the  important  news 
of  his  country  and  of  the  world  is  less  than  four  minutes.  He  spends  ten 
times  as  much  time  on  sports,  local  gossip,  and  the  service  and  entertain- 
ment features. 

For  many  years  I  have  been  interested  in  the  problems  of  the  motion- 
picture  industry,  the  chief  of  which  is,  of  course,  the  problem  of  making 
pictures  which  net  a  profit.  In  estimating  picture  "grosses,"  we  discovered 
that  one  question  is  absolutely  essential  on  the  questionnaires  given  to 
movie-goers.  He  is  asked  to  tell  whether,  on  the  basis  of  the  title  and  a 
synopsis  of  the  story,  he  believes  the  picture  to  be  "educational."  If  the 
answer  is  "yes,"  it  is  safe  to  predict  almost  certain  failure  for  the  picture 
at  the  box  office. 

From  the  field  of  book  reading  comes  further  evidence  of  our  lack  of 
intellectual  interests.  For  many  years  I  have  had  the  opportunity  to  probe 
into  the  book  reading  habits  of  the  American  people. 

Despite  the  fact  that  we  have  the  highest  level  of  formal  education  in  the 
world,  fewer  people  buy  and  read  books  in  this  nation  than  in  any  other 
modern  democracy.  The  typical  Englishman,  with  far  less  formal  educa- 

MASS    INFORMATION   OR    MASS    ENTERTAINMENT         321 


tion,  reads  nearly  three  times  as  many  books  as  our  typical  citizen.  In  fact, 
an  Englishman  who  leaves  school  at  the  age  of  fourteen  reads  about  as  many 
books  as  our  college  graduate. 

This  lack  of  interest  in  books  is  reflected  by  the  number  of  bookstores 
in  the  United  States.  In  this  country,  about  1450  stores  sell  a  fairly  com- 
plete line  of  books.  In  Denmark,  a  nation  whose  population  is  just  about 
half  that  of  New  York  City,  there  are  some  650  full-fledged  bookstores. 
If  we  had  the  same  proportion  in  this  country  as  Denmark,  we  would  have 
not  1450  bookstores-but  23,000! 

But  some  will  say  that  whereas  we  have  few  bookstores  we  have  a  great 
many  free  libraries.  We  do,  but  certainly  not  to  the  extent  of  the  Scandi- 
navian countries.  In  the  United  States  there  are  about  7500  free  public 
libraries.  In  Sweden,  a  nation  only  one  twenty-fifth  the  size  of  the  United 
States  in  population,  there  are  6500  free  public  libraries.  Or  to  put  this 
comparison  in  another  way,  the  United  States  would  have  to  have  not  7500 
libraries—but  150,000  to  equal  Sweden! 

Recent  reports  from  Moscow  tell  of  the  great  interest  in  books  in  that 
city.  Frank  Rounds,  Jr.,  in  the  United  States  News,  describes  the  numerous 
bookstores  in  Moscow,  and  the  large  number  of  persons  who  read  serious 
books  on  the  subways.  The  libraries  of  Moscow  open  at  9  A.M.  and  close 
at  11:30  P.M.  and  all  day  long  people  queue  up  to  get  into  them. 

Have  you  seen  any  queues  in  front  of  our  libraries  lately? 

It  is  understandable  perhaps  why  citizens  in  the  United  States  who  have 
had  little  or  no  schooling  would  not  be  interested  in  books.  The  discour- 
aging fact  is  that  our  high  school  and  college  trained  citizens  read  so  few 
books  of  a  serious  nature. 

In  a  recent  survey  of  college  graduates  which  I  undertook,  it  was  dis- 
covered that  five  out  of  every  six  had  not  done  any  reading  of  a  serious 
nature  in  the  few  months  just  prior  to  the  interview—that  is,  reading  which 
was  not  immediately  connected  with  their  business  or  occupation. 

Of  the  entire  group,  only  a  little  more  than  half— 55%— could  name  any 
recently  published  book  which  they  would  like  to  read. 

The  ignorance  of  these  college  graduates  about  the  classics  was  over- 
whelming. Only  one  in  ten  could  name  the  author  of  "Tom  Jones,"  three 
out  of  four  could  not  name  the  author  of  "Wealth  of  Nations,"  six  in  ten 
could  not  name  the  author  of  "Vanity  Fair."  One  college  graduate  inter- 
viewed frankly  admitted  that  he  had  not  read  a  book  since  he  left  college 
ten  years  ago.  He  knew  nothing  about  any  of  the  current  best-sellers.  In 
answer  to  some  questions  which  attempted  to  probe  into  his  knowledge 
of  authors,  he  "guessed  that"  Shakespeare  wrote  Canterbury  Tales,  and  that 


322 


MASS   MEDIA 


an  author  he  identified  as  "longsworth"  wrote  Tom  Jones.  And  yet  this  mar 
is  a  Bachelor  of  Arts. 

I  have  heard  it  said  that  pocket-size  books  which  sell  at  every  newsstand 
and  drugstore  now  meet  America's  requirement  for  books  and  that  the 
sensational  growth  in  sales  of  these  inexpensive,  paper-bound  books  really 
explains  why  book  sales  are  low  and  why  libraries  are  so  empty. 

Actually,  more  than  two  hundred  million  pocket  books  will  be  sold  this 
year.  This  could  give  us  a  lot  of  comfort  were  it  not  for  two  important 
statistics.  The  first  is  that  three  fourths  of  all  pocket  books  are  bought  by 
approximately  ten  per  cent  of  the  population— 72,000,000  persons  have  never 
bought  a  single  copy  in  their  lives.  The  second  statistic  is  that  it  is  not  the 
books  of  cultural  value  which  account  for  the  bulk  of  the  200,000,000  sales, 
but  the  westerns,  mysteries,  and  raw  sex  stories. 

Another  answer  sometimes  offered  to  explain  why  Americans  read  so  few 
books  is  that  we  are  a  magazine-reading  nation.  It  is  true  that  we  buy 
millions  and  millions  of  copies  of  magazines,  just  as  we  buy  some  54,000,000 
copies  of  newspapers  daily.  The  strange  fact  is  that,  despite  this  great  cir- 
culation of  newspapers  and  magazines,  we  manage  to  remain  rather  poorly 
informed  on  many  of  the  vital  issues  of  the  day. 

You  may  recall  the  attention  accorded  the  two  political  conventions  last 
summer  by  newspapers  and  magazines.  During  the  two  conventions,  Amer- 
ican newspapers  gave  over  most  of  their  front  pages  and  inside  pages  to 
reports  on  convention  happenings.  The  news  magazines,  likewise,  went 
all  out  to  provide  complete  coverage  of  these  events.  Moreover,  you  could 
hear  or  see  little  else  on  radio  and  television.  Even  so,  only  one  adult  in 
every  four  throughout  the  country  could  name  the  two  men  selected  as  vice- 
presidential  candidates. 

It  is  the  daily  experience  of  poll  takers  to  discover  how  little  high  school 
and  college  graduates  as  a  group  know  about  tariffs,  about  the  progress  of 
the  North  Atlantic  Treaty  Organization,  our  Point  Four  Program,  the 
struggle  in  Asia,  and  similar  issues  which  affect  not  only  their  pocketbooks, 
but  their  very  lives. 

Even  simple  matters  of  geography  which  should  have  been  learned  in 
grade  school  remain  a  mystery;— such  things,  for  example,  as  the  location  of 
Formosa,  Manchuria,  Yugoslavia,  or  the  population  of  China,  Canada, 
France.  In  fact,  a  good  many  college  students  and  former  students  can  not 
take  an  outline  map  of  the  United  States  and  put  their  finger  on  the  state 
of  Illinois. 

I  trust  that  I  am  not  one  who  places  too  much  emphasis  upon  "book 
learning."  In  the  course  of  polling  the  American  public  over  a  period  of 

MASS   INFORMATION    OR    MASS   ENTERTAINMENT         323 


nearly  two  decades  1  have  found  that  our  people  are  wonderfully  endowed 
with  what  is  best  described  as  "horse  sense."  The  collective  judgment  of  the 
people,  up  to  this  point  in  history,  has  been  extraordinarily  sound.  There 
is  a  mountain  of  evidence  to  prove  that  the  public  is  generally  right  in  its 
opinions  and  usually  far  ahead  of  its  representatives  in  government. 

If  I  could  be  sure  that  the  problems  of  the  world  would  become  less  com- 
plex, if  I  thought  that  all  nations  might  lapse  into  that  blissful  state  of  "in- 
nocuous desuetude"  once  described  by  one  of  our  presidents,— then  I  would 
feel  far  less  concerned. 

What  can  we  do  to  help  restore  a  proper  balance  in  this  country  between 
entertainment  and  education? 

Ultimately,  the  responsibility  must  rest  on  each  individual.  The  media 
of  communication  can  do  many  things  to  make  information  more  palatable 
to  their  readers  or  listeners.  Some  interesting  work  is  now  being  under- 
taken by  a  number  of  newspapers,  and  particularly  by  the  International 
Press  Institute  headed  by  Lester  Markel  of  the  New  York  Times.  The  Ford 
Foundation  is  attempting  to  develop  educational  programs  for  television 
which  will  attract  large  audiences,  and  our  leading  magazines  are  constantly 
trying  to  get  more  persons  to  read  the  serious  material  which  they  publish, 
in  contrast  to  the  fiction  and  service  material. 

Without  doubt  the  outstanding  success  of  the  twentieth  century  in  mak- 
ing worth-while  information  interesting  to  the  great  mass  of  readers  is  the 
Reader's  Digest,  whose  success  has  extended  throughout  the  world.  If 
any  persons  in  the  communications  world  today  deserve  to  be  called 
geniuses,  De  Witt  and  Lila  Wallace  are  those  persons. 

While  I  believe  that  every  individual  owes  it  to  himself  and  to  his  coun- 
try to  be  reasonably  well  informed,  and  while  it  is  true  that  the  various 
media  of  communication  are  daily  working  on  the  problem  of  getting  more 
readers  and  listeners  to  attend  to  the  important  rather  than  to  the  entertain- 
ing—I believe  that  the  great  hope  of  the  future  must  lie  in  our  educational 
system. 

I  am  thoroughly  convinced  that  we  must  change  our  whole  basic  philos- 
ophy of  education.  We  must  begin  to  recognize  that  the  years  after  gradua- 
tion from  grade  school,  high  school  or  college  are  the  really  important  years, 
and  not  the  years  spent  in  school. 

We  must  realize  that  self  education  is  all-important  and  that  formal 
education  received  in  the  schools  is  good  only  to  the  extent  that  it  aids  and 
abets  self-education. 

Too  many  students  today  hold  the  belief  that  when  they  are  "through" 
school,  that  is  to  say,  when  they  have  been  graduated,  they  "have  had  it." 
And  too  many  of  our  teachers,  oddly  enough,  never  attempted  in  any  way 
to  disabuse  them  of  this  belief. 

324         MASS   MEDIA 


We  must  begin  to  understand  that  the  process  of  learning  is  a  process 
which  must  continue  throughout  life.  As  Sir  Richard  Livingstone  has  said, 
"who  can  suppose  that  spiritual  and  intellectual  growth  ceases  and  knowl- 
edge and  wisdom  are  finally  achieved  when  a  university  degree  is  taken,  or 
that  the  need  of  knowledge  does  not  grow  more  urgent  with  the  passing  of 
the  years?" 

The  importance  of  the  years  after  school  can  be  arrived  at  through  simple 
arithmetic.  The  typical  high  school  student  is  graduated  at  age  seventeen 
or  eighteen;  the  typical  college  student,  at  age  twenty-two.  If  we  consider 
the  normal  life  span,  the  college  graduate  spends  fifty  years  after  leaving 
college,— the  high  school  graduate,  fifty-four. 

The  opportunity  to  learn  and  to  increase  one's  mental  stature  is  thus  far 
greater  in  the  non-school  years  than  in  school  years,  even  though  only  part 
of  the  time  of  an  adult  can  be  devoted  to  study.  Experience  in  life  adds 
meaning  to  learning  and  gives  it  direction.  So,  in  a  real  sense,  the  educa- 
tion of  every  person  should  begin  and  not  end  with  graduation. 

If  we  are  ever  to  make  this  transition,  if  we  are  ever  to  place  full  empha- 
sis on  self -education,  we  must  start  at  the  college  level,  as  they  do  in  the 
universities  of  Europe. 

I  have  always  resisted  the  idea,  widely  held  in  this  country,  that  college 
students  are  too  immature  to  be  left  to  make  any  but  the  most  simple  type 
of  decisions  for  themselves.  And  I  have  always  resisted  the  idea  that  college 
students  must  be  shepherded  about  as  if  they  were  still  adolescent. 

Students  enrolled  in  European  universities  are  more  carefully  selected 
than  ours.  Yet  I  can  not  help  believing  that  if  we  transferred  most  of  the 
responsibility,  not  only  for  learning,  but  for  conduct  to  the  students  them- 
selves, our  students  would  mature  much  faster. 

After  studying  the  operation  of  European  universities  and  in  the  light 
of  my  own  experience  in  teaching  college  courses  here,  I  have  come  reluc- 
tantly but  inevitably  to  the  conclusion  that  the  enemies  of  learning  at  the 
university  level  are  the  textbook,  the  classroom  lecture,  and  our  course 
system. 

At  Oxford,  for  example,  the  student  is  left  pretty  much  on  his  own.  He 
reports  at  weekly  or  bi-weekly  intervals  to  his  professor  or  don,  who  offers 
his  guidance  and  criticism.  But  there  are  no  lectures  which  he  MUST 
attend.  His  reading  covers  a  broad  field,  and  to  a  great  extent  the  books 
which  he  consults  in  the  course  of  preparing  papers  are  books  of  his  own 
selection. 

In  this  country,  we  lean  heavily  on  textbooks  which  consist  for  the  most 
part  of  bits  and  pieces  of  knowledge  cannibalized  from  other  textbooks. 
Too  often  the  teacher,  in  his  classroom  lecture,  merely  repeats  the  mate- 
rial covered  by  the  textbooks.  And  the  student,  once  he  has  memorized  and 

MASS    INFORMATION    OR    MASS    ENTERTAINMENT         325 


then  regurgitated  the  textbook  material  in  a  true-false  quiz  can  forget  the 
whole  business. 

The  heavy  emphasis  which  we  place  upon  memorizing  facts— in  contrast 
to  learning  how  to  use  facts—was  pointed  out  by  a  British  student  now  tak- 
ing graduate  work  in  Princeton.  In  an  article  written  for  the  Daily  Telegraph 
of  London  he  wrote: 

"The  student  in  the  United  States  must  have  a  thousand  streamlined  facts 
at  his  finger  tips,  and  be  able  to  retell  everything  in  answer  to  a  question, 
like  a  tic-tac  man  giving  the  latest  odds  on  the  next  horse  race.  He  must 
scan  the  scurrying  fashions  in  ideas  as  Paris  dressmakers  watch  London." 

Obviously  the  whole  school  system,  from  the  grades  up  to  college,  must 
be  revised  if  we  are  to  turn  out  a  more  mature  product. 

And  it  occurs  to  me  that  the  way  to  do  this  is  rather  simple.  The  first 
step  is  to  agree  on  the  goals  of  education.  And  the  second  is  to  test  our 
graduates  to  see  how  successfully  they  attain  these  goals. 

In  conversations  with  college  professors  throughout  the  country,  I  have 
found  rather  general  agreement  on  these  goals.  Most  educators  will  agree 
that  our  universities  should  train  students  1 )  to  think  independently,  2 )  to 
write  reasonably  well,  3 )  to  know  something  about  the  world  of  today  and 
the  world  of  yesterday,  and  4)  to  want  to  enlarge  their  intellectual  horizons. 

I  am  confident  that  if  we  were  to  study  our  graduates  who  have  been  out 
of  college  for  one,  ten  or  twenty  years,  we  would  be  appalled  at  how  far 
short  of  these  goals  most  of  them  fall.  And  I  am  equally  confident  that  our 
whole  basic  philosophy  of  education  would  change  as  a  result  of  this 
knowledge.  If  an  intellectual  renaissance  is  to  get  under  way  in  this  coun- 
try, the  natural  place  for  it  to  be  born  is  in  our  universities. 

If  our  teachers  and  our  schools  lead  the  way,  we  will  have  less  reason 
to  worry  about  an  uninformed  citizenry.  And  our  media  of  communication 
can  devote  an  increasing  amount  of  time  and  space  to  enlightening  a  recep- 
tive public. 


E.  STEVENSON  The  one-party  press 


IT  is  very  pleasant  to  consider  today  that  I  have  a  group  of  editors  and 
publishers  temporarily  at  my  mercy.   I  know  it  won't  last  long.   But, 
since  the  press—  some  of  it—  keeps  describing  me  as  a  captive  candidate,  I 
particularly  enjoy  speaking  to  a  captive  audience. 

This  speech  (abridged)  was  delivered  during  the  1952  presidential  campaign  at  the 
Portland  Journal  luncheon  for  Oregon  newspapermen,  September  8,  1952. 

326         MASS   MEDIA 


In  addition,  I  have  had  a  strange  feeling  these  past  weeks  that  people  are 
following  me.  They  all  seem  to  be  friendly,  inquisitive  and  rumpled;  they 
wear  hats  and  keep  writing  things  down  on  pieces  of  paper.  I  cannot  drink 
a  milk-shake  or  put  on  a  pair  of  shoes  without  their  friendly  but  implacable 
surveillance.  Given  this  relentless  observation,  I  find  it  an  agreeable  change 
to  stand  here  and  look  straight  back  at  such  a  distinguished  group  of  what 
I  believe  are  called  "opinion  molders." 

If  ignorance,  apathy  and  excessive  partisanship  are  still  the  greatest  en- 
emies of  democracy— as  I  believe  Bryce  said  some  forty  or  fifty  years  ago- 
then  of  course  it  is  up  to  a  free  press  to  help  us  on  all  three  counts  and  all 
the  time.  Otherwise  neither  democratic  government  nor  a  free  press  can 
be  sure  of  permanency. 

In  short,  government— our  brand  of  representative  government— depends 
on  you,  and,  something  which  I  think  your  profession  sometimes  overlooks, 
you  depend  on  government,  for  the  ultimate  protection  of  a  free  press  is 
in  the  Constitution. 

That  is  why  the  rock-bottom  foundation  of  a  free  press  is  the  integrity 
of  the  people  who  run  it.  Our  press  may  make  a  million  mistakes  of  judg- 
ment without  doing  itself  permanent  harm  so  long  as  its  proprietors  are 
steadfast  in  their  adherence  to  truth.  I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  the 
bulk  of  owners  and  publishers  and  editors  are  doing  an  honest  job  with  the 
news. 

I  ought  to  know,  because  I  am  straining  the  impartiality  of  the  press  to 
the  limit  these  days.  Yet,  as  a  candidate  in  a  hard-fought  campaign,  I  have 
been  well  impressed  by  the  fair  treatment  accorded  me  by  most  newspapers, 
including  most  of  those  aligned  editorially  with  the  opposition.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  nearly  all  publishers  are  doing  their  honest  best,  according  to 
their  lights— even  if  I  must  confess  that  sometimes  their  lights  seem  to  me  a 
little  dim. 

I  am  glad  to  pay  this  tribute  to  the  press.  It  is  true,  and  I  think  it  should 
be  said.  I  am  grateful  for  the  impartiality  and  fullness  of  your  news  columns. 
Yet  I  am  not  recommending  complacency.  And,  from  my  vantage  point, 
certain  defects  are  apparent.  If  I  were  still  an  editorial  writer  I  suppose 
I  would  say  that  there  are  some  ominous  tendencies,  or  even  that  these 
tendencies  could  weaken  the  fabric  of  the  Republic. 

In  my  new  role  in  life,  I  can't  help  noticing  from  time  to  time—I  want  to 
put  it  as  delicately  as  I  can— that  the  overwhelming  majority  of  the  news- 
papers of  the  country  are  supporting  the  opposition  candidate.  This  is 
something,  I  find,  that  even  my  best  friends  will  tell  me!  And  I  certainly 
don't  take  it  personally.  In  fact,  I  would  have  been  somewhat  startled  and 
unhappy  if  I  received  much  press  support  after  the  reception  given  my 

THE  ONE-PAHTY   PRESS         327 


Democratic  predecessors,  Mr.  Truman  and  Mr.  Roosevelt.  Some  people 
might  even  have  considered  such  support  an  ill  omen. 

It  would  seem  that  the  overwhelming  majority  of  the  press  is  just  against 
Democrats.  And  it  is  against  Democrats,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  not  after  a  sober 
and  considered  review  of  the  alternatives,  but  automatically,  as  dogs  are 
against  cats.  As  soon  as  a  newspaper— I  speak  of  the  great  majority,  not  of 
the  enlightened  ten  per  cent—sees  a  Democratic  candidate  it  is  filled  with 
an  unconquerable  yen  to  chase  him  up  an  alley. 

I  still  haven't  got  over  the  way  some  of  our  nation's  great  papers  rushed 
to  commit  themselves  to  a  candidate  last  spring,  long  before  they  knew  what 
that  candidate  stood  for,  or  what  his  party  platform  would  be,  or  who  his 
opponent  was,  or  what  would  be  the  issues  of  the  campaign.  I  know  where 
a  young  publisher's  fancy  turns  in  that  season  of  the  year,  and  I  don't  blame 
them  for  a  moment.  But  I  feel  that  some  of  them  may  yet  regret  the  im- 
petuosity of  their  wooing  now  that  autumn  is  here. 

I  am  touched  when  I  read  in  these  papers  solicitous  editorials  about  the 
survival  of  the  two-party  system.  Now  I  really  can't  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  the  Republican  Party  is  about  to  fade  away,  even  if  it  loses  in  1952. 
If  so,  it  is  staging  one  of  the  longest  and  loudest  deathbed  scenes  in  history. 
How  can  the  Republican  Party  disappear  when  about  90  per  cent  of  the 
press  for  ten  or  fifteen  years  has  been  telling  the  American  people  day  in 
and  day  out  that  the  Republican  Party  alone  can  save  the  Republic?  Surely 
Republican  publishers  and  editors  don't  honestly  believe  that  they  have  so 
little  influence! 

I  am  in  favor  of  a  two-party  system  in  politics.  And  I  think  we  have  a 
pretty  healthy  two-party  system  at  this  moment.  But  I  am  in  favor  of  a  two- 
party  system  in  our  press  too.  And  I  am,  frankly,  considerably  concerned 
when  I  see  the  extent  to  which  we  are  developing  a  one-party  press  in  a 
two-party  country. 

I  earnestly  wish  that  the  newspapers  so  highly  agitated  over  the  two- 
party  system  in  politics  would  contemplate  the  very  real  dangers  of  the  one- 
party  system  in  the  press.  I  don't  say  this  because  of  any  concern  over  the 
coming  election.  My  party  has  done  all  right  in  recent  elections  in  spite  of 
the  country's  editorial  pages,  and  I  have  a  hunch  we  will  do  all  right  this 
year  too. 

But,  as  an  ex-newspaperman  and  as  a  citizen,  I  am  gravely  concerned 
about  the  implications  of  this  one-party  system  for  our  American  press  and 
our  free  society. 

A  free  society  means  a  society  based  on  free  competition  and  there  is  no 
more  important  competition  than  competition  in  ideas,  competition  in  opin- 

328        MASS  MEDIA 


ion.  This  form  of  competition  is  essential  to  the  preservation  of  a  free  press. 
Indeed,  I  think  the  press  should  set  an  example  to  the  nation  in  increasing 
opposition  to  uniformity. 

What  I  think  I  detect  is  a  growing  uniformity  of  outlook  among  publishers 
—a  tendency  toward  the  trade-association  mentality  of  uniformity  of  attitude 
toward  the  public,  the  customer,  if  not  toward  one  another  as  producers  of 
consumer  goods.  I  doubt  if  this  shoe  fits  the  peculiar  function  of  the  news- 
paper. 

I  think  you  will  agree  that  we  cannot  risk  complacency.  We  need  to  be 
rededicated  every  day  to  the  unfinished  task  of  keeping  our  free  press  truly 
free.  We  need  to  work  even  harder  for  the  time  when  all  editors  will  honor 
their  profession,  when  all  publishers  will  have  a  sense  of  responsibility  equal 
to  their  power  and  thus  regain  their  power,  if  I  may  put  it  that  way. 

It's  not  honest  convictions  honestly  stated  that  concern  me.  Rather  it  is 
the  tendency  of  many  papers,  and  I  include  columnists,  commentators,  an- 
alysts, feature  writers,  and  so  on,  to  argue  editorially  from  the  personal 
objective,  rather  than  from  the  whole  truth.  As  the  old  jury  lawyer  said: 
"And  these,  gentlemen,  are  the  conclusions  on  which  I  base  my  facts." 

in  short,  it  seems  to  me  that  facts,  truth,  should  be  just  as  sacred  in  the 
editorial  column  as  the  news  column.  And,  as  I  have  said,  happily  most 
papers,  but  by  no  means  all,  do  struggle  with  sincerity  for  accuracy  in  the 
news.  Coming  from  Chicago,  of  course,  I  am  not  unfamiliar  with  the  phe- 
nomenon of  an  editorial  in  every  news  column! 

What  1  am  saying  is  that  the  press  cannot  condemn  demagoguery,  clap- 
trap, distortion  and  falsehood  in  politicians  and  public  life  on  the  one  hand 
and  practice  the  same  abuses  on  the  public  themselves,  on  the  other.  I 
know  the  people  are  smarter  than  many  politicians  think  and  sometimes  I 
suspect  that  even  editors  underestimate  them. 

The  free  press  is  the  mother  of  all  our  liberties  and  of  our  progress  under 
liberty.  That's  easy  to  say,  but  while  saying  it,  it  is  well  to  remember  what 
it  means. 

Of  course,  the  campaign  itself  bulks  large  in  our  eyes  today.  I  would  like 
to  conclude  with  the  warning  that  we  must  not  let  it  obscure  the  outlines  of 
the  world  crisis  in  which  we  are  involved.  This  generation  has  been  sum- 
moned to  a  great  battle— the  battle  to  determine  whether  we  are  equal  to 
the  task  of  world  leadership.  I  am  deeply  persuaded  that  the  press  can  be 
our  shield  and  our  spear  in  this  battle.  I  believe  Jefferson  said,  "If  a  nation 
expects  to  be  ignorant  and  free  in  a  state  of  civilization  it  expects  what  never 
was  and  never  will  be." 

THE   ONE-PARTY   PRESS         329 


We  must  look  largely  to  the  press  for  the  enlightenment  that  will  arm  us 
for  this  conflict.  We  should  be  able  to  look  to  the  press  for  much  of  the 
sober  certainty  that  will  carry  us  to  victory  and  peace.  Our  government  and 
our  arms  and  our  wealth  will  avail  us  little  if  the  editors  do  not  accept  this 
invitation  to  greatness.  The  agents  of  confusion  and  fear  must  not  usurp 
the  seats  of  the  custodians  of  truth  and  patriotism. 

In  saying  this,  I  want  to  emphasize  my  belief  that  the  leadership  for  this 
development  of  a  free  press  must  come  entirely  from  the  profession  itself. 
Government  has  its  co-operative  part  to  play.  It  must  do  everything  possible 
to  oppose  censorship  and  to  free  the  channels  of  communication.  Beyond 
that  point,  it  cannot  safely  go.  The  basic  job  can  be  done  only  within  and 
by  the  free  press  itself,  by  you  gentlemen.  I  know  you  can  do  it  superbly. 
We  have  solemn  reason  to  pray  it  will  be  done  that  way. 


330         MASS  MEDIA 


ENVIRONMENT 


THE  world  in  which  we  live—  the 
world  of  farms  as  well  as  of  towns 
and  cities—  confronts  us  with  impor- 
tant  environmental  problems.  We  need 
to  know  what  is  happening  to  our  nat- 
ural  resources,  what  we  as  Americans 
have  become,  what  hopes  there  are  for 
the  future.  These  matters  are  the  con- 
cerns  of  this  section.  The  first  selection 
is  a  description  by  Sherwood  Anderson 
of  his  early  life,  the  poverty  of  his 
home,  and  the  effect  poverty  had  on 
the  children  in  the  family.  There  fol- 
lows  a  discussion  of  our  "plundered  na- 


tion"  by  Fairfield  Osborn,  an  examina- 
tion  of  the  results  of  our  reckless  waste 
of  natural  resources.  James  West  re- 
ports  on  a  detailed  study  of  a  small 
American  community.  His  report 
shows  how  interests,  values,  and  be- 
havior vary  dramatically  with  socio- 
economic  position.  The  section  con- 
eludes with  an  essay  by  Frederick 
Lewis  Allen  which  presents  a  summary 
description  of  the  American  environ- 
ment,  its  materialism  and  its  culture,  its 
present  and  the  possibilities  for  its  fu- 
ture. 


SHERWOOD    ANDERSON 


A  personal  discovery 

THE  BRICK  HOUSE  in  Clyde  indeed  was  very  small.  How  we  all  managed 
to  live  in  it  is  still  a  mystery  to  me,  for  other  children  continually  were 
coming.  More  children  coming  and  father  often  without  work.  In  Clyde  he 
soon  lost  his  place  in  the  harness  shop.  It  may  have  been  due  to  one  of  the 
periods  of  depression,  the  two  men  who  owned  the  shop,  the  brothers  Irwin, 
compelled  to  retrench,  no  more  work  coming  in,  no  new  harness  being  sold, 
or  it  may  have  been  father's  fault,  his  work  neglected,  he  running  off  to 
some  reunion  of  Civil  War  veterans  or  perhaps  gone  into  one  of  his  periods 
of  drinking  when  he  could  not  work. 

But,  at  any  rate,  there  is  a  winter  of  hardship  fixed  in  my  mind,  mother 
struggling  to  in  some  way  take  father's  place  as  the  family  breadwinner. 
She  had  father  paint  a  sign  on  cardboard  and  hang  on  the  front  door  of  our 
house.  It  said  that  mother  would  take  in  family  sewing.  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  sewing  ever  came  to  her. 

From  Sherwood  Anderson's  Memoirs  by  Sherwood  Anderson,  copyright  1942  by 
Eleanor  Anderson.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Eleanor  Anderson. 


POVERTY        331 


I  remember  my  resentment.  It  may  have  been  that  mother  was  again  big 
with  child  and  could  not  work.  She  would  already,  during  that  for  us  so 
terrible  winter,  have  begun  taking  in  family  washing  but,  the  new  child 
being  on  the  way,  would  have  had  to  give  up  that  work  while  we  became 
objects  of  charity,  neighbors  bringing  food  to  our  door,  we  children  half 
unaware  of  the  terror  of  actual  hunger  and  yet,  even  as  small  children, 
vaguely  conscious  of  our  mother's  fright  and  sadness,  the  tears  often  coming 
suddenly  to  her  eyes  so  that  we  all  began  to  cry  loudly  in  sympathy  with 
her.  There  would  be  the  strange  long  periods  of  silence  in  the  house,  myself, 
with  the  two  other  children,  Karl  and  Stella,  going  along  neighboring  rail- 
road tracks  on  winter  days  and  picking  up  pieces  of  coal  dropped  from  trains 
to  keep  the  one  stove  in  our  house  going,  we  all,  in  winter  evenings,  huddled 
about  the  stove  in  the  little  kitchen,  no  lamp  burning,  as  there  would  have 
been  no  oil  for  it,  and  then  the  crawling  into  bed  in  the  darkness,  all  of  us 
in  one  bed,  frightened  by  something  we  had  seen  in  mother's  eyes  and 
huddled  together  for  safety  and  warmth. 

Father  would  have  been  much  from  home  during  that  winter.  It  was  our 
hardest  one.  Painting  the  sign  announcing  mother's  willingness  to  become 
a  seamstress  may  have  set  off  the  artist  in  him.  It  may  have  been  that  winter 
that  he  became  a  sign  painter,  going  off  somewhere  seeking  jobs. 

But  I  have  written  much  of  my  father  in  another  book  of  mine,  A  Story 
Teller's  Story,  of  his  many  vagaries  and,  I  trust,  a  little  of  his  charm,  and 
must  not  too  much  repeat,  although  (it  may  be  because  so  many  of  my 
father's  characteristics  are  also  mine)  he  will  always  be  a  tempting  subject 
to  me.  And  what  I  am  wondering  as  I  write  is  whether  during  that,  our 
hardest  winter,  mother  was  carrying  my  brother  Earl.  For  I  am  quite  sure 
there  was  in  me  already  a  resentment  of  the  fact  of  her  pregnancy,  a  resent- 
ment that  must  have  also  been  in  my  brother  Karl  and  my  sister  Stella.  At 
the  time  we  could  hardly  have  known  by  what  mysterious  process  our  mother 
had  become  pregnant  but  also  there  may  have  been  a  vague  realization  of  the 
father's  having  to  do  with  it.  My  sister  and  I  had  seen  the  little  pigs  born 
of  the  mother  pig  in  the  field.  After  the  event,  it  was  never  spoken  of  be- 
tween my  sister  and  myself  but  it  would  have  been  remembered.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  Karl  and  perhaps  Stella  were  already  going  to  school  and  would 
have  seen  the  obscene  drawings  I  was  later  to  see  scrawled  on  the  school- 
house  fence  and  on  the  walls  of  the  boys'  privy.  They  may  have  been 
laughed  at  for  the  notion  of  children  dropped  into  houses  from  the  sky 
by  birds. 

I  am  also  wondering  if  the  same  resentment  of  renewed  pregnancy  is  not 
in  all  children  born  in  all  families  among  the  poor?  At  any  rate,  it  was  a 
resentment  that  my  brother  Earl,  the  last  but  one  of  the  seven  children 

332         ENVIRONMENT 


mother  bore,  felt  all  his  life.  All  through  his  life  and  until  his  premature 
death  he  continued  to  feel  himself  an  unwanted  child. 

But  I  will  not  here  attempt  to  tell  of  my  brother  Earl's  strange  fate. 
Here  I  only  want  to  suggest  that  at  the  end  of  his  life  when  I  went  to  him 
as  he  lay  paralyzed  and  dying,  and  after  the  long  years  when  he  kept  himself 
hidden  away  from  the  rest  of  us  in  the  little  workman's  boarding  house  in  the 
city  of  Brooklyn,  in  the  room  that  my  brother  Karl,  when  he  went  to  him 
after  the  stroke  that  laid  him  low,  found  filled  with  paintings,  paintings 
under  his  bed,  paintings  packed  away  in  his  closet,  paintings  everywhere,  no 
one  of  which  had  been  sold  or  even  shown  to  others— when  I  sat  beside  him 
as  he  lay  dying  and  unable  to  speak,  he  took  a  pencil  into  his  hand  and  wrote 
the  words:  "I  was  unwanted.  You  others  did  not  want  me  to  be  born  and 
mother  did  not  want  me." 

As  I  said,  I  will  write  of  Earl's  strange  life  in  another  and  later  part  of  this 
book.  Here  I  am  only  thinking  of  the  dim  awareness  and  resentment  of  a 
mother's  pregnancy  in  small  children  in  a  destitute  family.  It  was  sharp  in 
me.  It  is  the  feeling  that  comes  thus  to  a  small  child,  seeing  the  sudden  new 
shapelcssness  of  a  mother,  sensing  without  quite  knowing  of,  the  coming 
event— is  it  jealousy  of  a  mother's  love  which  must  again  be  more  widely 
distributed?  I  only  know  the  feeling  as  a  part  of  the  experience  of  that  par- 
ticular winter,  along  with  resentment  that  other  children  of  the  neighbor- 
hood could  be  more  warmly  clad,  that  they  did  not  have  to  go  to  the  railroad 
to  search  for  coal  with  half-frozen  fingers,  that  they  could  have  new  shoes 
when  the  soles  of  my  own  and  my  brother's  and  sister's  had  become  loose 
so  that  our  toes  stuck  out,  that  they  lived  in  warmer  houses  and  their  fathers 
seemed  to  have  a  kind  of  dignity  our  father  could  not  achieve;  I  only  know 
that  along  with  these  resentments  was  this  other  and  sharper  one,  so  that 
when  the  child  was  born  I  hated  it  also,  and  when  I  had  been  called  into  a 
room  to  see  it  lying  so  small  and  red  in  the  bed  beside  mother  I  crept  away 
into  a  little  shed  at  the  back  of  the  house  and  had  a  good  long  and  lonely  cry. 


Our  plundered  nation 

THE  STORY  OF  OUR  NATION  in  the  last  century  as  regards  the  use  of  forests, 
grasslands,  wildlife  and  water  sources  is  the  most  violent  and  the  most 
destructive  of  any  written  in  the  long  history  of  civilization.  The  velocity  of 
events  is  unparalleled  and  we  today  are  still  so  near  to  it  that  it  is  almost 

From  Our  Plundered  Planet  by  Fairfield  Osborn.   Copyright  1948  by  Fairfield  Osborn. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

OUR   PLUNDERED   NATION         333 


impossible  to  realize  what  has  happened,  or,  far  more  important,  what  is 
still  happening.  Actually  it  is  the  story  of  human  energy  unthinking  and 
uncontrolled.  No  wonder  there  is  this  new  concept  of  man  as  a  large-scale 
geological  force,  mentioned  on  an  earlier  page. 

In  the  attempt  to  gain  at  least  some  perspective  let  us  review  a  little. 
Our  people  came  to  a  country  of  unique  natural  advantages,  of  varying  yet 
favorable  climates,  where  the  earth's  resources  were  apparently  limitless. 
Incredible  energy  marked  the  effort  of  a  young  nation  to  hack  new  homes  for 
freedom-loving  people  out  of  the  vast  wilderness  of  forests  that  extended 
interminably  to  the  grassland  areas  of  the  Midwest.  Inevitably  the  quickest 
methods  were  used  in  putting  the  land  to  cultivation,  not  the  desirable 
methods.  Great  areas  of  forest  were  completely  denuded  by  ax  or  fire,  with- 
out thought  of  the  relationship  of  forests  to  water  sources,  or  to  the  soil  itself. 
Constantly  there  was  the  rising  pressure  for  cultivable  land  caused  by  the 
rapid  inpouring  of  new  settlers.  By  about  1830  most  of  the  better  land  east 
of  the  Mississippi  was  occupied.  In  that  year  there  were  approximately 
13,000,000  people  in  this  country,  or  less  than  one  tenth  of  the  present  popu- 
lation. In  the  meanwhile  the  land  in  the  South,  long  occupied  and  part  of 
the  original  colonies,  was  being  devoted  more  and  more  extensively  to  cot- 
ton, highly  profitable  as  export  to  the  looms  in  England,  and  tobacco,  for 
which  there  was  a  growing  world  market.  These  are  known  as  clean-tilled 
crops,  meaning  that  the  earth  is  left  completely  bare  except  for  the  plantings 
and  is  a  type  of  land  use  most  susceptible  to  loss  of  topsoil  by  erosion.  Today 
a  large  proportion,  in  many  areas  from  one  third  to  one  half,  of  the  land 
originally  put  to  productive  use  for  the  growing  of  cotton  and  tobacco  has 
become  wasteland  and  has  had  to  be  abandoned.  It  is  not  unusual  for  South- 
erners to  blame  the  Civil  War  and  its  aftereffects  for  their  impoverishment. 
There  are  other  reasons. 

There  is  no  particular  point  in  tracing  the  westward  surge  of  settlers  over 
the  great  grass  plains  that  lay  beyond  the  Mississippi  and  on  to  the  vast 
forested  slopes  bordering  the  Pacific.  Everyone  knows  the  story.  It  is  sig- 
nificant, however,  that  the  movement,  dramatic  as  any  incident  in  human 
history,  was  symbolized  by  the  phrases  "subjugating  the  land"  and  "con- 
quering the  continent/'  It  was  a  positive  conquest  in  terms  of  human  forti- 
tude and  energy.  It  was  a  destructive  conquest,  and  still  continues  to  be  one, 
in  terms  of  human  understanding  that  nature  is  an  ally  and  not  an  enemy. 

Incidentally,  it  is  not  generally  realized  that  the  prairies,  the  long-grass 
country,  and  the  plains,  the  short-grass  country,  occupy  nearly  40  per  cent  of 
the  land  surface  of  the  United  States.  Here  today  are  the  greatest  corn  and 
grain  producing  regions  in  the  world— as  well  as  the  great  natural  ranges 
for  cattle  and  other  livestock.  Here  limitless  areas  of  natural  grassland  have 
been  plowed  for  crop  production.  The  possibilities  of  a  continued  and  re- 

334        ENVIRONMENT 


lentless  process  of  land  deterioration  are  involved.  Proper  land  use  can 
prevent  these,  but  are  we  prepared  and  organized  to  apply  the  available 
knowledges  regarding  the  correct  utilization  and  long-term  protection  of 
productive  soils?  One  is  reminded  of  the  farmer  who  was  not  doing  right 
by  his  land  arid  was  urged  to  go  to  a  meeting  on  methods  of  soil  conservation. 
"There's  no  use  my  going  to  that  meeting  about  farming  better,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  farm  as  good  as  I  know  how  to  now."  The  final  test  for  our  nation, 
a  crisis  yet  to  be  met,  is  whether  the  national  attitude  will  be  similar  to  that 
of  the  farmer,  or  will  we  have  the  foresight  and  intelligence  to  act  before  we 
are  met  with  the  disaster  that  is  steadily  drawing  nearer? 

A  detailed  presentation  of  what  has  happened  area  by  area  would  fill 
many  volumes.  A  large  amount  of  precise  information  has  been  gathered 
together  by  various  governmental  services,  by  other  conservation  agencies, 
and  by  a  handful  of  individuals  whose  perception  has  led  them  to  give  at- 
tention to  an  unfolding  drama  that  is  as  yet  visible  to  so  few. 

The  submission  of  the  following  general  facts  may  serve  to  throw  light  on 
what  has  happened  to  our  land  since  those  bright  days  when  we  began  to 
"conquer  the  continent." 

The  land  area  of  the  United  States  amounts  to  approximately  one  billion 
nine  hundred  million  acres.  In  its  original  or  natural  state  about  40  per 
cent  was  primeval  forest,  nearly  an  equal  amount  was  grass  or  range  lands, 
the  remainder  being  natural  desert  or  extremely  mountainous. 

Today  the  primeval  or  virgin  forest  has  been  so  reduced  that  it  covers  less 
than  7  per  cent  of  our  entire  land  area.  If  to  this  there  are  added  other 
forested  areas  consisting  of  stands  of  second-  or  even  third-growth  forests, 
many  of  which  are  in  poor  condition,  and  if  scattered  farm  woodlands  are 
also  included,  it  is  found  that  the  forested  areas  now  aggregate  only  slightly 
more  than  20  per  cent  of  the  total  land  area  of  our  country.  If  urban  lands, 
desert  and  wastelands,  and  mountaintop  areas,  are  subtracted  there  is  left 
somewhat  over  one  billion  acres  which  can  be  roughly  divided  into  three 
categories:  farm  croplands,  farm  pasture  lands  and  range-grazing  lands. 

The  situation  as  to  our  remaining  forests  is  becoming  increasingly  serious. 
Some  idea  of  recent  and  present  trends  can  be  gained  from  the  information 
contained  in  the  last  annual  report  of  the  Forest  Service  of  the  Federal 
Government,  wherein  it  is  stated  that  the  estimated  total  stand  of  saw  timber 
in  the  country  in  1909  was  2826  billion  board  feet  and  that  the  estimate 
for  the  year  1945  totaled  only  1601  billion  board  feet,  indicating  that  in  36 
years  the  nation's  "woodpile"  has  been  reduced  by  44  per  cent.  The  report 
goes  on  to  state  that  the  drop  in  volume  of  standing  timber  since  1909  has 
been  much  greater  than  these  figures  indicate.  Many  kinds  of  trees  which 
were  considered  of  no  value  in  1909  are  now  being  used  and  are  included  in 
the  1945  estimate.  It  is  significantly  pointed  out  that  more  than  half  of  the 

OUR   PLUNDERED   NATION         335 


present  total  saw-timber  resource  is  in  what  is  left  of  our  virgin  forests  and 
that  96  per  cent  of  the  virgin  timber  is  in  the  Western  states.  This  latter 
statement  is  of  particular  interest  in  the  light  of  a  new  and  serious  kind  of 
threat  that  will  be  commented  on  in  a  moment. 

While  the  drain  on  our  forests  for  fuel  wood,  pulpwood,  and  manufactur- 
ing uses,  together  with  losses  resulting  from  fires,  wind  and  ice  storms, 
damage  by  insects  and  tree  diseases,  is  almost  being  met  by  each  year's 
growth,  the  bulk  of  our  forestry  industry  depends  on  saw  timber.  For  this 
purpose  the  annual  drain  on  the  nation's  forests  approximates  54  billion 
board  feet,  while  the  annual  growth  is  only  approximately  35  billion  board 
feet.  In  other  words  the  annual  loss  exceeds  growth  by  more  than  50  per 
cent.  It  does  not  take  much  mathematics  to  prove  that  our  country  cannot 
go  on  this  way  much  longer.  We  are  repeating  the  errors  that,  as  we  have 
seen,  have  undermined  so  many  other  countries  in  earlier  periods  of  history. 

At  this  very  moment  a  new  body  blow  is  being  struck  at  our  forests.  This 
is  a  triple-threat  blow,  because  a  blow  at  forest  reserves  is  one  of  synchro- 
nized impact  upon  water  sources  and  fertile  soils— as  deadly  ultimately  as 
any  delayed-action  bomb.  Highly  organized  minority  groups  are  now  en- 
gaged in  determined  attempts  to  wrest  away  the  public  lands  of  the  Western 
states,  and  turn  these  regions  to  their  own  uses.  Within  the  boundaries  of 
these  public  domains  lie  the  extensive  grazing  lands  that  help  support  the 
cattle  industry  of  the  West.  These  lands  are  open  to  use  by  individual  cattle 
owners  at  small,  in  fact,  nominal  cost.  Within  these  boundaries,  too,  lie  al- 
most all  our  last  great  forest  reserves.  These  public  lands,  in  which  every 
American  owns  a  share,  lie  principally  in  eleven  Western  states,  namely: 
Arizona,  California,  Colorado,  Idaho,  Montana,  Nevada,  New  Mexico, 
Oregon,  Utah,  Washington,  Wyoming. 

The  public  lands  came  into  existence  in  the  earliest  days  of  our  nation. 
They  were  created  as  a  solution  to  a  vexatious  question  that  arose  in  the 
deliberations  of  the  thirteen  original  states  at  the  time  the  Union  was  formed. 
The  small  seaboard  states  insisted  that  provision  be  made  in  the  Articles  of 
Confederation  to  prevent  the  land-rich  states  on  the  Appalachian  frontier 
from  expanding  their  boundaries  indefinitely  to  the  West  and  thus  dominat- 
ing the  government.  All  of  the  original  states  at  that  time  agreed  to  give  up 
their  claims  to  the  Western  lands  and  ceded  them  to  the  Federal  Govern- 
ment. As  settlement  progressed  westward,  it  was  planned  that  these  vast 
tracts  would  be  formed  into  new  states  with  the  same  rights  as  enjoyed  by 
the  original  states.  In  1787  the  Constitution  that  was  evolved  upon  this 
basic  understanding  became  a  fundamental  of  American  law.  Since  that 
year  the  United  States  has  been  enlarged  by  a  series  of  acquisitions  under 
treaties  with  other  powers,  such  as  the  Louisiana  Purchase,  the  Florida 
Purchase  and  the  Admission  of  Texas.  That  is  another  story.  In  all  thirty- 

336        ENVIRONMENT 


five  states  have  been  carved  from  the  public  domain,  each  of  them  receiving 
a  gift  of  land,  often  of  many  millions  of  acres,  and  yet,  as  each  new  state 
was  created,  there  were  retained  in  the  name  of  the  Federal  Government, 
for  the  benefit  of  all  the  people  of  the  nation,  these  areas  of  public  lands. 
During  the  nineteenth  century  land  appeared  to  be  limitless  and  few  people 
were  at  all  concerned  about  how  it  was  used,  although  even  as  early  as  1836 
bills  began  to  appear  in  Congress  to  provide  some  protecting  regulations  for 
the  lands  owned  by  the  government.  The  proportion  of  Federal  lands  re- 
maining as  public  domain  varies  in  each  state,  ranging  from  under  100,000 
acres  in  Iowa  to  87  per  cent  in  Nevada.  This  disparity  in  the  ratio  of  Fed- 
eral lands  to  state  and  private  holdings  is  one  of  the  reasons  for  the  present 
controversy.  It  should  not  be  thought  of  as  a  major  reason,  however.  The 
powerful  attacks  now  being  made  by  small  minority  groups  upon  the  public 
lands  of  the  West  have  one  primary  motivation  and  one  consuming  objective 
—to  exploit  the  grazing  lands  and  these  last  forest  reserves  for  every  dollar 
of  profit  that  can  be  wrung  from  them.  As  we  have  seen  in  other  countries 
the  profit  motive,  if  carried  to  the  extreme,  has  one  certain  result— the 
ultimate  death  of  the  land. 

The  eleven  Western  states  which  contain  the  largest  proportion  of  Federal 
lands  have  become  known  as  the  "public  land  states."  In  practically  all  of 
them  either  the  cattle  business  or  lumbering  is  the  major  industry.  Use  of 
the  public  lands  by  cattle  owners  has  always  been  permitted,  and,  in  turn, 
permits  for  controlled  cutting  in  the  national  forests  are  regularly  granted. 
These  rights  have  frequently  been  gained  at  extremely  low  cost.  The  fees 
paid  today  by  cattle-grazing  permittees  are  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
merely  nominal  ones.  Overgrazing  in  the  public  lands  reached  such  an 
alarming  point  a  number  of  years  ago  that  legislation  known  as  the  Taylor 
Grazing  Act  was  passed  in  1934  to  control  the  abuses.  For  a  while  this 
legislation  did  some  good,  but  as  far  as  beneficial  results  today  are  con- 
cerned, this  act,  which  was  designed  to  "prevent  over-grazing  and  soil  de- 
terioration," might  almost  as  well  never  have  been  enacted  into  law.  Power- 
ful minority  groups  of  cattlemen  now  dominate  its  administration,  their 
representatives  comprising  the  personnel  of  the  advisory  boards  that  were 
established  in  each  of  the  cattle-industry  states.  In  effect  these  boards  are 
not  advisory  at  all  but  over  the  years  have  acquired  sufficient  power  to 
greatly  influence  the  regulations,  as  to  both  the  number  of  cattle  that  can 
graze  in  a  region  and  the  fees  for  grazing  rights  to  be  paid  by  cattle  owners, 
half  of  which  go  to  the  counties  in  which  the  land  is  situated,  mainly  for  the 
benefit  of  rural  schools,  and  the  other  half  to  the  Federal  Government. 

The  maneuvers  of  the  powerful  minority  groups  of  livestock  men,  skill- 
fully supported  by  their  representatives  in  Congress,  have  a  definite  bearing 
on  the  preservation  of  the  remaining  reserves  of  forests  in  the  Western  states. 

OUR   PLUNDERED   NATION         337 


Having  taken  over  virtual  control  of  the  Federal  Grazing  Service  they  now 
are  attempting  similarly  to  control  the  Forest  Service,  and,  from  their  point 
of  view,  with  good  reason.  The  national  forests  in  the  Western  states  con- 
tain approximately  135,000,000  acres  of  land,  of  which  some  80,000,000  acres 
are  now  being  grazed  by  cattle  or  sheep.  So  far  the  Forest  Service's  control 
of  the  number  of  animals  permitted  to  graze  in  a  region  has  been  reasonably 
effective,  although  actually  there  has  already  been  considerable  overgrazing 
in  some  of  the  national  forests. 

But  the  livestock  owners  are  not  satisfied  and  want  more  privileges.  The 
game  is  almost  too  easy,  the  methods  of  getting  what  they  want  almost  too 
simple.  The  Grazing  Service  was  emasculated  by  Congress's  reducing  its 
field  service  budget  to  one  third  of  what  was  needed  to  provide  proper 
supervision  of  the  ranges.  There's  generally  more  than  one  way  of  accom- 
plishing an  end!  Overgrazing  in  forested  areas  is  ultimately  as  damaging  to 
forests,  because  of  soil  erosion,  as  slash  cutting  for  the  sawmill.  As  to  the 
latter,  let  no  American  think  that  certain  self-seeking  groups  in  the  lumber 
industry  are  not  out  to  hack  what  they  can  from  the  public  domain.  They 
will  pay  for  the  right  to  cut  but  they  can  never  pay  enough  because  there  are 
not  enough  forests  left.  Heretofore  our  national  parks  have  been  held  in- 
violate but  even  now  one  of  them,  the  Olympic  in  the  state  of  Washington,  is 
threatened  by  legislation  pending  in  Congress  that  would  turn  over  to  ex- 
ploitation a  tract  of  some  56,000  acres  of  virgin  timber.  Wilderness  heritages 
going  to  the  buzz-saw! 

The  assault  now  being  made  upon  the  public  lands  finds  its  expression  in 
a  number  of  bills  that  have  been  presented  to  Congress  within  the  last  two 
or  three  years.  They  represent  an  attack  more  desperate  in  its  nature  than 
any  similar  one  in  the  history  of  our  country.  The  purpose  of  this  proposed 
legislation  is,  in  the  main,  to  transfer  the  control  of  these  resources  from 
the  Federal  Government  to  the  several  states,  with  the  implicit  danger  that 
thereafter  they  will  fall  into  the  hands  of  individuals  for  final  liquidation. 
If  any  of  this  proposed  legislation  were  enacted  into  law  it  would  be  the 
opening  wedge;  if  the  assault  were  generally  successful  it  would  irremediably 
injure  a  great  region  whose  living  natural  resources  serve  as  a  wellspring  to 
the  well-being  of  our  entire  nation.  Shades  of  the  Mesta! 

A  consideration  of  the  situation  of  land  resources  in  our  country  shows 
that  other  than  forests  there  are,  as  mentioned  above,  about  a  billion  acres 
that  fall  into  the  three  categories  of  farm  croplands,  farm  pasture  lands  and 
open-range  grazing  lands.  Of  these,  farm  croplands  are  the  largest  in  area, 
running  to  approximately  460,000,000  acres.  What  has  happened  in  regard 
to  these  resources  and  what  is  going  on  now? 

The  most  recent  report  of  the  Soil  Conservation  Service  of  the  govern- 
ment contains  a  number  of  pertinent  statements.  They  are  a  factual  recital. 

388         ENVIRONMENT 


They  point  to  a  velocity  of  loss  of  the  basic  living  elements  of  our  country 
which,  if  continued,  will  bring  upon  us  a  national  catastrophe.  Already 
every  American  is  beginning  to  be  affected  in  one  way  or  another  by  what  is 
happening.  This  report  indicates  that  of  the  above  billion  acres  considerably 
more  than  one  quarter  have  now  been  ruined  or  severely  impoverished,  and 
that  the  remainder  are  damaged  in  varying  degrees.  Furthermore,  the  dam- 
age is  continuing  on  all  kinds  of  land— cropland,  grazing  land  and  pasture 
land.  Here  are  other  highlights  in  the  report: 

The  loss  we  sustain  by  this  continuing  erosion  is  staggering.  Careful  esti- 
mates based  on  actual  measurements  indicate  that  soil  losses  by  erosion  from 
all  lands  in  the  United  States  total  5,400,000,000  tons  annually.  From  farm 
lands  alone,  the  annual  loss  is  about  3  billion  tons,  enough  to  fill  a  freight 
train  which  would  girdle  the  globe  18  times.  If  these  losses  were  to  go  on 
unchecked,  the  results  would  be  tragic  for  America  and  for  the  world. 

The  results  would  not  only  be  disastrous— they  already  are  far  too  costly  for 
the  country  to  continue  to  bear.  For  example,  in  a  normal  production  year, 
erosion  by  wind  and  water  removes  21  times  as  much  plant  food  from  the 
soil  as  is  removed  in  the  crops  sold  off  this  land. 

Nor  is  loss  of  plant  food  our  only  expense  from  erosion.  The  total  annual 
cost  to  the  United  States  as  a  result  of  uncontrolled  erosion  and  water  runoff 
is  estimated  at  $3,844,000,000.  This  includes  the  value  of  the  eroded  soil 
material  and  the  plant  nutrients  it  contains,  the  direct  loss  sustained  by 
farmers,  and  damages  caused  by  floods  and  erosion  to  highways,  railroads, 
waterways,  and  other  facilities  and  resources. 

The  loss  in  the  productive  capacity  of  our  farms  cannot  be  figured  so 
easily,  but  it  is  plain  that  farm  lands  which  have  lost  so  much  topsoil  and 
plant  nutrients  cannot  produce  as  bountifully  as  they  did  before  they  were 
slashed  and  impoverished  by  erosion. 

In  that  fact  lies  the  significance  of  America's  erosion  problem  for  America's 
citizens.  We  do  not  have  too  much  good  cropland  available  for  production 
of  our  essential  food  and  fiber  crops  in  the  future.  If  we  do  not  protect  what 
we  have,  and  rebuild  the  land  which  can  still  be  restored  for  productive  use, 
the  time  inevitably  will  come— as  it  already  has  come  to  some  areas  of  the 
world— when  United  States  farm  lands  cannot  produce  enough  for  us  and 
our  descendants  to  eat  and  to  wear. 

The  Soil  Conservation  Service  has  only  been  in  existence  since  1935.  It 
was  created  by  Congress  in  that  year  not  so  much  as  a  result  of  the  govern- 
ment's vision  or  strategy  but  principally  because  the  people  of  this  country 
had  been  struck  with  dread  by  the  revulsion  of  nature  against  man  that  was 
evidenced  by  the  Dust  Bowl  incident  on  May  12  of  the  previous  year.  On 
that  day,  it  will  be  recalled,  the  sun  was  darkened  from  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains to  the  Atlantic  by  vast  clouds  of  soil  particles  borne  by  the  wind  from 

OUR    PLUNDERED    NATION          339 


the  Great  Plains  lying  in  western  Kansas,  Texas,  Oklahoma  and  eastern  New 
Mexico  and  Colorado— once  an  area  of  fertile  grasslands  but  now  denuded 
by  misuse,  much  of  it  to  the  point  of  permanent  desolation.  In  the  years 
since  its  inception  this  government  service  has  gained  extraordinary  results 
in  advancing  the  science  of  proper  land  use  and  in  assisting  soil  conservation 
districts,  set  up  under  state  law,  and  encouraging  voluntary  and  co-operative 
action  among  farmers.  These  conservation  districts  now  exist  in  all  the 
states  and  have  been  the  medium  through  which  better  methods  of  land 
use  have  been  adopted  in  many  of  the  farming  regions.  At  best,  however, 
this  vital  program— one  of  the  most  elemental  that  affects  the  lives  of  the 
people  of  our  country— is  only  well  started. 

In  a  book  published  just  before  the  war  dealing  with  the  world  problem 
of  erosion  the  authors  state  that  the  United  States  is  more  erosion-conscious 
than  any  other  country  and  is  organizing  itself  more  effectively  than  other 
nations  to  cope  with  this  danger.  Compare  this  observation  with  the  state- 
ments just  quoted  from  one  of  the  governmental  departments  that  are  at- 
tempting to  combat  this  menace.  Attempting  to!  We  have  barely  made  a 
start.  Appropriations  of  the  Federal  Government  towards  conservation  pur- 
poses of  every  nature— soils,  forests,  wildlife,  water  control,  reclamation  proj- 
ects and  others— are  less  than  1  per  cent  of  our  present  national  annual 
budget.  While  to  this  should  be  added  moneys  spent  for  conservation  by 
individual  states,  yet  the  aggregate  of  governmental  expenditures  is  but  a 
fraction  of  what  is  needed  to  protect  the  basic  elements  of  our  nation's 
present  and  future  strength. 

It  would  be  a  grave  error  to  think  that  the  increasing  emergency  facing 
our  country  is  one  of  easy  solution.  Soil  erosion  is  only  one  factor  in  a 
disturbance  of  continental  magnitude.  It  is  the  end-result  of  other  condi- 
tions, both  physical  and  economic,  and  even  social  and  political. 

In  its  physical  aspects  the  battle  to  control  soil  erosion  will  not  be  won 
until  we  have  reached  the  point  of  protecting  our  forests  so  that  the  annual 
drain  upon  them  does  not  exceed  their  annual  growth.  A  great  part  of  the 
vast  expenditure  now  being  made  in  flood  control  will  in  the  years  to  come 
be  written  off  as  dead  loss  unless  the  watersheds  are  protected  both  as  to 
adequate  forest  cover  and  as  to  the  curbing  of  erosion  in  the  grasslands  and 
croplands  that  lie  within  them.  So  far  we  have  not  come  to  the  point  of 
synchronized  effort.  Our  flood-control  engineers  are  not  looking  upstream. 
In  the  Rio  Grande  watershed  in  New  Mexico,  for  example,  flood  control 
and  river  development  plans  are  in  the  making  that  are  estimated  to  cost 
more  than  $100,000,000,  regardless  of  the  need  for  the  establishment  of  a 
contemporaneous  plan  for  work  upon  the  eroding  and  silt-producing  lands 
of  the  abused  watershed.  This  region  has  been  referred  to  as  "the  doomed 

340         ENVIRONMENT 


valley,  an  example  of  regional  suicide."  There  are  other  such  critical  points 
—too  many.  The  assault  on  the  public  lands  of  the  West,  if  successful,  will 
breed  more. 

How  about  the  valley  of  the  greatest  river  of  them  all,  the  Mississippi,  its 
bed  so  lifted,  its  waters  so  choked,  so  blocked  with  the  wash  of  productive 
lands,  that  the  river  at  flood  crests  runs  high  above  the  streets  of  New 
Orleans?  As  in  historical  times,  the  power  of  nature  in  revolt  will  one  day 
overwhelm  the  bonds  that  even  the  most  ingenious  modern  engineer  can 
prepare.  It  should  by  now  be  clear  that  natural  forces  cannot  be  dealt  with 
in  this  way.  And,  too,  like  echoes  from  the  long  past,  there  are  discernible 
among  the  earlier  causes  that  have  brought  the  Rio  Grande  Valley  to  its 
present  difficulties  the  age-long  and  disastrous  conflicts  between  the  herds- 
man and  the  agriculturist— echoes  from  the  wasted  lands  of  Asia  Minor,  of 
Palestine,  of  Greece  and  of  Spain.  Today  the  story  has  different  overtones. 
The  raids  of  the  herdsmen  of  earlier  times  find  their  twentieth-century  coun- 
terpart in  the  work  of  political  pressure  groups  representing  powerful  live- 
stock owners  in  the  halls  of  Congress.  Representatives  of  the  lumber 
industry  are  there  too,  striving  to  effect  arrangements  so  that  the  profits  of 
their  corporations  may  be  assured  and,  if  possible,  increased.  There  is  noth- 
ing unethical  about  all  of  this  under  the  present  scheme  of  things.  For  the 
moment  it  is  the  American  way  of  doing  business.  Now,  however,  in  the 
light  of  the  provable  facts,  the  use  of  our  productive  land  and  our  renewable 
resources— forests,  wildlife  and  waterways— must  be  directed  solely  to  the 
benefit  of  all  the  people.  Ethics,  too,  are  involved.  Under  our  present  crim- 
inal code  anyone  who  steals  food  from  a  groceryman's  counter  can  be  put  in 
jail.  His  act  hurts  only  the  proprietor  of  the  store.  But  if,  for  the  benefit 
of  his  own  pockctbook,  the  owner  of  timberlands  at  the  head  of  a  river  strips 
the  hills  of  their  forests,  the  net  result  is  that  food  is  taken  not  from  one 
"proprietor"  but  from  all  the  "proprietors,"  or  farm  owners,  down  the  valley, 
because  the  removal  of  forest  cover  on  an  upper  watershed  will  inevitably 
damage  the  water  supply  in  the  valley  below,  even  to  the  point  of  causing 
the  complete  drying-up  of  wells  and  springs.  Countless  thousands  of  land- 
owners in  America  have  in  this  very  way  been  brought  to  bankruptcy.  In 
the  face  of  such  things,  how  equitable  are  our  present  moral  codes? 

There  is  nothing  revolutionary  in  the  concept  that  renewable  resources 
are  the  property  of  all  the  people  and,  therefore,  that  land  use  must  be  co- 
ordinated into  an  overall  plan.  This  principle  has  been  recognized  in  other 
democracies.  In  several  countries  in  western  Europe,  for  example,  an  indi- 
vidual owning  forests  can  under  no  circumstances  cut  down  a  tree  on  his  own 
property  unless  such  cutting  conforms  with  the  principles  of  sound  forest 
treatment  as  prescribed  by  the  Forestry  Department  of  his  government.  In 

OUR   PLUNDERED   NATION         341 


effect,  private  ownership  of  the  country's  resources  is  countenanced  only  if 
the  use  of  such  resources  is  directed  towards  the  interests  of  the  people  as 
a  whole. 

The  United  States  has,  within  the  last  decade,  begun  to  move  in  this 
direction.  The  first  step  of  co-ordinating  land  resources  into  a  unified  pro- 
gram found  expression  in  the  Tennessee  Valley  Authority  created  by  Con- 
gress, after  much  heart  searching,  in  1933.  This  enterprise,  conceived  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  American  slogan  "When  you  do  something,  do  it  big," 
is  an  experiment  in  the  unified  planning  and  development  of  a  great  river 
valley  and  of  its  water  and  land  resources.  It  directly  affects  the  lives  and 
fortunes  of  more  than  3,000,000  people.  Ably  administered,  it  has,  within  the 
span  of  little  more  than  a  decade,  justified  itself  not  only  as  a  social  experi- 
ment but  as  an  effort  to  harmonize  human  needs  with  the  processes  of  nature. 
Above  all,  it  provides  an  example  from  which  lessons  can  be  drawn  for  the 
solution  of  the  problem  that  faces  the  entire  country.  The  interdependence 
of  all  the  elements  in  the  creative  machinery  of  nature  points  clearly  to  the 
fact  that  any  program  devised  to  meet  the  situation  calls  for  a  supreme 
co-ordinated  nationwide  effort.  Many  conditions  are  involved— social,  finan- 
cial, political,  as  well  as  physical.  Such  a  program  still  is  awaiting  for- 
mulation. 

The  question  remains.  Are  we  to  continue  on  the  same  dusty  perilous  road 
once  traveled  to  its  dead  end  by  other  mighty  and  splendid  nations,  or,  in 
our  wisdom,  are  we  going  to  choose  the  only  route  that  does  not  lead  to  the 
disaster  that  has  already  befallen  so  many  other  peoples  of  the  earth? 


JAMES  WEST  The  class  system  of  Plainville 

Introductory 

THE  CLASS  system  of  Plainville  might  well  be  called  a  "superorganiza- 
tion,"  because  it  provides  for  every  person  living  there  a  master  pattern 
for  arranging  according  to  relative  rank  every  other  individual,  and  every 
family,  clique,  lodge,  club,  church,  and  other  organization  or  association  in 
Plainville  society.   It  provides  also  a  set  of  patterns  for  expected  behavior 
according  to  class,  and  a  way  of  judging  all  norms  and  deviations  from  these 
norms  in  individual  behavior. 
Yet  many,  if  not  most,  Plainvillers  completely  deny  the  existence  of  class 

From  Plainville,  USA  by  James  West,  Columbia  University  Press.    Reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  the  publisher. 

342         ENVIRONMENT 


in  their  community.  They  are  aware  that  class  distinctions  exist  "outside/' 
and  speak  of  city  dwellers  as  divided  rather  exactly  between  two  unevenly 
sized  categories  of  "rich"  and  "poor"  (or  an  "idle  class"  and  a  "working 
class"),  or  among  three  classes  which  they  call  the  "rich,"  the  "middle  class," 
and  the  "poor."  About  Plainville  and  most  of  Woodland  County  they  often 
say  with  some  pride,  "This  is  one  place  where  everybody  is  equal.  You  don't 
find  no  classes  here."  In  equating  themselves  loosely  with  members  of  the 
greater  society,  they  identify  verbally  with  the  "working  class,"  or  with  "the 
poorer  people  in  cities,"  though  they  contrast  unfavorably  the  lot  of  city 
wage  earners,  who  "work  ( or  slave )  for  others,"  with  their  own  "independ- 
ence" and  "freedom,"  whether  as  merchants,  farm  owners,  farm  tenants,  or 
odd  jobbers.  Further,  their  respect  for  "property"  is  so  intense  that  they  in 
general  disapprove  heatedly  of  unions,  strikes,  collective  bargaining,  or  any 
other  devices  by  which  city  workers  organize  or  act  to  further  their  own 
interests  against  those  of  ownership  or  invested  wealth. 

According  to  their  individual  rank  people  tend  to  recognize  the  local  class 
system  for  what  it  is,  or  are  at  least  more  able  or  willing  to  verbalize  regard- 
ing it:  "higher  ups"  speak  more  clearly  and  frankly  about  the  system  than 
do  their  inferiors.  Politicians,  mortgage  entrepreneurs,  traders,  professional 
men,  and  socially  ambitious  people  seem  to  understand  the  system  better 
than  many  other  people  do,  because  they  have  had  to  study  it  and  use  it,  in 
manipulating  people  to  their  own  advantage.  The  strongest  preventives 
toward  full  recognition  of  class  as  it  exists  and  operates  here  are  these: 
(1)  the  deeply  rooted  American  moral  attitude  that  class  distinctions  are 
wrong;  (2)  a  traditional  conviction  that  rigid  class  distinctions  occur  only 
in  cities  ( or  in  the  South,  where  Negroes  constitute  an  "inferior"  class ) ;  and 
(3)  the  local  etiquette  governing  interclass  relations— no  one  must  be  re- 
minded overtly  of  his  "inferiority"  ("Everybody  here  is  treated  equal"). 

"People  know  their  place"  well  enough,  however,  and  in  actual  daily  life 
few  errors  are  committed  against  the  rules  under  which  people  meet,  work, 
transact  business,  talk  sociably,  and  maintain  before  inferiors  the  fiction  of 
living  in  a  classless  society. 

The  categories  and  criteria  of  class 

The  Plainville  class  system,  as  it  appears  to  the  average  "better  class"  adult 
who  "bothers  to  think  about  it,"  is  represented  in  Figure  1,  which  suggests 
a  diamond-shaped  numerical  distribution  of  the  population  according  to 
class.1  The  labels  on  the  diagram,  except  the  designations  "religious"  and 

1  I  am  indebted  for  this  concept  to  Robert  K.  Merton's  review  in  Survey  Graphic, 
October  1942,  of  The  Social  Life  of  a  Modern  Community,  by  W.  Lloyd  Warner  and 
Paul  S.  Lunt. 

THE   CLASS    SYSTEM   OF    PLAINVILLE         343 


Upper  crust 


(rood,  honest,  self - 
respecting,averageieveKy- 
day  working  people 

Also  called  (in  order  of  frequency) 

((>  nice,  refined  people  (4)  people  who  are 
(2)  batter -class  people      all  right 
o)the  middle  class      csHhe  upper  class 


Good,  lower  class  people 


Lower  element' 


Fig.  1 
Plainville  Social  Classes 


344         ENVIRONMENT 


"nonreligious,"  which  are  added  for  convenience  in  this  discussion,  are  the 
most  frequently  repeated  terms,  among  a  wealth  of  synonyms,  by  which 
upper-class  people  classify  both  themselves  and  others.  The  diagram  was 
drawn,  and  its  labels  were  selected  and  appended,  after  listening  during 
fifteen  months  to  hundreds  of  Plainville  people  discuss,  criticize,  ridicule, 
condemn,  and  approve  their  neighbors.  I  believe  that  the  nearly  300  house- 
hold units  of  Plainville  and  its  trade  area  could  be  evenly  distributed  over 
the  diagram  without  grave  injustice  to  upper-class  opinion  regarding  the 
relative  rank  of  each  family  head. 

People  do  not  always  agree  on  just  how  "high"  or  "low"  an  individual 
deserves  to  stand  within  the  sector  of  the  society  where  he  "belongs"— no  two 
people  control  exactly  the  same  facts  about  an  individual,  nor  do  they  weight 
the  facts  equally— but  upper-class  people  do  not  disagree  in  identifying  an 
individual  with  one  of  the  two  main  classes.  They  disagree  seldom,  if  he 
is  "lower  class,"  in  locating  him  definitely  in  one  of  its  three  sub-categories. 
In  fact,  people  are  much  more  willing  to  use  the  word  "class"  in  reference 
to  others  whom  they  consider  inferior  than  in  reference  to  those  whom  they 
consider  equal  or  superior  to  themselves. 

To  an  observer  who  patiently  listens  to  Plainville  gossip,  the  criteria  of 
discrimination  by  which  Plainvillers  judge  and  rank  each  other  seem  at  first 
to  be  nearly  infinite,  because  every  item  of  human  possession  and  behavior 
seems  to  be  involved.  Due  to  the  society's  muting  of  the  concept  of  class, 
and  also  to  the  peculiar  styles  followed  in  local  humor  and  gossip,  com- 
ments suggesting  class  ranking  are  more  frequently  made  by  inference  and 
innuendo  than  by  outright  statement.  Another  fact  at  first  confusing  to  the 
observer  is  that  few  people  agree  verbally  on  what  traits  count  most  in 
assigning  status  to  a  neighbor.  What  the  Plainviller  says  he  does  in  judging 
another  is  "add  everything  I  know  about  him  up  in  my  head  and  strike  an 
average."  What  he  usually  really  accomplishes  by  this  process,  however, 
is  not  the  assignment  of  class  status,  but  the  designation  of  the  "respect" 
which  he  feels  is  due  that  person  within  the  ranks  of  the  class  where  he 
"belongs."  Respect  and  class  are  separate  aspects  of  the  prestige  system,  as 
will  be  seen  later. 

Before  examining  the  criteria  of  class,  let  us  look  briefly  at  the  classes 
themselves. 

The  "backbone"  of  the  Plainville  community  is  said  to  be  the  "good, 
honest,  self-respecting,  average,  everyday  working  people."  Various  adjec- 
tives from  this  lengthy  label  can  be  applied  to  people  in  "respect,"  without 
indication  of  their  class  status,  but  when  the  whole  phrase  is  rolled  off  the 
tongue  to  describe  an  individual's  connections,  there  is  no  doubt  about  his 
position  in  the  community.  He  "belongs."  The  phrases  "people  who  are 

THE   CLASS    SYSTEM   OF   PLAINVILLE         345 


all  right,"  "nice,  refined  people,"  "better-class  people,"  "the  middle  class," 
and  the  "upper  class  (here)"  are  rarer  and  more  daring  designations  of  mem- 
bers of  the  upper  class. 

This  upper  class  includes  about  half  the  people  in  the  community.  Though 
its  members  vary  in  relative  rank,  the  class  does  not  break  up  into  clear  sub- 
divisions. A  few  families  "near  the  top"  are  sometimes  called,  satirically  or 
resentfully,  the  "upper  crust"  or  the  "would-be  upper  crust,"  but  people  who 
"stand  out,"  or  "try  to  hold  their  heads  up"  above  what  people  choose  to  call 
the  "average  level  of  life  around  here,"  are  condemned,  and  no  one  would 
admit  to  upper-crust  classification  for  himself  or  family.  The  upper  class 
prides  itself  on  being  "plain,"  "average,"  and  not  outstanding.  It  sets  the 
tone  for  the  society. 

The  other  half  of  the  people  belong  to  the  "lower  class,"  and  there  is  no 
doubt  in  upper-class  minds  regarding  who  these  people  are.  The  lower  class, 
however,  unlike  the  upper  class,  does  not  present  a  single  uniform  "average" 
front  or  tone  to  the  world,  but  is  subsected,  in  upper-class  eyes,  into  three 
sub-classes.  Those  members  of  the  lower  class  whose  mores  most  closely 
imitate— especially  in  financial  honesty,  willingness  to  work,  and  personal 
morals,  the  main  criteria  of  "respect"— the  stated  ideals  of  the  upper  class, 
are  called  "good  lower-class  people."  A  somewhat  less  numerous  group,  con- 
sidered deficient  in  these  respect-worthy  qualities,  is  called  the  "lower  ele- 
ment." Still  lower  is  a  small  group  of  people  who  are  considered  almost 
sub-human;  their  behavior  is  not  judged  by  the  conventional  standards  of 
"responsible  people."  They  are  often  called  "people  who  live  like  the  ani- 
mals." How  the  society  appears  to  each  of  these  groups  will  be  described 
in  due  course. 

Let  us  now  examine  the  criteria  by  which  people  actually  fall  into  their 
proper  ranking  by  classes.  The  diamond  of  Figure  1  is  bisected  laterally 
by  a  line  which  separates  the  Prairie  people  from  the  Hill  people.  The  line 
is  drawn  because  the  "better  class  of  people"  live  out  on  the  prairie;  the 
"lower  class"  live  "back  in  the  hills."  That  is  what  people  say,  and  the  state- 
ment is  almost  exactly  true  at  present.  One  exception  to  it  lies  in  the  fact 
that  the  very  best  land  is  the  bottoms;  the  homes  of  the  "rich  bottom  farmers" 
can  be  reached  only  by  traversing  the  hills.  If  the  bottom  farmers  "live  like 
prairie  people,"  they  are  "better-class  people";  if  they  "live  like  hill  people," 
they  are  not.  The  two  curves  in  the  central  line,  however,  refer  mainly  not 
to  the  bottom  farmers,  who  are  very  few,  but  to  certain  hill-farm  families  who 
are  "better  people,"  and  to  people  actually  dwelling  on  the  prairie  who  are 
not.  The  former,  again,  "live  like  prairie  people,"  the  latter,  "like  hill  people," 
and  both  rank  accordingly.  The  most  visible  and  obvious  criterion  of  class 
status,  therefore,  happens  to  be  geographical. 

346         ENVIRONMENT 


The  second  criterion  relates  to  the  first,  and  can  be  called  "technology  * 
The  prairie  land  is  better  than  hill  land.  It  is  less  rocky,  and  in  all  ways  is 
better  suited  for  tillage  by  modern  farming  practices.  Those  who  farm  it 
imitate  the  technological  patterns  of  Midwestern  agriculture.  The  bulk  of 
the  modern  machinery,  whether  powered  by  teams  or  motors,  is  on  the 
prairie  farms.  Prairie  fields  are  larger  than  hill  fields  and  a  greater  variety 
and  acreage  of  crops  are  grown  on  the  prairie  than  are  grown  in  the  hills. 
There  is  a  similar  difference  between  the  livestock  of  the  two  areas:  more 
domestic  animals  and  more  kinds  of  animals  are  found  on  the  prairie  farms; 
"pure-bred  stock"  as  opposed  to  "scrub  stock"  is  valued  more  by  prairie 
farmers  than  by  hill  farmers.  In  the  hills  "old-style  patch  farming"  has  sur* 
vived  better,  as  has  the  even  older  pattern  of  living  from  stream  and  woods— 
from  fishing,  hunting,  trapping,  and  gathering,  and  from  woodchopping. 
The  "way  a  man  makes  a  living"  is  an  important  item  of  social  discrimination. 
The  better-class  families  who  actually  live  in  the  hills  follow  farming  prac- 
tices more  modern  than  those  followed  by  their  neighbors,  and  the  lower- 
class  people  who  live  on  the  prairie  "scratch  out  a  living"  with  little  regard 
to  the  predominant  styles  of  prairie  agriculture.  No  "hunter  and  trapper" 
or  "patch  farmer"  or  "wood  chopper"  belongs  to  the  upper  class,  and  no 
prairie  dweller  who  "farms  the  way  people  farm  nowadays"  is  lower  class. 

A  third  and  very  important  criterion  is  lineage.  "Good  families"  (so 
labeled  by  any  number  of  synonyms)  are  contrasted  with  "poor  families," 
or  "low-class,"  or  "lower-element,"  or  "no-account,"  or  "trashy"  families.  So 
rigid  are  the  restrictions  governing  courtship,  visiting,  worship,  and  so  forth, 
and  so  firmly  set  are  the  patterns  of  behavior  expected  from  each  member 
of  the  society  according  to  "what  kind  of  a  family  he  comes  from,"  that 
lineage  can  almost  be  described  at  present  as  an  absolute  criterion.  How- 
ever, many  of  the  "good  prairie  families"  are  connected  by  various  links  of 
kinship  with  many  hill  families,  and  since  people  have  no  hesitation  in  "stat- 
ing their  kin,"  the  present  arrangement  of  families  in  the  class  structure  must 
have  arisen  since  1870-90,  when  the  prairie  was  brought  under  cultivation. 

A  fourth  criterion,  as  might  be  expected,  is  "worth"  or  wealth.  Its  ex- 
tremes are,  on  the  one  hand,  "real  wealth"  (say,  property  worth  $20,000- 
$50,000),  or  more  reasonably,  "independence"  ("They  own  their  own 
home  .  .  .  They  are  independent  .  .  .  They  have  enough  to  do  with" ) ;  on 
the  other,  "poverty."  Degree  of  wealth  again  correlates  with  residence  on 
the  prairie  or  in  the  hills.  The  average  wealth  per  prairie  family  exceeds 
that  of  hill  families  in  land  value  per  acre;  in  size,  quality,  and  appearance  of 
houses  and  other  improvements,  including  fences;  in  number  and  quality 
of  livestock  herds  and  poultry  flocks;  and  in  many  other  items  of  use  and 
appearance  on  which  discriminatory  judgments  can  be  made,  such  as  im- 

THE  CLASS   SYSTEM  OF   PLAINVILLK         347 


plements  and  tools,  cars,  clothes,  furniture,  and  food.  Many  people,  when 
asked  outright,  "What  gives  a  man  his  rank  among  his  fellows?"  will  answer, 
"The  only  thing  that  counts  in  other  people's  eyes  is,  how  much  money  has 
he  got?"  The  facts  partially  belie  such  an  answer,  however,  because  fully 
a  third  of  the  lower-class  people  living  in  the  hills  are  better  off  financially 
than  the  poorer  third  of  the  better-class  prairie  people. 

As  a  fifth  criterion,  "morals"  is  given  much  local  lip  service.  The  common 
moral  traits  which  most  people  agree  in  stressing  are  "honesty"  (which  pri- 
marily means  regularity  and  promptness  in  the  payment  of  debts),  willing- 
ness to  do  hard  work,  "temperance"  (regarding  alcohol),  and  performance 
of  all  domestic  duties.  Traits  most  commonly  condemned  as  "immoral"  arc 
dishonesty,  idleness  or  laziness,  family  cruelty  or  neglect,  gambling,  drunk- 
enness, and,  of  course,  any  serious  "law  breaking."  Other,  and  severer,  moral 
points  are  also  stressed  by  many.  These  include  church  membership,  or 
"salvation,"  and  negatively,  complete  taboos  against  drinking  beer  or  spirits, 
dancing,  cardplaying,  smoking  (especially  cigarette  smoking,  and  particu- 
larly cigarette  smoking  by  women),  other  uses  of  tobacco,  swearing,  ob- 
scene talk,  ostentation  in  dress,  and  so  forth.  Regarding  these  severer  norms 
of  moral  behavior,  there  is  much  difference  in  opinion  and  in  intensity  of 
opinion.  A  good  many  people,  including  some  who  do  not  stress  all  the  severe 
taboos  listed,  say  and  apparently  believe  that  "to  live  right  and  do  right"  is 
the  one  critical  criterion  by  which  people  are  and  should  be  judged.  Actu- 
ally, however,  no  one  ever  crosses  the  main  class  line,  from  lower  class  to 
upper  class  or  vice  versa,  as  the  result  of  moral  distinction  or  moral  delin- 
quency alone.  Within  the  upper  class,  morals  are  a  critical  criterion  only  for 
approval  and  "respect,"  and  therefore  only  for  relative  rank  within  the  class. 

Morals  count  for  more  in  judging  lower-class  people.  Except  for  its  lowest 
and  smallest  group,  the  lower  class  is  subdivided  mainly  by  the  criterion  of 
morality.  Most  "good  lower-class  people"  past  the  age  of  adolescence  have 
been  "saved,"  and  the  majority  of  them  are  members  of  the  Holiness  Church. 
The  life  of  this  large  group  is  active,  neighborly,  and  moral,  by  all  the  posi- 
tive traits  and  taboos  that  have  been  given.  Though  they  "strive  to  better 
themselves"  financially,  of  course,  no  other  criterion  of  status  is  as  important 
as  morals  in  their  social  judgments  of  themselves  or  of  others.  Upper-class 
people  would  include  in  the  list  of  "good  lower-class  people"  a  group  of  fam- 
ilies who  are  not  affiliated  with  churches  but  whom  they  still  consider  "good 
citizens,"  inasmuch  as  they  work  hard,  pay  their  bills,  and  cause  no  trouble 
in  the  community,  but  who  are  lower  class  because  of  lineage,  living  in  the 
timber,  and  old-fashioned  ways. 

Beneath  "good  lower-class  people"  is  the  "lower  element,"  a  group  of  hill 
families  who  range  from  a  reputation  for  "backwardness"  in  regard  to  mod- 

348         ENVIRONMENT 


ern  ways,  downward  to  a  reputation  for  outright  criminality.  Few  lower- 
element  people  "ever  darken  a  church  door."  The  best  of  these  people  "are 
good  enough  citizens  in  a  way,"  though  "mighty  rough"  or  "mighty  ignorant." 
The  less  respected  "absolutely  won't  do  a  day's  work,"  or  "they  like  to  come 
to  town  and  get  drunk  and  get  into  fights,"  or  "they  get  arrested  and  get  into 
jail"  (for  fighting,  disturbing  the  peace,  drunken  driving,  etc.).  The  least 
respected  "run  hounds  all  night  in  the  timber,"  or  they  "steal  chickens  and 
meat." 

The  word  "morals"  is  useful  in  describing  the  "people  who  live  like  the 
animals"  only  because  they  are  considered  too  lowly  and  too  "ignorant"  to 
be  accountable  either  morally  or  legally  for  what  they  do.  If  a  man  and  a 
woman  of  this  class  choose  to  live  together  without  marriage,  everybody  else 
in  the  community  considers  this  breach  of  convention  to  be  comic  but  not 
reprehensible.  No  one  would  "have  the  law  on"  a  man  of  this  class  for 
chicken  stealing  or  corn  stealing.  The  owner  of  the  stolen  property  would 
instead  scold  the  culprit  "like  a  child,"  or  attempt  to  frighten  him  out  of 
further  ill-doing,  preferably  with  a  practical  joke.  Favorite  jokes  of  this  type 
are  shooting  "at"  the  thief,  with  no  intention  of  injuring  him,  or  loading  a 
shotgun  shell  with  salt  instead  of  shot,  and  "letting  him  have  it  in  his  back- 
sides where  it'll  sting  a  little  and  scare  him  a  lot."  A  few  whole  families  and 
several  individual  men  are  in  this  class.  All  are  believed  to  be,  and  seem  to 
be,  somewhat  subnormal  mentally,  though  most  mental  subnormals  are 

classed  socially  with  their  immediate  families. 

j 

The  sixth  criterion  of  class  is  of  enormous  complexity,  because  it  involves 
all  the  other  criteria,  renders  them  meaningful,  and  in  a  sense  supersedes 
them.  At  the  same  time  it  governs  interclass  relationships  and  is  critical  in 
matters  of  class  mobility.  This  criterion  is  "manners."  The  number  of  traits 
associated  with  manners  is  so  nearly  infinite  that  no  effort  can  be  made  to 
describe  them  all.  All  relate  in  some  way  to  the  fundamental  division  of  the 
society  into  two  main  "ways  of  life":  the  older,  more  isolated,  and  more  self- 
subsistent  hill  life,  and  the  newer,  more  up-to-date  life  on  the  prairie.  To 
begin  with,  the  thousands  of  traits  connected  with  prairie  versus  hill  resi- 
dence, technology,  and  average  wealth  should  be  considered,  not  only  as 
items  of  functional  use,  but  in  the  additional  light  of  "manners."  People  on 
the  prairie  have  better  and  more  modern  cars,  improvements,  farming  im- 
plements, livestock,  furniture,  clothing,  etc.,  than  the  hill  people  have,  but 
such  things  represent  not  only  the  greater  productivity,  or  wealth,  of  the 
prairie;  they  represent  also  the  habits  and  tastes  of  prairie  people,  and  their 
"feelings"  of  what  it  is  appropriate  for  their  class  to  possess,  use,  and  dis- 
play, in  their  increasing  efforts  to  do  things  as  they  are  done  in  better  farm- 
ing regions  outside.  They  represent  "manners,"  in  short.  For  example,  trac- 

THE   CLASS    SYSTEM    OF    PLAINVIIXE         349 


tors  are  increasing  on  the  prairie,  though  all  the  agricultural  experts  agree 
that  tractors  can  be  profitably  used  on  few  Woodland  County  farms.  The 
frequent  purchase  of  new  automobiles  by  many  prairie  farmers  also  puts 
a  great  and  unnecessary  strain  on  their  limited  financial  resources,  carrying 
them  further  and  further  from  the  real  independence  of  subsistence  farm- 
ing into  the  web  of  debt  that  is  here  connected  with  a  cash  economy.  Yet 
relatively  good  cars,  in  contrast  with  "jalopies,"  are  a  part  of  prairie  man- 
ners. Certainly  many  "old-style"  backwoods  people  are  in  a  better  financial 
position  than  many  of  their  social  "betters"  to  afford  material  possessions 
regarding  which  discriminations  are  made.  People  say  of  them,  "They  ride 
in  that  old  big-wagon,  drive  that  jalopy,  live  in  that  unpainted  hill  shack, 
wear  them  old  clothes,  eat  the  grub  they  eat,  because  they  like  it  better." 

Of  lower-class  life  and  manners  people  also  often  say,  "Them  kind  of 
folks  live  the  way  they  live  because  they  don't  know  any  better/'  "Knowl- 
edge" is  one  of  the  most  important  discriminatory  traits  that  appear  in  local 
conversation.  People  say  of  those  they  consider  "ignorant"— and  the  upper 
class  considers  the  lower  class  to  be  very  ignorant— "They  don't  know  how  to 
live  .  .  .  farm  .  .  .  take  care  of  their  stuff  (stock,  crops,  houses,  money) 
.  .  .  dress  .  .  .  cook  .  .  .  eat  .  .  .  talk  .  .  .  talk  proper  .  .  .  talk  to  peo- 
ple .  .  .  act  .  .  .  act  in  public  (or  in  front  of  people)  .  .  .  act  in  town  .  .  . 
act  in  church  .  .  .  act  anywheres  outside  of  the  timber.*"  "They  don't  know 
what  to  raise  .  .  .  buy  .  .  .  feed  their  children  (or  stock)."  "Half  of  'em 
don't  know  enough  to  take  a  bath  over  once  a  year."  "They  don't  know 
nothin'  except  houn'  dogs,  huntin',  and  fishin'— and  runnin'  the  timber.  .  .  . 
They  don't  know  nothin'  except  cornbread  and  molasses.  .  .  .  They  don't 
know  nothin'  except  hoes  and  axes,  and  doin'  it  the  hard  waij.  .  .  .  They 
don't  know  nothin'  excep'  ignorance!"  "Lots  of  them  women  and  children 
back  in  the  hills  and  timber  is  afraid  of  strangers.  If  a  stranger  goes  up  to 
one  of  them  houses,  all  the  dogs  start  barkin',  and  then  you  see  the  women 
and  children,  and  the  chickens,  hogs,  and  dogs  all  start  runnin'  for  the 
brush."  Contrarily  it  is  said,  "Them's  the  happiest,  cheerfulest  people  in  the 
world,  because  they  don't  want  anything  more'n  they've  got." 

The  lower  element  is  described  in  similar  terms,  with  phrases  of  moral 
reproach  added.  "They  are  rough  (that  is,  profane  or  obscene)  .  .  .  their 
men  and  boys  cuss  right  in  the  house.  .  .  .  Their  women  cuss  just  like  men 
.  .  .  their  boys  and  girls  talk  the  same  language  and  tell  the  same  kind  of 
stories.  .  .  .  All  they  know  is  just  drink,  dance,  and  carouse.  .  .  .  Some  of 
them  children  don't  know  who  their  own  daddies  are.  ...  I  wouldn't  want 
to  live  among  people  as  lazy  as  them:  some  of  'em  would  rather  steal  what 
they  eat  than  raise  it.  You'd  have  to  put  locks  on  your  house,  your  smoke- 
house, and  your  corncrib  if  you  lived  in  their  neighborhood/' 


350 


ENVIRONMENT 


As  upper-class  gossip  progresses  downward  through  the  personnel  of  the 
lower  class,  the  spirit  of  ridicule  increases,  and  condemnation  in  general 
tends  to  decrease.  The  people  who  live  like  the  animals  are  subjects  only  for 
mirth.  They  "don't  hardly  know  nothin'  only  just  how  to  get  along,  if  people 
help  'em  a  little."  Most  of  them  live  in  cabins  or  shacks  on  other  people's 
property  "way  back  in  the  timber,"  subsisting  from  meager  gardening  and 
hunting,  from  occasional  odd  jobs  at  woodchopping,  brush  cutting,  or  field 
work,  and  sometimes  aided  by  gifts  of  home-grown  food  by  neighbors  who 
"keep  an  eye  on  them  to  see  that  they  don't  starve."  For  all  its  love  of  mali- 
cious gossip  and  anecdote,  the  community  is  "kindly"  in  seeing  that  nobody 
"really  goes  hungry." 

Enough  has  been  said  to  show  the  importance  of  manners  as  a  criterion  of 
social  ranking.  Manners  separate  the  two  main  classes  much  more  effectually 
than  any  other  criteria.  Residence  on  the  prairie  or  in  the  hills,  like  lineage 
or  family  or  wealth  (if  accompanied  by  appropriate  manners),  merely  estab- 
lishes at  birth  an  environment,  with  an  expectancy  that  the  new-born  indi- 
vidual will  learn  specific  patterns  of  behavior  that  belong  to  his  class.  The 
children  of  families  that  live  in  the  hills  are  expected  to  grow  up  "ignorant" 
of  many  things  which  prairie  children  know.  They  are  expected  to  learn 
a  different  and  "inferior"  technology,  to  be  "content  with  less,"  to  have  dif- 
ferent "morals"— either  the  stricter,  "fanatical"  taboos  of  lower-class  religious 
people,  or  the  less  strict,  sometimes  "criminal"  morality  of  the  lower  ele- 
ment. They  are  all  expected  to  grow  up  with  "backwoodsy"  manners. 

This  description  of  classes  has  dealt  only  with  Plainville  "country  people." 
It  would  serve  with  some  modification  for  other  farming  communities  in  the 
county,  and  with  more  modifications  for  other  farming  communities  in  ad- 
joining counties.  The  salient  peculiarity  for  Plainville  is  its  surrounding 
prairie,  about  which  a  whole  cluster  of  "modern  traits"  has  been  localized. 
The  same  prairie  traits  are  important  for  Stanton  and  for  the  town  "A"  in 
the  northeast  corner  of  the  county.  The  "best  people"  who  trade  at  Dis- 
covery (and  several  other  little  towns)  are  the  bottom  farmers.  The  "best 
people"  in  Discovery,  however,  are  the  county  officers  and  the  federal  em- 
ployees. The  best  people  in  Stanton  are  the  town  "aristocracy"  of  merchants, 
an  aristocracy  which  is  sneered  at  throughout  the  rest  of  the  county  for  "try- 
ing to  hold  its  head  above,"  and  which  tends  to  sneer  at  the  other  trading 
centers  as  "hillbilly  communities." 

Plainville  "town  people"  belong  to  one  or  another  of  these  classes  as  their 
lineage,  wealth,  income,  morals  and  whole  way  of  life  (their  "manners")  fit 
them  in.  The  family  a  man  "comes  from"  ( if  a  local  family )  counts  extremely 
high  in  judging  "what  you  can  expect  from  him."  ("His  family  lives  in  the 
hills  ...  on  the  prairie.")  Modernity  of  life,  as  indicated  by  cars,  clothes, 

THE  CLASS   SYSTEM  OF   PLAINVILLE        351 


language,  extensive  use  of  electricity,  etc.,  and  its  opposite  largely  replace 
the  prairie-hills  diagnostics  where,  as  among  "newcomers,"  these  are  not 
sustained  by  active  kin  ties.  Professional  people  (the  doctor,  the  Christian 
preacher,  the  undertaker,  the  vocational  agriculture  teacher,  and  other  teach- 
ers) stand  high.  Among  many  people  "respect"  for  the  undertaker  dimin- 
ished greatly  when  he  became  involved  in  a  scandalous  lawsuit;  respect  for 
the  doctor  diminished  among  the  other  half  of  the  people  when  he  "sided 
against"  the  undertaker  in  court—but  respect  is  only  one  aspect  of  prestige: 
no  one  is  declassed  for  simply  losing  the  moral  respect  of  the  community. 
Owners  of  the  more  "modern"  business  houses  rank  high,  provided  they  do 
not  sell  beer  or  spirits;  other  business  owners  rank  according  to  the  conven- 
tional criteria.  Odd-jobbers  rank  low,  and  WPA  workers  and  "reliefers"  rank 
lower;  I  doubt  if  over  a  dozen  upper-class  people  in  the  county  ever  ac- 
cepted relief  or  WPA  jobs,  except  foremanships,  or  office  or  managerial  work. 
Until  recent  years  Plainville,  like  Stanton,  had  its  little  "town  aristocracy" 
of  dominant  business  men— a  banking  family  and  several  important  owners 
of  "general  stores"— but  with  the  passing  of  these  families  and  the  decline 
in  small  town  business  this  distinction  has  disappeared.  The  social  differ- 
ence by  which  town  people  as  town  people  once  outranked  country  people 
as  country  people  has  also  disappeared  almost  completely.  ( "There  ain't  no 
country  boys  any  more.") 

Differential  attitudes  toward  the  class  structure  2 

Figure  1  shows  how  better-class  Plainville  people  rank  the  members  of 
their  community.  It  is  necessary  to  show  how  the  class  system  appears  to 
certain  other  Plain villers. 

To  tell  how  "everybody  sees  the  classes"  would,  of  course  require  many 
diagrams,  because  the  tradition  of  denying  class  enables  individuals  to  attach 
more  weight  to  one  criterion  than  to  another.  For  example,  the  "pure  money- 
grubber"  may  sometimes  view  his  neighbors  as  arranged  only  in  a  prestige- 
diamond  of  hard-won  wealth— inherited  wealth,  it  may  be  said  in  passing, 
carries  less  respect  than  earned  wealth.  For  women,  throughout  the  com- 
munity, the  class  lines  are  much  more  sharply  drawn  than  for  men,  because 
men  cross  the  lines  freely  in  business  dealings,  trading,  loafing,  and  all  other 
activities  lying  outside  the  "home,"  while  women,  confined  more  sharply 
to  the  home,  have  much  less  contact  across  the  class  lines.  For  small  chil- 
dren there  are  almost  no  distinctions.  The  ideas  of  how  they  are  expected 
to  "treat  children  from  other  families"  are  only  gradually  implanted  in  their 

2  For  an  excellent  analysis  of  differential  attitudes  toward  a  class  system  in  a  Southern 
community,  see  Allison  Davis,  Burleigh  B.  Gardner,  and  May  B.  Gardner,  Deep  South, 
(University  of  Chicago,  1941). 

352         ENVIRONMENT 


minds,  through  home  and  other  influences.  Girls  have  learned  "most  of  the 
differences"  before  adolescence,  while  it  is  not  important  that  boys  learn 
them  so  accurately  until  they  start  "going  with  girls."  The  techniques  for 
teaching  children  their  "place"  and  the  place  of  others  are  very  subtle  in  a 
society  where  people  seldom  say,  "We  are  better,"  but  often  say  and  oftener 
infer,  "They  are  worse." 

The  most  significant  modification  of  the  class  diamond  appears  in  Figure 
2,  which  suggests  the  valuation  placed  on  "salvation"  by  all  the  "good  re- 
ligious people."  Distribution  of  the  community's  families  on  this  diagram 
would  be  determined  first  by  pious  morality,  and  second,  by  some  summing 
up  of  the  criteria  of  residence,  technology,  worth,  and  family.  The  placing 
of  families  would  differ  considerably  according  to  the  church  of  the  in- 
formant. 

Among  the  entire  Holiness  congregation  and  among  most  rural  Baptists 
and  Methodists,  the  criterion  of  morality  would  be  supreme.  "It  makes  no 
difference  what  you've  got  or  who  you  are.  The  only  question  is:  how  do  you 
stand  with  God?"  Only  Holiness  people,  however,  have  set  up  an  integrated 
social  system  of  neighborliness,  by  which  they  are  able  to  deny  wholeheart- 
edly for  themselves  the  standards  of  the  dominant  class.  They  would  in- 
clude all  "real  believing"  church  members  of  any  denomination  among  "good 
religious  people."  They  would  also  grant  high  "worldly"  status  to  a  good 
many  upper-class  "good  citizens—though  they  don't  live  right."  Thus  they 
are  aware  that  their  own  main  criterion  does  not  agree  with  the  dominant 
standards  of  the  community,  though  they  live  as  if  it  did,  and  "hope  that 
a  day  will  arrive  when  all  will  live  godly  lives."  The  "lower  element,"  as  they 
see  it,  agrees  pretty  well  with  the  lower  element  as  seen  by  upper-class 
people,  though  they  draw  the  line  more  sharply,  at  any  given  time,  between 
themselves  and  the  lower  element  than  upper-class  people  draw  the  line 
between  lower-class  religious  people  and  the  lower  element.  As  for  the 
"people  who  live  like  animals,"  even  the  Holiness  people,  more  eager  than 
any  others  in  the  community  to  welcome  new  members  into  their  fold- 
regardless  of  "past  sins  and  past  lives,"  provided  that  a  sinner  is  properly 
"converted"— even  the  Holiness  people  treat  this  sharply  set-off  group  as  if  it 
has  no  souls  to  be  saved.  Most  preachers  of  any  sect,  if  asked  to  tell  what 
kinds  of  people  constitute  the  community,  will  set  up  categories  similar  to 
those  in  Figure  2,  but  the  Christian  preacher  would  hardly  visit  any  'lower- 
element"  sick,  or  "pay  his  respects"  to  their  dead  by  attending  one  of  their 
funerals  unless  asked  to  preach  it.  Then,  of  course,  "he  could  hardly  refuse." 

The  fact  that  more  ways  and  more  varied  ways  of  ranking  members  of  the 
community  exist  among  nonreligious  lower-class  people  than  in  any  other 
sector  of  the  society  seemed  at  first  very  surprising.  The  main  reason  why 

THE  CLASS   SYSTEM   OF   PLAINVILLE        853 


Figs.  2-4 

Differential  Attitudes 

toward  the  Plainville 

Class  Structure 


fY  \Good  cititens 

Good,  religious  people          \  but  they  don't 
live  right 


who  try  to  Hold 
heads  up 


All  the  church  hypocrites 
who  try  to  keep  people 
i  making  a  livmj 


All  us  good  hon«st    etc  working-  people 
who  try  to  live  right  And  c/o  right 


ake  an  honest 

and  to  live  right  <snd 

do  right 


Lawbreakers  and 
crooks 


People  who  live 

like 
animals 


Fig.  5 

Church  Membership 

and  "Leanings"  and 

Plainville  Social  Classes 


354         ENVIRONMENT 


they  do  so,  however,  is  their  great  social  isolation,  not  only  from  exposure  to 
prairie  technology,  attitudes,  and  manners,  but  from  the  unifying  influence 
of  a  church.  They  are  "unorganized"  on  any  community-wide  basis,  but  live 
"back  in  the  hills"  in  knots  of  two  or  three  families  (often  kinsmen),  with 
whom  they  do  their  main  "neighboring."  The  leading  symbol  of  unity  of  all 
their  kind  in  the  community  is  "resistance  to  authority,"  including  particu- 
larly "churches"  and  "law"  ( especially  game  laws  and  the  law  for  compulsory 
school  attendance).  Their  pattern  of  life  is  the  "oldest"  in  the  community, 
in  that  they  have  resisted  money  economy,  modern  technology,  education, 
and  law  more  than  any  other  group. 

Some  lower-class  people,  lacking  any  religious  pressure  to  see  the  com- 
munity in  "the  Holiness  way,"  describe  the  class  system  as  it  is  viewed  by 
the  upper  class.  About  their  own  position  in  it  they  may  laughingly  say, 
"They  call  people  like  me  lower  class'  around  here  because  I  don't  break 
my  neck  tryin'  to  make  a  livin'  the  way  I  don't  want  to  ...  They  call  me 
'lower  class'  because  I  don't  roll  an'  moan  an'  make  a  fool  of  myself  in 
church." 

Others,  more  resentful  of  the  dominant  class,  lump  together  the  "main 
bulk"  of  the  community  into  "all  us  good  honest  average  everyday  working 
people  who  try  to  live  right  and  do  right."  Above  them  are  "the  rich  people," 
or  the  "people  who  think  they're  better,"  or  the  "people  who  try  to  hold  their 
heads  up."  Beneath  them  are  the  "law-breakers  and  crooks."  ("Of  course 
every  community's  got  a  few  of  them.")  Still  further  beneath  are  the  people 
who  live  like  animals  ( Figure  3 ) .  Others,  still  more  resentful,  especially  of 
the  important  role  of  churches  in  dictating  and  criticizing  moral  conduct,  de- 
scribe the  society  as  it  is  pictured  in  Figure  4. 

Most  striking,  among  the  lower  element,  is  the  number  of  cultural  traits 
which  are  condemned  or  ridiculed  by  the  dominant  class,  and  to  which  this 
class  attaches  positive  prestige  values.  All  the  "hound-dog  people"  belong 
to  the  lower  element.  No  sound  is  sweeter  music  to  a  "hound-lover's"  ears 
than  the  baying  of  hounds  at  night.  No  sound  is  uglier  to  average  "better- 
class"  ears.  No  Holiness  people  keep  and  run  hounds;  hounds  are  owned 
without  much  condemnation  by  a  few  upper-class  men  of  impregnable 
status,  but  few  men  between  these  two  extremes  will  tolerate  hounds.  Yet  a 
lower-element  man  skilled  at  raising,  training,  and  running  hounds  is  highly 
admired  by  "his  crowd." 

Similarly,  ability  to  "live  out  of  the  river  and  timber"  is  esteemed  among 
the  lower  element.  They  place  a  great  positive  value  upon  numerous  "pio- 
neer" traits,  no  longer  much  respected  out  on  the  prairie.  These  include 
hunting,  trapping,  shooting  (a  "good  shot"  is  admired  by  every  one,  but  "a 
man  shouldn't  spend  his  life  at  it"),  "living  without  much  money,"  and 

THE   CLASS    SYSTEM    OF    PLAINVILLE         355 


"living  without  much  hard  farm  work."  Knowledge  of  nature  is  more  re- 
spected among  this  class  than  any  other. 

A  good  many  "immoral"  traits  even  have  positive  value  to  "more  reckless" 
lower-element  people.  They  respect  good  dancing  and  fiddling.  Some  of 
them  respect  "a  good  fighter."  Some  respect  a  ''good  hard  drinker."  Some 
not  only  respect  heedom  Irom  the  authority  of  religion,  but  condemn  and 
ridicule  church  people.  Most  of  them  respect  game-law  evaders,  though  this 
trait  is  not  unique  with  them.  A  lew  must  respect  the  idea  of  living  as  much 
as  possible;  through  thievery,  because  most  of  the  petty  thievery  is  done  by 
this  class. 

The  small  group  of  people  who  'live  like  animals"  have  no  \eiy  clear 
picture,  or,  at  best,  a  very  garbled  picture  of  the  society  about  them  One 
reason  why  they  "understand  so  little"  Jies  in  their  real  or  apparent  mental 
subnormal ity.  Another  lies  in  the  fact  that  through  practical  joking  their 
"betters"  deliberately  fictionalize  the  world  for  these  people,  as  well  as  their 
role  in  it.  For  example,  at  a  "wood-sawing"  where  Lafe  Drumrn  was  hired 
to  help,  the  sport  of  the  entire  day  was  baiting  Late  in  a  wray  designed  to 
convince  him  that  he  was  a  man  of  great  talent  and  social  importance.  His 
wile— according  to  local  folklore  he  had  bought  her  from  his  brother  for  "a 
shotgun  and  six  dollars  to  boot"— was  discussed  as  "a  wonderful  woman. 
Why  don't  she  join  the  woman's  club  in  this  neighborhood  and  show  em  how 
to  do  this  pressure-cannin'  and  chicken-raismY'  Lafe's  "timbering"  was 
treated  as  a  "great  enterprise."  "If  you  could  just  git  the  contract  to  haul 
wood  to  the  schoolhouse,  you'd  be  one  of  the  biggest  business  men  in  this 
country."  Finally,  he  was  urged  to  run  for  office— "if  people  thought  you  d 
run,  you  wouldn't  have  an  opponent."  Lafe  receives  such  remarks  with  some 
suspicion,  but  he  is  also  flattered  and  puts  some  credence  in  them. 


FREDERICK    LEWIS    ALLEN      TllC    Splllt    ()f   tllC 

THE  LATE  President  A.  Lawrence  Lowell  of  Harvard  was  an  extempore 
speaker  so  brilliant  that  he  could  go  to  a  public  dinner  quite  without 
notes,  listen  to  three  preliminary  speakers,  and  then,  rising  to  speak  himself, 
comment  aptly  on  the  remarks  of  those  who  had  preceded  him  and  lead 
easily  into  an  eloquent  peroiation  of  his  own.  His  favoiite  peroration  dealt 
with  the  dilierence  between  two  ancient  civilizations,  each  of  them  rich  and 

Fioin  The  Big  Change  by  Frederick  Lewis  Allen,  Harper  &   Brothers.    Copyright, 
1952,  by  Frederick  Lewis  Allen. 


356 


ENV  LHONMKN  T 


flourishing— Greece  and  Carthage.  One  of  these,  he  would  say,  lives  on  in 
men's  memories,  influences  all  of  us  today;  the  other  left  no  imprint  on  the 
ages  to  follow  it.  For  Carthage,  by  contrast  with  Greece,  had  a  purely 
commercial  civilization  in  which  there  was  little  respect  for  learning,  philos- 
ophy, or  the  arts.  "Is  America  in  danger  of  becoming  a  Carthage?"  Lowell 
would  ask— and  then  he  would  launch  into  an  exposition  of  the  enduring  im- 
portance of  universities. 

There  are  a  great  many  people  today,  there  have  been  a  great  many  peo- 
ple throughout  American  history,  who  have  in  effect  called  the  United  States 
a  Carthage.  There  are  those  who  argue  that  during  the  past  half-century, 
despite  the  spread  of  good  living  among  its  people,  it  has  been  headed  in  the 
Carthaginian  direction;  has  been  producing  a  mass  culture  in  which  religion 
and  philosophy  languish,  the  arts  are  smothered  by  the  barbarian  demands 
of  mass  entertainment,  freedom  is  constricted  by  the  dead  weight  of  mass 
opinion,  and  the  life  of  the  spirit  wanes.  There  are  millions  in  Europe,  for 
instance,  to  whom  contemporary  American  culture,  as  they  understand  it, 
is  no  culture  at  all;  to  whom  the  typical  American  is  a  man  of  money,  a 
crude,  loud  fellow  who  knows  no  values  but  mechanical  and  commercial 
ones.  And  there  are  Americans  aplenty,  old  and  young,  who  say  that  achieve- 
ment in  the  realm  of  the  mind  and  spirit  has  become  ominously  more  diffi- 
cult in  recent  years,  and  that  our  technological  and  economic  triumphs  are 
barren  because  they  have  brought  us  no  inner  peace. 

Some  of  the  charges  against  contemporary  American  culture  one  may 
perhaps  be  permitted  to  discount  in  advance.  Thus  one  may  discount  the 
laments,  by  people  with  twenty  thousand  a  year,  that  other  people  whose 
incomes  have  risen  from  two  thousand  to  four  are  becoming  demoralized 
by  material  success;  or  the  nostalgia  of  those  who,  when  they  compare  past 
with  present,  are  obviously  matching  their  own  youth  in  pleasantly  sheltered 
circumstances  with  the  conditions  and  behavior  of  a  much  more  inclusive 
group  today.  One  may  also  point  out  a  persistently  recurring  error  in  Euro- 
pean appraisals  of  the  American  people:  many  Europeans,  being  accustomed 
to  thinking  of  men  and  women  who  travel  freely  and  spend  amply  as  mem- 
bers of  an  elite,  have  a  tendency  to  compare  certain  undeniably  crude,  harsh, 
and  unimaginative  visitors  from  the  States  with  fellow-countrymen  of  theirs 
whose  social  discipline  has  been  quite  different— who  belong,  in  European 
terms,  to  another  class  entirely.  It  is  extraordinarily  hard  for  many  people, 
both  here  and  abroad,  to  adjust  themselves  to  the  fact  that  the  prime  char- 
acteristic of  the  American  scene  is  a  broadening  of  opportunity,  and  that  the 
first  fruits  of  a  broadening  of  opportunity  may  not  be  a  lowered  voice  and 
a  suitable  deference  toward  unfamiliar  customs. 

So  let  us  begin  by  giving  the  floor  to  a  man  who  may  be  relied  upon  not 

THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE   TIMES          357 


to  slip  into  these  pitfalls,  yet  who  nevertheless  takes  a  hard  view  of  what  the 
past  half-century  has  done  to  his  country. 

In  his  introduction  to  the  book  Twentieth  Century  Unlimited  Bruce  Bliven 
says  that  in  his  opinion  "the  most  significant  fact  about  the  changes  in  the 
past  half-century"  has  been  "the  alteration  in  the  moral  climate  from  one  of 
overwhelming  optimism  to  one  which  comes  pretty  close  to  despair. 

"Hall  a  century  ago,"  continues  Mr.  Bliven,  "mankind,  and  especially  the 
American  section  of  mankind,  was  firmly  entrenched  in  the  theory  that  this 
is  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds  and  getting  better  by  the  minute.  .  .  . 
Theie  was  a  kindly  God  in  the  heavens,  whose  chief  concern  was  the  wel- 
fare, happiness,  and  continuous  improvement  of  mankind,  though  his  ways 
were  often  inscrutable." 

Today,  says  Mr.  Bliven,  we  have  lost  faith  and  are  "frightened  to  death"— 
of  war,  atom  bombs,  and  the  looming  prospect  of  a  general  brutalization  and 
deterioration  of  the  human  species. 

Have  we,  then,  become  since  1900  a  comparatively  irreligious  and  rudder- 
less people? 

Church  statistics  do  not  help  us  far  toward  an  answer  to  this  question. 
They  show  steady  gains  in  membership  for  most  church  groups,  roughly 
comparable  to  the  gain  in  population;  but  they  are  suspect  because  of  a  very 
human  tendency  to  keep  on  the  rolls  people  who  never  go  to  church  any  more 
except  for  weddings  and  funerals,  and  there  is  no  way  of  knowing  whether 
the  compilers  of  church  statistics  have  become  more  or  less  scrupulous  in 
the  past  tew  decades.  My  own  definite  impression  is  that  during  the  first 
thirty  or  forty  years  of  the  half -century  there  was  a  pretty  steady  drift  away 
from  church  attendance  and  from  a  feeling  of  identification  with  the  church 
and  its  creed  and  institutions,  at  least  on  the  part  of  well-to-do  Americans 
(except  perhaps  among  the  Roman  Catholics,  who  were  under  an  exception- 
ally rigid  discipline).  It  became  customary  among  larger  and  larger  num- 
bers ol  the  solid  citizenry  of  the  land  to  sleep  late  on  Sunday  morning  and 
then  grapple  with  the  increasing  poundage  of  the  Sunday  paper,  or  have  a 
10.30  appointment  at  the  first  tee,  or  drive  over  to  the  Joneses'  for  midday 
cocktails,  or  pack  the  family  into  the  car  for  a  jaunt  to  the  shore  or  the  hills. 
1  myself,  making  many  weekend  visits  every  year  over  several  decades, 
noted  that  as  time  went  on  it  was  less  and  less  likely  that  my  host  would  ask 
on  Siituuluy  evening  what  guests  were  planning  to  go  to  church  the  next 
morning;  that  by  the  nineteen-twenties  or  -thirties  it  was  generally  assumed 
that  none  would  be.  And  although  the  households  in  which  I  visited  may 
not  have  been  representative,  they  at  least  were  of  more  or  less  the  same 
types  throughout  this  whole  period.  Today  I  should  imagine  that  in  the 

358         ENVIRONMENT 


heavy  out-of-town  traffic  on  a  Friday  afternoon  there  are  not  many  people 
who  will  be  inside  a  church  on  Sunday  morning. 

It  has  been  my  further  observation  that  during  at  least  the  first  thirty  and 
perhaps  the  first  forty  years  of  the  century  there  was  an  equally  steady  drift 
away  from  a  sense  of  identification  with  the  faiths  for  which  the  churches 
stood.  Among  some  people  there  was  a  feeling  that  science,  and  in  particu- 
lar the  doctrine  of  evolution,  left  no  room  for  the  old-time  God,  and  that  it 
was  exceedingly  hard  to  imagine  any  sort  of  God  who  was  reconcilable  with 
what  science  was  demonstrating  and  would  at  the  same  time  be  at  home 
in  the  local  church.  Among  others  there  was  a  rising  moral  impatience  with 
an  institution  which  seemed  to  pay  too  much  attention  to  the  necessity  of 
being  unspotted  by  such  alleged  vices  as  drinking,  smoking,  cardplaying, 
and  Sunday  golfing,  and  too  little  to  human  brotherhood;  the  churches,  or 
many  of  them,  made  a  resolute  effort  to  meet  this  criticism  by  becoming 
complex  institutions  dedicated  to  social  service  and  the  social  gospel, 
with  schools,  classes,  women's  auxiliaries,  young  people's  groups,  sports,  and 
theatricals,  but  not  many  of  them  held  their  whole  congregation— at  least 
on  Sunday  morning.  Still  others  felt  that  the  clergy  were  too  deferential  to 
wealthy  parishioners  of  dubious  civic  virtue,  or  too  isolated  horn  the  main 
currents  of  lite.  Among  many  thcie  was  a  vague  sense  that  the  churches 
represented  an  old-fashioned  way  of  living  and  thinking  and  that  modern- 
minded  people  were  outgrowing  their  influence.  And  as  the  feeling  of  com- 
pulsion to  be  among  the  churchgoers  and  churchworkers  weakened,  there 
were  naturally  many  to  whom  the  automobile  or  the  country  club  or  the 
beach  or  an  eleven  o'clock  breakfast  was  simply  too  agreeable  to  pass  up. 

Whether  or  not  this  drift  away  from  formal  religion  is  still  the  prevailing 
tide,  there  was  manifest  during  the  nineteen-forties  a  countermovement 
In  many  men  and  women  it  took  no  more  definite  form  than  an  uneasy  con- 
viction that  in  times  of  stress  and  anxiety  there  was  something  missing  from 
their  lives:  they  wished  they  had  something  to  tie  to,  some  faith  that  would 
give  them  a  measure  of  inner  peace  and  security.  The  appearance  on  the 
best-seller  lists  in  recent  years  of  such  books  as  The  Robe,  The  Cardinal, 
Peace  of  Mind,  and  The  Seven  Storey  Mountain  has  indicated  a  widespread 
hunger  and  curiosity.  Some  have  returned  to  the  churches— or  entered  them 
for  the  first  time.  In  families  here  and  there  one  has  noted  a  curious  re- 
versal: parents  who  had  abandoned  the  church  in  a  mood  of  rebellion 
against  outworn  ecclesiastical  customs  have  found  their  children  in  turn 
rebelling  against  what  seemed  to  them  the  parents'  outworn  pagan  cus- 
toms. The  Catholic  Church  in  particular  has  made  many  converts,  some  of 
them  counterrebels  of  this  sort,  and  has  spectacularly  served  as  a  haven  for 

THE    SPIRIT    OF   THE    TIMES         359 


ex-Communists  who  have  swung  all  the  way  from  one  set  of  disciplinary 
bonds  to  another.  Whether  the  incoming  tide  is  yet  stronger  than  the  out- 
going one,  or  what  the  later  drift  may  be,  is  still  anybody's  guess;  but  at 
least  there  is  a  confusion  in  the  flow  of  religious  feeling  and  habit. 

Meanwhile,  in  quantities  of  families,  the  abandonment  of  church  allegiance 
has  deprived  the  children  of  an  occasionally  effective  teacher  of  decent  be- 
havior. Some  parents  have  been  able  to  fill  the  vacuum  themselves;  others 
have  not,  and  have  become  dismayed  that  their  young  not  only  do  not  recog- 
nize Bible  quotations  but  have  somehow  missed  out  on  acquiring  a  clear-cut 
moral  code.  There  are  other  parents  whose  conscientious  study  of  psycho- 
logical principles,  including  the  Freudian,  and  whose  somewhat  imperfect 
digestion  of  the  ideas  of  progressive  educators  have  so  filled  them  with  un- 
certainty as  to  what  moral  teachings  to  deliver  and  whether  any  sort  of 
discipline  might  not  damage  young  spirits  that  these  young  spirits  have 
become— at  least  for  the  time  being— brats  of  a  singular  offensiveness.  And 
even  if  there  have  always  been  brats  in  the  world,  it  has  been  easy  for  ob- 
servers of  such  families  to  conclude  that  moral  behavior  is  indeed  deteriorat- 
ing, and  that  basketball  scandals  and  football  scandals  and  teen-age  holdup 
gangs  and  official  corruption  in  Washington  are  all  signs  of  a  widespread 
ethical  decay. 

This  conclusion  is  of  doubtful  validity,  1  am  convinced.  There  has  prob- 
ably never  been  a  generation  some  members  of  which  did  not  wonder 
whether  the  next  generation  was  not  bound  for  hell  in  a  handcar.  It  may 
be  argued  that  at  the  mid-century  the  manners  of  many  teen-agers  have 
suffered  from  their  mothers'  and  fathers'  disbelief  in  stern  measures;  but 
that  their  ethical  standards  are  inferior  to  those  of  their  predecessors  seems 
to  me  doubtful  indeed.  As  for  today's  adults,  there  are  undoubtedly  many 
whose  lack  of  connection  with  organized  religion  has  left  them  without  any 
secure  principles;  but  as  I  think  of  the  people  I  have  actually  known  over  a 
long  period  of  time,  I  detect  no  general  deterioration  of  the  conscience: 
those  I  see  today  do  a  good  many  things  that  their  grandparents  would  have 
considered  improper,  but  few  things  that  they  would  have  regarded  as 
paltry  or  mean.  And  there  has  been  taking  place  among  these  people,  and 
in  the  country  at  large,  a  change  of  attitude  that  I  am  convinced  is  of  great 
importance.  During  the  half-century  the  ancient  question,  "Who  is  my 
neighbor?"  has  been  receiving  a  broader  and  broader  answer. 

There  are  still  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  feel  that  they  are  of  the  elect, 
and  that  the  masses  of  their  fellow-countrymen  are  of  negligible  importance; 
but  their  snobbery  is  today  less  complacently  assured,  more  defiant,  than  in 
the  days  when  Society  was  a  word  to  conjure  with.  The  insect  on  the  leaf 
is  less  often  found  "proclaiming  on  the  too  much  life  among  his  hungry 

360        ENVIRONMENT 


brothers  in  the  dust/'  There  are  still  business  executives  with  an  inflated 
sense  of  their  own  value  in  the  scheme  of  things,  but  the  "studied  insolence" 
which  Mark  Sullivan  noted  among  the  coal  operators  of  1902  when  con- 
fronted by  the  union  representatives  and  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
and  which  magnates  often  displayed  on  the  witness  stand  in  those  days,  is 
no  longer  to  be  seen  (except  perhaps  among  such  underworld  gentry  as 
Mr.  Frank  Costello).  People  who  today  look  at  what  were  originally  the 
servants'  quarters  in  an  old  mansion,  or  even  in  a  swank  apartment  of  the 
1920  vintage,  are  shocked  at  their  meagerness:  is  it  possible,  they  ask  them- 
selves, that  decent  men  and  women  could  have  had  such  disregard  for  the 
human  needs  of  men  and  women  living  cheek  by  jowl  with  them? 

The  concept  of  the  national  income,  the  idea  of  measuring  the  distribu- 
tion of  this  income,  the  idea  of  the  national  economy  as  an  entity  affected  by 
the  economic  behavior  of  every  one  of  us,  the  very  widespread  interest  in 
surveying  sociologically  the  status  of  this  and  that  group  of  Americans  the 
country  over,  in  the  conviction  that  their  fortunes  are  interdependent  with 
ours:  all  these  have  developed  during  this  half-century.  The  ideal  of  equal- 
ity of  educational  opportunity  never  before  commanded  such  general  accept- 
ance. In  recent  years  there  has  been  a  marked  shift  of  attitudes  toward  our 
most  disadvantaged  group,  the  Negroes,  and  no  less  noticeably  in  the  South 
than  elsewhere.  One  notes  a  widespread  gain  in  group  tact,  as  when  the 
Hospital  for  the  Ruptured  and  Crippled  is  renamed  the  Hospital  for  Special 
Surgery,  and  the  Association  for  Improving  the  Condition  of  the  Poor  be- 
comes the  Community  Service  Society.  The  concept  of  responsibility  to  the 
general  public  has  become  more  and  more  widespread  among  the  managers 
of  pivotal  businesses.  The  amount  of  time  which  individual  men  and  women 
give  to  good  works  in  the  broadest  sense— including  church  work,  volunteer 
hospital  work,  parent-teacher  associations,  the  Boy  Scouts,  the  Red  Cross, 
the  League  of  Women  Voters,  local  symphony  orchestras,  the  World  Fed- 
eralists, the  American  Legion,  the  service  activities  of  Rotary,  and  so  on  end- 
lessly—is in  its  total  incalculable.  (There  are  communities,  I  am  told,  where 
the  number  of  people  who  engage  in  money-raising  for  the  churches  is  larger 
than  the  number  of  churchgoers.)  In  sum,  our  sense  of  public  obligation  has 
expanded. 

The  change  has  had  its  amusing  aspects.  There  comes  to  one's  mind  Anne 
Cleveland's  cartoon  of  a  Vassar  girl  dining  with  her  parents  and  exclaiming, 
"How  can  I  explain  the  position  of  organized  labor  to  Father  when  you  keep 
passing  me  chocolate  sauce?"  One  thinks  of  a  banker's  daughter  of  one's 
acquaintance,  who  in  her  first  job  was  much  more  deeply  interested  in  the 
plight  of  the  file  clerk  whom  she  regarded  as  underpaid,  than  in  helping 
the  company  make  money.  And  of  the  receipt  by  Dr.  Ralph  Bunche  in  June 

THE   SPIRIT  OF  THE   TIMES         361 


1951  of  no  less  than  thirteen  honorary  degrees  in  rapid  succession,  the  sin- 
gular unanimity  of  his  choice  by  so  many  institutions  undoubtedly  reflecting 
in  part  a  delight  at  finding  an  unexceptionable  opportunity  to  pay  tribute 
to  a  Negro. 

That  the  change  should  meet,  here  and  there,  with  heated  resistance,  is 
likewise  natural.  The  democratic  ideal  imposes  a  great  strain  upon  the  tol- 
erance and  understanding  of  humankind.  So  we  find  a  conscious  and  active 
anti-Semitism  invading  many  a  suburban  community  which  once  took  satis- 
faction in  its  homogeneity  and  now  finds  it  can  no  longer  live  to  itself;  or 
a  savage  anti-Negro  feeling  rising  in  an  industrial  town  in  which  Negroes 
were  formerly  few  and  far  between.  And  here  one  should  add  a  footnote 
about  the  behavior  of  our  armed  forces  abroad.  For  a  variety  of  not  easily 
defined  reasons— including  undoubtedly  the  traditionally  proletarian  posi- 
tion of  the  foreign-language-speaking  immigrant  in  the  United  States— there 
is  an  obscure  feeling  among  a  great  many  Americans  that  the  acceptance  of 
the  principle  of  human  dignity  stops  at  the  water's  edge:  that  a  man  who 
would  be  fiercely  concerned  over  an  apparent  injustice  to  a  fellow-private 
in  the  American  Army  may  be  rude  to  Arabs,  manhandle  Koreans,  and  cheat 
Germans,  and  not  lose  status  thereby— and  this,  perhaps,  at  the  very  moment 
when  his  representatives  in  Congress  are  appropriating  billions  for  the  aid 
of  the  very  sorts  of  people  of  whom  he  is  so  scornful. 

Yet  in  spite  of  these  adverse  facts  there  has  been,  I  am  convinced,  an 
increasing  over-all  acceptance  in  America  of  what  Dr.  Frank  Tannenbaum 
has  called  "the  commitment  to  equality  .  .  .  spiritual  equality."  Whether, 
as  Walter  H.  Wheeler,  Jr.,  has  suggested,  we  may  be  "depleting  and  living 
off  inherited  spiritual  capital"  is  far  from  certain.  Yet  at  any  rate  this  may 
be  said:  If  we  as  a  people  do  not  obey  the  first  and  great  commandment  as 
numerously  and  fervently  as  we  used  to,  at  least  we  have  been  doing  fairly 
well  with  the  second. 


WE  COME  now  to  another  question  to  which  the  answer  must  be  even 
more  two-sided  and  uncertain.    Does  the  spread  of  American  pros- 
perity threaten  quality?  Are  we  achieving  a  mass  of  second-rate  education, 
second-rate  culture,  second-rate  thinking,  and  squeezing  out  the  first-rate? 
The  charge  that  we  are  indeed  doing  this  comes  in  deafening  volume.  To 
quote  no  less  a  sage  than  T.  S.  Eliot:  "We  can  assert  with  some  confidence 
that  our  own  period  is  one  of  decline;  that  the  standards  of  culture  are 
lower  than  they  were  fifty  years  ago;  and  that  the  evidences  of  this  decline 
are  visible  in  every  department  of  human  activity."   And  if  this  seems  a 
rather  general  indictment,  without  special  reference  to  the  United  States, 


362 


ENVIRONMENT 


it  may  be  added  that  Mr.  Eliot  has  given  abundant  evidence  that  he  is  out 
of  sympathy  with  the  American  trend,  preferring  as  he  does  a  "graded  so- 
ciety" in  which  "the  lower  class  still  exists." 

One  could  pile  up  a  mountain  of  quotations  by  critics  of  the  American 
drift,  playing  the  changes  upon  the  two  notions  that,  according  to  C.  Hartley 
Grattan's  article  in  the  November  1951  number  of  Harpers,  account  for  the 
Katzenjammer  of  American  writers  today:  "(1)  a  feeling  .  .  .  that  the  values 
by  which  men  have  lived  these  many  years  are  today  in  an  advanced  state 
of  decomposition,  with  no  replacements  in  sight;  and  (2)  that  whatever  a 
man's  private  values  may  be,  he  cannot  expect  in  any  case  consistently  to 
act  on  them  successfully  because  the  individual  is,  in  the  present-day  world, 
at  the  mercy  of  ever  more  oppressive  and  arbitrary  institutions."  In  other 
words,  that  the  man  of  original  bent— the  writer,  painter,  musician,  architect, 
philosopher,  or  intellectual  or  spiritual  pioneer  or  maverick  of  any  sort— not 
only  faces  what  Eugene  O'Neill  called  the  "sickness  of  today,"  which  in 
Lloyd  Morris's  phrasing  has  "resulted  from  the  death  of  the  old  God  and  the 
failure  of  science  and  materialism  to  give  any  satisfactory  new  one,"  but 
must  also  confront  a  world  in  which  the  biggest  rewards  for  literary  creation 
go  to  manufacturers  of  sexy  costume  romances;  in  which  the  Broadway 
theater,  after  a  glorious  period  of  fresh  creation  in  the  nineteen-twcnties,  is 
almost  in  the  discard,  having  succumbed  to  the  high  cost  of  featherbedding 
labor  and  the  competition  of  the  movies;  in  which  the  movies  in  their  turn, 
after  a  generation  of  richly  recompensing  those  who  could  attract  audiences 
by  the  millions  and  stifling  those  whose  productions  had  doubtful  box-office 
value,  are  succumbing  to  television;  in  which  the  highest  television  acclaim 
goes  to  Milton  Berle  rather  than  to  Burr  Tillstrom;  and  in  which  the  poet 
finds  his  market  well-nigh  gone.  One  might  sum  up  the  charge  in  another 
way  by  saying  that  the  dynamic  logic  of  mass  production,  while  serving 
admirably  to  bring  us  good  automobiles  and  good  nylons,  enforces  medioc- 
rity on  the  market  for  intellectual  wares. 

This  is  a  very  severe  charge.  But  there  are  a  number  of  matters  to  be  con- 
sidered and  weighed  before  one  is  ready  for  judgment  upon  it. 

One  is  the  fact  that  those  who  have  most  eloquently  lamented  the  hard 
plight  of  the  man  or  woman  of  creative  talent  have  chiefly  been  writers,  and 
more  especially  avant-garde  writers  and  their  more  appreciative  critics,  and 
that  the  position  occupied  by  these  people  has  been  a  somewhat  special  one. 

During  the  years  immediately  preceding  World  War  I  the  inventors  and 
innovators  in  American  literature  were  in  no  such  prevailing  mood  of  dis- 
may. On  the  contrary,  they  were  having  a  high  old  time.  In  Chicago,  such 
fnen  as  Vachel  Lindsay,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Sherwood  Anderson,  Ring 
Lardner,  and  Carl  Sandburg  were  experimenting  with  gusto  and  confidence. 

THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE   TIMES         363 


In  New  York,  the  young  Bohemians  of  Greenwich  Village  were  hotly  and 
rambunctiously  enamored  of  a  great  variety  of  unorthodoxies,  ranging  from 
free  verse,  imagism,  postimpressionism,  cubism,  and  the  realism  of  the 
"Ash-can  School"  of  art  to  woman's  suffrage,  socialism,  and  communism  (of 
an  innocently  idealistic  variety  compared  with  what  later  developed  in  Mos- 
cow). When  Alfred  Stieglitz  preached  modern  art  at  "291,"  when  the 
Armory  Show  was  staged  in  1913,  when  Max  Eastman  and  John  Reed 
crusaded  for  labor,  when  Floyd  Dell  talked  about  the  liberation  of  litera- 
ture, they  saw  before  them  a  bright  new  world  in  which  progress  would  in 
due  course  bring  triumph  to  their  wild  notions. 

But  the  war  brought  an  immense  disillusionment.  And  the  prevailing 
mood  shifted. 

The  novelists  of  the  Lost  Generation  concentrated  their  attention  upon 
the  meannesses  and  cruelties  of  contemporary  life,  and  often  their  keynote 
was  one  of  despair.  Mencken  led  a  chorus  of  scoffers  at  American  vulgarity 
and  sentimentality,  not  indignantly  but  cynically;  when  asked  why  he  con- 
tinued to  live  in  a  land  in  which  he  found  so  little  to  revere,  he  asked,  "Why 
do  men  go  to  zoos?"  Sinclair  Lewis  lampooned  Main  Street  and  George  F. 
Babbitt;  Scott  Fitzgerald  underscored  the  baseness  of  respectable  folk  who 
went  to  Jay  Gatsby's  lavish  parties  and  then  deserted  him  in  his  hour  of 
need.  And  many  of  the  avant-garde  and  their  admirers  and  imitators  went 
to  Paris,  where  Gertrude  Stein  said  that  "the  future  is  not  important  any 
more,"  and  Hemingway's  characters  in  The  Sun  Also  Rises  acted  as  if  it  were 
not.  But  in  a  world  without  hope  one  could  still  cherish  art,  the  one  thing 
left  that  was  worth  while,  keeping  it  aloof  from  politics  and  business;  and 
one  could  particularly  cherish  that  art  which  it  was  most  difficult  for  the 
vulgarians  of  politics  and  business  to  comprehend.  To  these  refugees  from 
twentieth-century  America,  "difficulty  itself  became  a  primary  virtue,"  as 
Van  Wyck  Brooks  has  remarked:  they  paid  special  homage  to  the  aristocratic 
elaborations  of  Henry  James,  the  subtleties  of  the  recluse  Marcel  Proust,  the 
scholarly  allusiveness  of  Eliot,  and  the  linguistic  puzzles  of  Joyce.  And  a 
pattern  was  set,  quite  different  from  the  pattern  of  1910.  To  have  a  literary 
conscience  was  to  take  a  bleak  view  of  American  life,  human  life  in  general, 
and  the  way  the  world  was  going;  and  also  of  the  ability  of  any  readers  but  a 
few  to  understand  and  appreciate  true  literary  excellence. 

This  credo  was  to  prove  astonishingly  durable.  During  the  nineteen- 
thirties  it  had  to  contend  with  another  emotional  force.  The  economy  had 
broken  down,  revolution  was  in  the  wind  (or  so  it  seemed  to  many  at  the 
time),  and  many  writers  felt  a  generous  urge  to  condemn  the  cruelty  of 
capitalism  to  "one-third  of  a  nation"  and  to  espouse  the  cause  of  embattled 
labor.  Thus  they  abandoned  hopelessness  for  militancy.  There  was  an  out- 
pouring of  proletarian  novels  by  writers  whose  firsthand  knowledge  of  fac- 


tory  workers  was  highly  limited.  Yet  even  among  many  of  the  writers  and 
critics  who  were  most  valiant  in  support  of  the  common  man  there  remained 
a  conviction  that  the  man  of  sensibility  and  integrity  must  inevitably  write 
in  terms  intelligible  only  to  the  very  uncommon  man;  and  we  beheld  the 
diverting  spectacle  of  authors  and  students  of  advanced  composition  return- 
ing from  mass  meetings  held  on  behalf  of  sharecroppers  arid  Okies  to  pore 
over  the  sacred  texts  of  Henry  James,  who  would  have  been  oblivious  to 
sharecroppers,  and  Eliot,  who  was  certainly  out  of  tune  with  the  Okies. 

During  the  war  the  impulse  to  defend  labor  turned  into  an  impulse  to  de- 
fend the  GI  against  the  military  brass.  The  older  impulse  to  depict  the 
world  as  a  dismal  place  turned  into  an  impulse  to  show  how  brutal  men 
at  war  could  be  including,  often,  the  very  GI  who  was  supposed  to  engage 
the  reader's  sympathy;  and  the  belief  that  quality  was  bound  to  go  un- 
appreciated by  all  but  a  very  few  turned  into  a  general  pessimism  over  the 
future  of  culture  that  seemed  almost  to  welcome  defeat  for  any  sort  of  excel- 
lence. 

"It  is  a  source  of  continual  astonishment  to  me,"  wrote  W.  H.  Audeii  in 
this  magazine  in  1948,  "that  the  nation  which  has  the  world-wide  reputation 
of  being  the  most  optimistic,  the  most  gregarious,  and  the  freest  on  earth 
should  see  itself  through  the  eyes  of  its  most  sensitive  members  as  a  society 
of  helpless  victims,  shady  characters,  and  displaced  persons.  ...  In  novel 
after  novel  one  encounters  heroes  without  honor  or  history;  heroes  who  suc- 
cumb so  monotonously  to  temptation  that  they  cannot  truly  be  said  to  be 
tempted  at  all;  heroes  who,  even  if  they  are  successful  in  a  worldly  sense,  re- 
main nevertheless  but  the  passive  recipients  of  good  fortune;  heroes  whose 
sole  moral  virtue  is  a  stoic  endurance  of  pain  and  disaster." 

Could  it  be  that  such  novelists  have  been  following  a  fashion  set  longer 
ago  than  they  realize?  That  the  reason  why  sales  of  novels  in  very  recent 
years  have  been  disappointing  is  that,  as  Mr.  Grattan  has  suggested,  "con- 
temporary writers  appear  to  have  given  up  before  contemporary  readers  are 
ready  to  do  so,"  and  that  perhaps  the  readers  are  today  ahead  of  the  writers? 
That  the  continuing  notion  among  many  advanced  writers  that  only  difficult 
writing  is  good  writing  has  led  them  to  pay  too  little  attention  to  the  art  ot 
communication?  And  that  a  sort  of  contagion  of  defeatism  among  literary 
folk  today  should  lead  one  to  accept  with  a  certain  reserve  their  unhappy 
conclusions  concerning  the  state  of  American  culture? 

Let  us  note  their  laments  and  look  a  little  further. 


in 


ONE  WHO  has  worked  for  a  great  many  years  for  a  magazine  which 
nowadays  can  pay  its  authors  no  more  than  it  did  a  decade  ago,  be- 
cause it  has  to  pay  its  typographers  and  shipping  men  so  much  more,  is  not 

THE    SPIRIT    OF   THE   TIMES         365 


likely  to  be  complacent  about  the  lot  of  the  man  of  letters  today.  Nor  is  one 
who  has  felt  he  was  waging  a  steady  uphill  fight  on  behalf  of  what  he  per- 
haps fondly  considered  distinguished  journalism— uphill  because  there  were 
constantly  appearing  new  magazines  aimed  at  readers  by  the  millions,  and 
because  advertisers  tend  to  want  to  reach  those  millions— likely  to  be  com- 
placent about  the  conditions  of  literary  institutions.  It  seems  to  me  un- 
deniable that  the  great  success  of  the  mass-circulation  magazines  and  the 
rise  of  the  staff-written  magazines  have  between  them  made  life  harder  for 
the  free-lance  author  who  lacks  the  popular  touch  and  who  will  not  do  pot- 
boiling,  or  cannot  do  it  successfully,  and  who  has  no  other  assured  source 
of  income.  But  then  he  almost  never  has  had  things  very  easy  financially. 
And  there  is  this  to  be  said:  one  reason  why  magazines  with  severely  high 
standards  find  the  going  difficult  is  that  they  have  no  monopoly  on  material 
of  high  quality,  for  during  the  past  few  decades  an  increasing  amount  of 
such  material  has  been  finding  a  place  in  the  mass  periodicals.  (For  a  couple 
of  random  examples,  let  me  cite  Winston  Churchill's  memoirs,  appearing  in 
Life,  and  Faulkner's  short  stories,  coining  out  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post. ) 
Furthermore,  the  number  of  writers  of  talent  who  make  good  incomes  by 
writing  for  the  mass  magazines  without  the  sacrifice  of  an  iota  of  their 
integrity  is  much  larger  than  one  might  assume  from  the  talk  of  the  avant- 
gardists.  The  picture  is  a  mixed  one. 

So  too  with  regard  to  books.  The  market  for  the  output  of  the  "original" 
publishers,  meaning  those  who  sell  newly-written  books  at  standard  prices, 
chiefly  through  the  bookstores,  is  somewhat  larger  than  before  the  war,  but 
it  is  manifest  that  price  increases,  reflecting  high  labor  costs,  have  been  de- 
terring buyers.  The  share  of  a  few  very  successful  writers  in  the  total  rev- 
enue of  authors  increases;  and  it  becomes  more  difficult  than  it  used  to  be  for 
those  whose  books  are  not  likely  to  sell  more  than  a  few  thousand  copies 
( these  include  nearly  all  poets )  to  get  their  work  accepted.  Yet  here  again 
the  situation  is  not  as  black  as  it  has  been  painted.  I  agree  with  Bernard 
DeVoto  that  no  book  really  worth  publishing  fails  of  publication  by  some 
unit  of  a  very  diversified  industry;  and  I  would  add  that  while  there  is  trash 
on  the  best-seller  lists,  most  of  the  books  which  reach  those  lofty  positions, 
with  very  pleasant  results  for  their  authors'  pocketbooks,  are  among  the  best 
of  their  time. 

And  there  is  more  to  it  than  this.  For  there  are  also  numerous  book  clubs, 
at  least  two  of  which— the  Book-of-the-Month  Club  and  the  Literary  Guild 
—sell  books  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands  each  month.  There  are  the  quar- 
terly Condensed  Books  brought  out  by  the  Readers  Digest— four  or  five 
novels  or  non-fiction  books  condensed  in  one  volume— which,  launched  in 
1950,  were  selling  by  early  1952  at  the  rate  of  more  than  a  million  apiece. 


366 


ENVIRONMENT 


And  there  are  the  paper-bound  reprint  houses,  whose  volumes,  priced  at  25 
or  35  cents  for  the  newsstand  and  drugstore  trade,  are  bought  in  phenomenal 
lots.  In  the  year  1950  the  total  was  no  less  than  214  million;  in  1951  the  fig- 
ure had  jumped  to  231  million. 

Two-thirds  or  more  of  these  paper-bound  books,  to  be  sure,  were  novels 
or  mysteries— thus  falling  into  classifications  too  inclusive  to  be  reassuring 
as  to  the  public  taste— and  some  were  rubbish  by  any  tolerable  standard  (the 
publishers  of  such  wares  having  learned,  as  one  cynic  has  put  it,  that  you 
can  sell  almost  anything  adorned  on  the  cover  with  a  picture  connoting  sex 
or  violence,  or  preferably  both,  as  in  a  picture  of  a  luscious  girl  getting  her 
dress  ripped  off  by  a  gunman).  But  consider  these  sales  figures  (as  of  Janu- 
ary 1952)  for  a  few  paper-bound  books:  Tennessee  Williams'  A  Streetcar 
Named  Desire,  over  half  a  million;  George  Orwell's  Nineteen  Eighty-four, 
over  three-quarters  of  a  million;  Ruth  Benedict's  Patterns  of  Culture,  400,000; 
and— to  cite  an  incontrovertibly  classical  example— a  translation  of  The 
Odyssey  (with  an  abstract  cover  design),  350,000.  And  remember  that  these 
sales,  which  are  above  and  beyond  bookclub  sales  and  regular  bookstore 
sales,  have  been  achieved  in  a  nation  of  avid  magazine  readers.  It  is  true 
that  the  financial  returns  to  the  author  from  such  low-priced  books  are 
meager:  he  gets  less  revenue  from  a  million  of  them  than  from  20,000  sold 
at  standard  prices.  Nevertheless  there  is  an  interesting  phenomenon  here. 
There  is  a  big  American  market  for  good  writing  if  it  and  the  price  are 
within  easy  reach. 

Let  us  look  at  the  market  for  art.  The  painter  of  today  faces  two  great 
difficulties.  The  first  is  that  his  work  is  offered  to  the  public  at  high  prices 
(if  he  can  get  any  price  at  all)  because  he  can  sell  only  his  original  work, 
to  one  collector  or  institution,  and  cannot  dispose  of  thousands  at  a  time; 
and  collectors  with  money  are  scarce.  The  second  is  that  the  abler  young 
painters  of  the  day  have  mostly  swung  all  the  way  to  the  abstract,  which 
to  most  potential  buyers  is  pretty  incomprehensible.  Yet  the  signs  of  inter- 
est among  the  public  are  striking.  Forbes  Watson  is  authority  for  the  state- 
ment that  there  were  more  sales  of  paintings  in  the  nineteen-forties  than  in 
all  the  previous  history  of  the  United  States;  that  in  the  year  1948  there 
were  a  hundred  exhibitions  of  American  art  in  American  museums;  and  that 
the  total  attendance  at  art  exhibitions  that  year  was  over  50  million.  One 
should  also  take  note  of  the  greatly  enlarged  number  of  local  museums;  of 
the  lively  promotion  of  an  interest  in  art  by  many  universities  and  colleges; 
the  rising  sale  of  reproductions,  in  book  form  and  otherwise;  and  the  recent 
sharp  increase  in  the  number  of  Sunday  amateur  dabblers  with  a  paint- 
brush. Sales  of  artists'  materials  had  a  tenfold  increase  between  1939  and 
1949.  The  suspicion  comes  over  one  that  there  is  something  stirring  here, 

THE   SPIRIT   OF   THE   TIMES         367 


too,  and  that  the  plight  of  the  contemporary  artist,  like  the  plight  of  the  con- 
temporary writer,  may  be  partly  due  to  the  fact  that  the  market  for  his  out- 
put may  not  yet  be  geared  to  the  potential  demand. 

We  turn  to  music— and  confront  an  astonishing  spectacle. 

In  1900  there  were  only  a  handful  of  symphony  orchestras  in  the  country; 
by  May  1951  there  were  659  "symphonic  groups"— including  52  professional, 
343  community,  231  college,  and  a  scattering  of  miscellaneous  amateur 
groups.  Fifteen  hundred  American  cities  and  towns  now  support  annual 
series  of  concerts.  Summer  music  festivals  attract  audiences  which  would 
have  been  unimaginable  even  thirty  years  ago.  To  quote  Cecil  Smith  in 
TtventictJi  Century  Unlimited,  "The  dollar-hungry  countries  of  Europe  are 
setting  up  music  festivals  by  the  dozen,  not  to  give  American  tourists  the 
music  they  would  not  hear  at  home,  but  to  make  sure  they  do  not  stay  at 
home  because  of  the  lack  of  music  in  Europe.  The  programs  at  Edinburgh, 
Strasbourg,  Amsterdam,  Florence,  and  Aix-en-Provence  are  designed  as  com- 
petition for  Tanglewood,  Bethlehem,  Ravinia,  the  Cincinnati  Zoo,  and  the 
Hollywood  Bowl."  Mr.  Smith  cites  further  facts  of  interest:  that  the  Austin, 
Texas,  symphony  recently  took  over  a  drive-in  movie  for  outdoor  summer 
concerts;  that  Kentucky  hill  people  come  in  their  bare  feet  when  the  Louis- 
ville Orchestra  plays  in  Berea;  and  that  "an  all-Stravinsky  program,  con- 
ducted by  the  composer,  strikes  Urbana,  Illinois,  as  a  perfectly  normal  at- 
traction." 

During  the  nineteen-twenties  the  phonograph  record  business  was  threat- 
ened with  virtual  extinction  by  the  rise  of  radio.  But  presently  radio  began 
giving  millions  upon  millions  of  Americans  such  a  variety  of  music— popular, 
jazz,  and  classical— in  such  quantity,  year  after  year,  that  a  good  many  of 
these  people  began  to  want  to  hear  music  on  their  own  terms,  and  the  record 
business  went  into  a  prolonged  and  phenomenal  boom.  The  expansion  was 
accelerated  by  the  wild  vogue  of  jazz,  whose  more  serious  votaries  soon 
learned  that  if  you  were  to  become  a  really  serious  student  of  what  Benny 
Goodman  and  Duke  Ellington  were  producing,  you  must  collect  old  record- 
ings and  become  a  connoisseur  of  Handy,  Beiderbecke  and  Armstrong.  By 
the  middle  and  late  nineteen-forties,  young  people  who  in  earlier  years 
would  have  gone  off  dancing  of  an  evening  were  finding  that  it  was  very 
agreeable  to  sit  on  the  floor  and  listen  to  a  record-player,  with  a  few  bottles 
of  beer  to  wash  the  music  down.  Many  people  whose  taste  in  books  and  in 
art  was  very  limited  were  not  only  becoming  able  to  identify  the  most  famous 
symphonies  by  their  first  few  notes,  but  were  developing  a  pride  in  their 
acquaintance  with  the  works  of  Bach's  obscure  contemporaries,  and  in  their 
connoisseurship  of  the  comparative  merits  of  recordings  by  various  orches- 
tras. A  very  rough  estimate  of  the  sales  of  records  during  the  year  1951,  made 

368         ENVIRONMENT 


by  Billboard  magazine,  put  the  grand  total  at  some  190  million— more  than 
one  for  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  United  States— and  the  total  sale 
of  records  in  the  "classical"  category  at  perhaps  10  to  15  per  cent  of  that  190 
million:  let  us  say  something  like  twenty  to  thirty  million  classical  records. 
To  give  a  single  example:  as  many  as  20,000  sets  of  Wanda  Landowska's 
harpsichord  recordings  of  the  Goldberg  Variations  were  sold  in  the  first 
three  months  after  they  were  issued.  And  a  shrewd  student  of  American 
culture  tells  me  that  as  he  goes  about  the  United  States  he  keeps  being  told, 
in  place  after  place,  "Our  town  is  sort  of  unusual.  I  suppose  the  most  excit- 
ing thing,  to  us,  that's  going  on  here  isn't  anything  in  business  but  the  way 
we've  put  over  our  symphony  orchestra  (or  our  string  quartet,  or  our  com- 
munity chorus)/' 

Verily,  as  one  looks  about  the  field  of  the  arts,  the  picture  is  confused. 
Here  is  an  incredible  boom  in  public  interest  in  music,  along  with  expand- 
ing audiences  for  the  ballet,  old-style  and  new-style.  Here  is  the  Broadway 
theater  almost  ready  for  the  Pulmotor— and  local  civic  theaters  and  college 
theaters  in  what  looks  like  a  promising  adolescence.  Here  are  the  movies, 
beloved  by  millions  (and  berated  by  highbrow  critics)  for  decades,  losing 
audiences  little  by  little  to  television,  which  has  not  yet  outgrown  a  pre- 
posterous crudity.  Here  is  architecture,  which  has  outgrown  its  earlier  imita- 
tion of  old  European  styles  and  is  producing  superb  industrial  buildings 
along  with  highly  experimental  and  sometimes  absurd  modern  residences- 
while  the  peripheries  of  our  great  cities,  whether  New  York  or  Chicago  or 
St.  Louis  or  Los  Angeles,  display  to  the  bus  traveler  from  airport  to  town 
almost  no  trace  of  the  handiwork  of  any  architects  at  all.  Here  are  lovely 
(if  monotonous)  motor  parkways— and  along  the  other  main  highways  a 
succession  of  roadtown  eyesores— garages,  tourist  courts,  filling  stations,  bill- 
boards, junk  dealers,  and  more  billboards— which  make  the  motor  parkways 
seem,  by  contrast,  like  avenues  for  escapists. 

Is  not  the  truth  of  the  situation  perhaps  something  like  this:  Here  is  a 
great  nation  which  is  conducting  an  unprecedented  experiment.  It  has  made 
an  incredible  number  of  people,  previously  quite  unsophisticated  and  alien 
to  art  or  contemptuous  of  it,  prosperous  by  any  previous  standard  known  to 
man.  These  multitudes  offer  a  huge  market  for  him  who  would  sell  them 
equipment  or  entertainment  that  they  can  understand  and  enjoy.  Let  us  say 
it  in  italics:  This  is  something  new:  there  has  never  been  anything  like  it 
before. 

The  job  before  those  Americans  who  would  like  to  see  the  United  States 
a  Greece  rather  than  a  Carthage  is  to  try  to  develop,  alongside  the  media  of 
entertainment  and  equipment  which  satisfy  these  people's  present  needs, 
others  which  will  satisfy  more  exacting  tastes  and  will  be  on  hand  for  them 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   THE   TIMES 


when  they  are  ready  for  more  rewarding  fare.  The  problem  is  an  economic 
one  as  well  as  an  artistic  one.  Whether  it  can  be  solved  is  still  anybody's 
guess.  But  in  a  day  when,  despite  the  discouragement  of  many  literati,  much 
of  the  best  writing  in  the  world  is  being  done  in  the  United  States;  when 
the  impoverishment  of  foreign  institutions  of  learning  has  made  American 
universities  no  mere  followers  on  the  road  of  learning,  but  leaders  despite 
themselves,  attracting  students  from  many  continents;  and  when,  willy  nilly, 
a  burden  of  responsibility  for  the  cultural  condition  of  the  world  rests  heav- 
ily upon  America,  it  should  do  us  good  to  look  at  the  army  of  music-lovers 
that  we  have  produced.  For  if  this  is  what  auspicious  economic  conditions 
can  bring  in  the  area  of  one  of  the  great  arts,  possibly  the  miracle  may  be 
effected  elsewhere  too,  and  the  all-American  culture  may  prove  to  have 
been,  not  the  enemy  of  excellence,  but  its  seed-bed. 


370          ENVIRONMENT 


GOVERNMENT 


THE  passages  in  this  section  deal 
with  a  problem  that  began  when 
men  first  agreed  to  surrender  certain  of 
their  personal  liberties  for  the  sake  of 
mutual  protection  and  betterment.  It  is 
the  problem  of  the  individual  and  his 
relation  to  both  a  national  and  an  in- 
ternational organization.  The  section 
begins  with  the  personal  discovery 
made  by  Fiorello  H  LaGuarclia,  who 
was  a  congressman,  later  a  mayor  of 
New  York  City,  and  still  later  an  ad- 
ministrator of  postwar  relief  overseas. 
He  tells  in  his  account  how  he  first  be- 
came aware  of  the  importance  of  the 
state  even  to  a  boy  living  in  an  army 
post  in  Arizona.  The  selections  which 


follow  range  from  the  distant  past  to 
the  present.  The  first  four  selections 
(by  an  early  Hebrew,  a  Greek  philos- 
opher who  lived  several  centuries  be- 
fore the  time  of  Christ,  a  nineteenth- 
century  Englishman,  and  a  twentieth- 
century  American )  present  widely  vary- 
ing points  of  view  on  the  relation  of 
the  individual  to  his  national  govern- 
ment. The  concluding  selections  in  this 
section  (by  the  editor  of  U.S.  News 
and  World  Report,  the  United  States 
representative  to  the  United  Nations, 
and  a  writer  for  The  New  Yorker)  take 
up  the  problem  of  international  organi- 
zation in  the  form  of  the  United  Na- 
tions. 


FIORELLO    H.    LA   GUARDIA 

My  first  encounters  with  politics 

A  personal  discovery 

WHAT  i  SAW  and  heard  and  learned  in  my  boyhood  days  in  Arizona 
made  lasting  impressions  on  me.  Many  of  the  things  on  which  I  have 
such  strong  feelings— feelings  which  some  of  my  opponents  have  regarded  as 
unreasonable  obsessions— were  first  impressed  on  my  mind  during  those 
early  days,  and  the  knowledge  I  acquired  then  never  left  me.  On  some  of 
those  things  I  believe  I  am  so  right  in  my  attitude  that  I  remain  uncompro- 
mising. 

For  instance,  there  is  the  professional  politician.  Though  1  have  been  in 
politics  for  well  over  forty  years,  I  loathe  the  professional  politician.  I  have 
never  been  a  regular.  I  have  fought  political  machines  and  party  politics  at 
every  opportunity.  This  attitude  had  its  origin  in  the  loudly  dressed,  slick 

From  The  Making  of  an  Insurgent  by  Fiorello  H.  La  Guardia.  Copyright  1948,  by 
J.  B.  Lippincott  Company.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 


MY    FIRST    ENCOUNTERS    WITH    POLITICS 


371 


and  sly  Indian  agents,  political  appointees,  I  saw  come  into  Arizona.  The 
first  time  I  ever  heard  the  word  politician  was  at  Fort  Huachuca,  when  I  was 
still  a  small  child.  The  word  was  applied  to  those  Indian  agents.  I  learned 
afterwards  that  they  got  the  jobs  because  they  were  small-fry  ward  heelers. 
I  saw  hungry  Indians,  and  the  little  Indian  kids  watched  us  while  we 
munched  a  Kansas  apple  or  ate  a  cookie  Mother  baked.  I  knew,  even  as 
a  child,  that  the  government  in  Washington  provided  food  for  all  those 
Indians,  but  that  the  "politicians"  sold  the  rations  to  miners  and  even  to  gen- 
eral stores,  robbing  the  Indians  of  the  food  the  government  provided  for 
them.  That  was  my  first  contact  with  "politicians." 

I  had  my  first  experience  with  a  lobby  when  I  was  about  twelve.  My  father 
received  a  letter  from  someone  in  Washington  stating  that  the  pay  of  band 
leaders  could  be  increased  to  $100  a  month.  The  pay  was  then  $60  a  month. 
The  letter  also  stated  that  band  leaders  could  become  commissioned  officers. 
I  can  see  the  gleam  in  Dad's  eye  to  this  day  as  he  fancied  himself  adorned 
with  shoulder  straps.  It  all  seemed  so  easy;  just  sign  the  agreement  to  pay 
one  month's  salary  when  the  bill  became  the  law,  and  no  further  obligation 
except  to  send  $50  for  necessary  expenses. 

Even  as  a  kid  I  could  not  understand  this.  Why  the  expenses?  There 
were  hints  in  the  letter  that  it  was  necessary  to  see  certain  Representatives 
and  Senators,  and  that  there  were  disbursements  to  be  met.  It  was  rather 
crude.  But  this  technique  of  the  'nineties  didn't  differ  so  much  from  the 
technique  of  our  own  'forties.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  felt  instinctively  that 
it  was  wrong.  And  Mother  was  on  my  side.  I  figured  it  out  that  if  the  men 
in  the  various  regiments  at  our  post  sent  in  this  money,  it  would  amount  to 
$2,250.  That  was  a  lot  of  money  in  those  days.  "It's  a  fake,  a  swindle,"  I 
shouted,  and  when  I  ran  out  of  adjectives  in  denouncing  the  scheme  to  my 
father,  I  resorted  to  what  to  me  has  always  been  the  most  odious  thing  you 
could  say  about  people:  "They're  a  bunch  of  politicians."  Father,  a  musician, 
who  never  bothered  with  politics,  was  soon  talked  out  of  joining  the  plan. 
The  band  leaders  of  the  Army  are  still  waiting  for  those  shoulder  straps  some 
of  them  sent  their  money  to  get.  .  .  . 

...  It  was  during  my  boyhood  in  Arizona  that  I  first  learned  about  cor- 
rupt local  government,  and  I  got  my  political  education  from  Pulitzer's  New 
York  World.  We  had  two  newspapers  in  Prescott,  the  Journal  Miner  and  the 
Prescott  Courier.  These  were  typical  Bret  Harte  Western  newspapers,  de- 
voted mostly  to  local  news.  When  the  Sunday  edition  of  the  New  York 
World  arrived  in  Prescott  on  the  following  Friday  or  Saturday,  I  would  rush 
to  Ross's  drugstore  where  it  was  on  display.  There  I  had  looked  at  the  first 
funny  sections  I  had  ever  seen,  featuring  the  Yellow  Kid.  From  that  comic 
strip  came  the  expression  "yellow  journalism."  I  have  enjoyed  the  comics 
ever  since. 

372          CiOVERNMENT 


When  I  got  home  with  the  Sunday  World,  I  would  carefully  read  every 
word  of  the  World's  fight  against  the  corrupt  Tammany  machine  in  New 
York.  That  was  the  period  of  the  lurid  disclosures  made  by  the  Lexow  inves- 
tigation of  corruption  in  the  Police  Department  that  extended  throughout 
the  political  structure  of  the  city.  The  papers  then  were  filled  with  stories 
of  startling  crookedness  on  the  part  of  the  police  and  the  politicians  in  New 
York.  Unlike  boys  who  grew  up  in  the  city  and  who  hear  from  childhood 
about  such  things  as  graft  and  corruption,  the  amazing  disclosures  hit  me 
like  a  shock.  I  could  not  understand  how  the  people  of  the  greatest  city 
in  the  country  could  put  up  with  the  vice  and  crime  that  existed  there.  A 
resentment  against  Tammany  was  created  in  me  at  that  time,  which  I  admit 
is  to  this  day  almost  an  obsession.  But  I  did  not  become  cynical  or  lose  faith 
in  government.  I  was  certain  that  good  people  could  eliminate  bad  people 
from  public  office.  But  as  I  grew  older,  my  hatred  of  corrupt  politicians  and 
my  feeling  against  dishonest  and  inefficient  government  increased  with  the 
years  in  proportion  with  my  experience  of  it. 

When  I  went  to  live  in  New  York  again  after  my  return  from  Europe  in 
1906,  Tammany  was  once  more  all-powerful.  It  was  the  era  of  "honest 
graft/'  When  I  had  to  choose  a  political  party,  my  choice  was  easy.  I 
joined  the  Republican  Party.  I  was  young  and  innocent.  A  party  in  the  mi- 
nority cannot  help  being  good  and  pure.  That  seemed  the  only  avenue  I 
could  choose  at  the  time  in  order  to  carry  out  my  boyhood  dreams  of  going 
to  work  against  corrupt  government. 

There  was,  of  course,  great  excitement  at  Whipple  Barracks  in  Prescott 
when  the  news  reached  us  that  the  U.  S.  battleship  Maine  had  been  blown 
up  in  the  harbor  of  Havana,  Cuba,  on  the  fifteenth  of  February  1898. 
The  Postal  Telegraph  operator  in  Prescott  pasted  up  Associated  Press  bul- 
letins on  the  Maine  disaster  as  soon  as  they  came  in,  and  along  with  the 
other  children  of  Army  men,  as  well  as  the  parents,  I  watched  and  waited 
eagerly  for  the  latest  news.  We  expected  war  momentarily,  especially  after 
the  news  came  that  two  hundred  and  fifty  American  lives  had  been  lost. 

Within  about  ten  days,  orders  came  for  our  regiment  to  get  itself  ready 
for  war.  Inventories  were  taken.  The  equipment  of  some  other  regiments 
and  of  National  Guard  units  was  not  up  to  date,  but  our  regiment  had  the 
modern  Krag-Jorgensen  rifles.  Some  of  our  noncommissioned  officers  had 
seen  service  in  the  Civil  War. 

As  the  weeks  passed  and  there  was  still  no  declaration  of  war,  there  was 
a  feeling  in  our  military  circles  that  President  McKinley  was  hesitating  too 
long.  But  it  finally  came  on  April  twenty-fifth,  and  our  regiment  was  soon 
sent  to  Jefferson  Barracks,  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  It  remained  there  for  a  few 
days  and  then  went  into  camp  at  Mobile,  Alabama,  but  the  families  of  the 
officers  and  enlisted  men  remained  in  quarters  at  Jefferson  Barracks. 


vcv    WTOQT    wvrr-nTTwnrwc   wrrn    ¥>r*T  trwo 


Though  I  was  only  fifteen  years  old,  I  was  restless  and  wanted  to  join  the 
Army.  My  age,  and  the  fact  that  I  was  short  and  under  the  required  weight, 
made  that  impossible.  But  I  persuaded  the  St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch  to  pay 
my  fare  to  the  camp  at  Mobile  where  my  father  was  stationed.  I  did  a 
couple  of  articles  for  the  Post-Dispatch  from  the  camp. 

As  an  Army  child  I  was  familiar  with  drill  and  other  training  courses.  I 
noticed  at  that  time  that  it  was  very  difficult  to  train  Army  officers  quickly, 
though  it  was  easy  to  train  a  large  body  of  men  in  a  hurry  once  you  had  the 
officers  to  do  the  job.  This  knowledge  was  very  useful  to  me  later  when  I 
was  a  legislator,  and  particularly  when  I  became  a  member  of  the  House 
Committee  on  Military  Affairs.  I  also  noticed  at  that  time  that  the  Medical 
Corps  was  both  inefficient  and  unsufficient  in  the  Spanish-American  War. 
During  the  first  world  war  the  Medical  Corps  brought  its  technique  and 
efficiency  almost  to  perfection.  In  the  second  world  war  it  surpassed  any- 
thing that  had  been  attained  previously  in  this  and,  perhaps,  in  any  other 
country.  But  the  government's  record  as  a  whole  during  the  Spanish- 
American  War  was  not  up  to  the  heroism  of  our  men  who  took  part  in 
that  war. 

My  particular  Spanish- American  War  hero  was  "Bucky"  O'Neil.  I  remem- 
ber that  he  came  to  our  school  soon  after  the  declaration  of  war  and  told  us 
what  that  declaration  meant,  and  what  war  meant.  He  expressed  the  opinion 
that  when  we  won  this  war,  no  other  nation  would  ever  again  attempt  to 
dominate  territory  in  the  Western  Hemisphere.  When  Arizona  provided  a 
troop  for  Colonel  Theodore  Roosevelt's  Rough  Riders,  "Bucky"  O'Neil  be- 
came a  member  of  that  troop.  I  felt  he  should  have  commanded  it.  He  was 
killed  in  action  during  the  famous  charge  on  San  Juan  Hill. 

One  of  the  worst  scandals  of  our  entire  military  history  occurred  during 
this  short  Spanish-American  War  and  made  a  lasting  impression  upon  me, 
for  my  father  was  one  of  its  victims.  Corrupt  contractors  supplied  the  Army 
with  diseased  beef.  My  father  became  so  ill  as  a  result  of  eating  some  of  this 
diseased  beef  that  he  had  to  be  discharged  from  the  service  on  account  of 
disability.  Though  we  did  not  know  it  then,  he  had  only  a  few  years  to  live 
because  of  the  work  of  crooked  Army  contractors. 

That  experience  never  left  my  mind.  When  I  became  a  Congressman 
during  World  War  I,  the  first  measure  I  introduced  in  the  House  was  a  bill 
providing  the  death  penalty  for  contractors  who  supplied  defective  food  or 
other  supplies  and  equipment  in  time  of  war,  and  a  heavy  jail  sentence,  if 
they  sold  such  stuff  in  time  of  peace,  I  introduced  that  measure  on  April  3, 
1917,  a  few  days  before  Congress  declared  war  on  Germany.  It  was  referred 
to  the  Committee  on  Judiciary,  where  it  was  allowed  to  languish.  But  I  still 
think  it  is  a  good  idea.  It  might  prevent  other  families  from  losing  their 
fathers. 

374         GOVERNMENT 


After  Father's  discharge  from  the  Army,  our  family  returned  to  New  York 
City,  where  we  renewed  old  acquaintances.  Then  the  family  went  to  Trieste, 
to  live  with  my  mother's  family.  It  was  while  we  were  in  Trieste  that  my 
father  died  in  1901,  a  victim  of  condemned  Army  meat. 


Ancient  concepts 


THE    BIBLE 


Selections  from  Exodus 


In  these  chapters  the  ancient  scribe  outlines  the  more  general  regulations 
ordained  by  God  for  the  conduct  of  the  Israelites.  Though  bound  by  the 
fairly  rigid  code  of  the  patriarchal  system,  the  people  still  recognize  God  as 
the  ultimate  power  in  their  government.  That  they  do  not  necessarily  act 
according  to  His  desires  is  abundantly  evident. 

IN  THE  THIRD  MONTH,  when  the  children  of  Israel  were  gone  forth  out  of 
the  land  of  Egypt,  the  same  day  came  they  into  the  wilderness  of  Sinai. 

For  they  were  departed  from  Rephidim,  and  were  come  to  the  desert  of 
Sinai,  and  had  pitched  in  the  wilderness;  and  there  Israel  camped  before 
the  mount. 

And  Moses  went  up  unto  God,  and  the  Lord  called  unto  him  out  of  the 
mountain,  saying,  Thus  shalt  thou  say  to  the  house  of  Jacob,  and  tell  the 
children  of  Israel; 

Ye  have  seen  what  I  did  unto  the  Egyptians,  and  how  I  bare  you  on  eagles' 
wings,  and  brought  you  unto  myself. 

Now  therefore,  if  ye  will  obey  my  voice  indeed,  and  keep  my  covenant, 
then  ye  shall  be  a  peculiar  treasure  unto  me  above  all  people:  for  all  the 
earth  is  mine: 

And  ye  shall  be  unto  me  a  kingdom  of  priests,  and  an  holy  nation.  These 
are  the  words  which  thou  shalt  speak  unto  the  children  of  Israel. 

And  Moses  came  and  called  for  the  elders  of  the  people,  and  laid  before 
their  faces  all  these  words  which  the  Lord  commanded  him. 

And  all  the  people  answered  together,  and  said,  All  that  the  Lord  hath 
spoken  we  will  do.  And  Moses  returned  the  words  of  the  people  unto  the 
Lord. 

And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  Lo,  I  come  unto  thee  in  a  thick  cloud,  that 

EXODUS         375 


the  people  may  hear  when  I  speak  with  thee,  and  believe  thee  for  ever. 
And  Moses  told  the  words  of  the  people  unto  the  Lord. 

And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  Go  unto  the  people,  and  sanctify  them 
to  day  and  to  morrow,  and  let  them  wash  their  clothes. 

And  be  ready  against  the  third  day:  for  the  third  day  the  Lord  will  come 
down  in  the  sight  of  all  the  people  upon  mount  Sinai. 

And  thou  shalt  set  bounds  unto  the  people  round  about,  saying,  Take 
heed  to  yourselves,  that  ye  go  not  up  into  the  mount,  or  touch  the  border 
of  it:  whosoever  toucheth  the  mount  shall  be  surely  put  to  death: 

There  shall  not  an  hand  touch  it,  but  he  shall  surely  be  stoned,  or  shot 
through;  whether  it  be  beast  or  man,  it  shall  not  live:  when  the  trumpet 
soundeth  long,  they  shall  come  up  to  the  mount. 

And  Moses  went  down  from  the  mount  unto  the  people,  and  sanctified 
the  people;  and  they  washed  their  clothes. 

And  he  said  unto  the  people,  Be  ready  against  the  third  day:  come  not  at 
your  wives. 

And  it  came  to  pass  on  the  third  day  in  the  morning,  that  there  were 
thunders  and  lightnings,  and  a  thick  cloud  upon  the  mount,  and  the  voice 
of  the  trumpet  exceeding  loud;  so  that  all  the  people  that  was  in  the  camp 
trembled. 

And  Moses  brought  forth  the  people  out  of  the  camp  to  meet  with  God; 
and  they  stood  at  the  nether  part  of  the  mount. 

And  mount  Sinai  was  altogether  on  a  smoke,  because  the  Lord  descended 
upon  it  in  fire:  and  the  smoke  thereof  ascended  as  the  smoke  of  a  furnace, 
and  the  whole  mount  quaked  greatly. 

And  when  the  voice  of  the  trumpet  sounded  long,  and  waxed  louder  and 
louder,  Moses  spake,  and  God  answered  him  by  a  voice. 

And  the  Lord  came  down  upon  mount  Sinai,  on  the  top  of  the  mount: 
and  the  Lord  called  Moses  up  to  the  top  of  the  mount;  and  Moses  went  up. 

And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  Go  down,  charge  the  people,  lest  they 
break  through  unto  the  Lord  to  gaze,  and  many  of  them  perish. 

And  let  the  priests  also,  which  come  near  to  the  Lord,  sanctify  themselves, 
lest  the  Lord  break  forth  upon  them. 

And  Moses  said  unto  the  Lord,  The  people  cannot  come  up  to  mount 
Sinai:  for  thou  chargedst  us,  saying,  Set  bounds  about  the  mount,  and 
sanctify  it. 

And  the  Lord  said  unto  him,  Away,  get  thee  down,  and  thou  shalt  come 
up,  thou,  and  Aaron  with  thee:  but  let  not  the  priests  and  the  people  break 
through  to  come  up  unto  the  Lord,  lest  he  break  forth  upon  them. 

So  Moses  went  down  unto  the  people,  and  spake  unto  them.— Exodus  19 

376        GOVERNMENT 


And  God  spake  all  these  words,  saying, 

I  am  the  Lord  thy  God,  which  have  brought  thee  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt, 
out  of  the  house  of  bondage. 

Thou  shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me. 

Thou  shalt  not  make  unto  thee  any  graven  image,  or  any  likeness  of  any 
thing  that  is  in  heaven  above,  or  that  is  in  the  earth  beneath,  or  that  is  in  the 
water  under  the  earth: 

Thou  shalt  not  bow  down  thyself  to  them,  noi  serve  them:  for  I  the  Lord 
thy  God  am  a  jealous  God,  visiting  the  iniquity  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
children  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation  of  them  that  hate  me; 

And  shewing  mercy  unto  thousands  of  them  that  love  me,  and  keep  my 
commandments. 

Thou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in  vain;  for  the  Lord 
will  not  hold  him  guiltless  that  taketh  his  name  in  vain. 

Remember  the  sabbath  day,  to  keep  it  holy. 

Six  days  shalt  thou  labour,  and  do  all  thy  work: 

But  the  seventh  day  is  the  sabbath  of  the  Lord  thy  God:  in  it  thou  shalt 
not  do  any  work,  thov.  nor  thy  son,  nor  thy  daughter,  thy  manservant,  nor 
thy  maidservant,  nor  thy  cattle,  nor  thy  stranger  that  is  within  thy  gates: 

For  in  six  days  the  Lord  made  heaven  and  earth,  the  sea,  and  all  that  in 
them  is,  and  rested  the  seventh  day:  wherefore  the  Lord  blessed  the  sabbath 
day,  and  hallowed  it. 

Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother:  that  thy  days  may  be  long  upon  the^ 
land  which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee. 

Thcu  shalt  not  kill. 

Thou  shalt  not  commit  adultery. 

Thou  shalt  not  steal. 

Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness  against  thy  neighbour. 

Thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neighbour's  house,  thou  shalt  not  c 
bour's  wife,  nor  his  manservant,  nor  his  maidservant,  nor  his 
nor  any  thing  that  is  thy  neighbour's. 

And  all  the  people  saw  the  thunderings,  and  the  lights 
of  the  trumpet,  and  the  mountain  smoking:  and  when 
removed,  and  stood  afar  off. 

And  they  said  unto  Moses,  Speak  thou  with  us 
not  God  speak  with  us,  lest  we  die. 

And  Moses  said  unto  the  people,  Fear  not: 
and  that  his  fear  may  be  before  your  facer 

And  tl.  ?  people  stood  afar  off,  and  M' 
ness  where  God  was.— Exodus  20:l-2£* 


And  when  the  people  saw  that  Moses  delayed  to  come  down  out  of  the 
mount,  the  people  gathered  themselves  together  unto  Aaron,  and  said  unto 
him,  Up,  make  us  gods,  which  shall  go  before  us;  for  as  for  this  Moses,  the 
man  that  brought  us  up  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt,  we  wot  not  what  is  become 
of  him. 

And  Aaron  said  unto  them,  Break  off  the  golden  earrings,  which  are  in  the 
ears  of  your  wives,  of  your  sons,  and  of  your  daughters,  and  bring  them 
unto  me. 

And  all  the  people  brake  off  the  golden  earrings  which  were  in  their  ears, 
and  brought  them  unto  Aaron. 

And  he  received  them  at  their  hand,  and  fashioned  it  with  a  graving  tool, 
after  he  had  made  it  a  molten  calf:  and  they  said,  These  be  thy  gods,  O 
Israel,  which  brought  thee  up  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt. 

And  when  Aaron  saw  it,  he  built  an  altar  before  it;  and  Aaron  made  procla- 
mation, and  said,  To  morrow  is  a  feast  to  the  Lord. 

And  they  rose  up  early  on  the  morrow,  and  offered  burnt  offerings,  and 
offerings;  and  the  people  sat  down  to  eat  and  to  drink,  and 

"•-  nrpt  thee  down:  for  thy  people,  which 
— nt-ed  themselves: 

Jo/q  them: 
sac- 
ught 

1,  it  is 

.  them, 
i. 

y  wrath 
3  land  of 

;f  did  he 
i  from  the 
;vil  against 

QOU  swarest 
seed  as  the 
/e  unto  your 

to  his  people. 
*  two  tables  of 


the  testimony  were  in  his  hand:  the  tables  were  written  on  both  their  sides; 
on  the  one  side  and  on  the  other  were  they  written. 

And  the  tables  were  the  work  of  God,  and  the  writing  was  the  writing  of 
God,  graven  upon  the  tables. 

And  when  Joshua  heard  the  noise  of  the  people  as  they  shouted,  he  said 
unto  Moses,  There  is  a  noise  of  war  in  the  camp. 

And  he  said,  It  is  not  the  voice  of  them  that  shout  for  mastery,  neither  is  it 
the  voice  of  them  that  cry  for  being  overcome:  but  the  noise  of  them  that 
sing  do  I  hear. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  as  soon  as  he  came  nigh  unto  the  camp,  that  he  saw 
the  calf,  and  the  dancing:  and  Moses'  anger  waxed  hot,  and  he  cast  the 
tables  out  of  his  hands,  and  brake  them  beneath  the  mount. 

And  he  took  the  calf  which  they  had  made,  and  burnt  it  in  the  fire,  and 
ground  it  to  powder,  and  strawed  it  upon  the  water,  and  made  the  children 
of  Israel  drink  of  it. 

And  Moses  said  unto  Aaron,  What  did  this  people  unto  thee,  that  thou  hast 
brought  so  great  a  sin  upon  them? 

And  Aaron  said,  Let  not  the  anger  of  my  lord  wax  hot:  thou  knowest  the 
people,  that  they  are  set  on  mischief. 

For  they  said  unto  me,  Make  us  gods,  which  shall  go  before  us:  for  as  for 
this  Moses,  the  man  that  brought  us  up  out  of  the  land  of  Egypt,  we  wot  not 
what  is  become  of  him. 

And  I  said  unto  them,  Whosoever  hath  any  gold,  let  them  break  it  off. 
So  they  gave  it  me:  then  I  cast  it  into  the  fire,  and  there  came  out  this  calf. 

And  when  Moses  saw  that  the  people  were  naked;  (for  Aaron  had  made 
them  naked  unto  their  shame  among  their  enemies: ) 

Then  Moses  stood  in  the  gate  of  the  camp,  and  said,  Who  is  on  the  Lord's 
side?  let  him  come  unto  me.  And  all  the  sons  of  Levi  gathered  themselves 
together  unto  him. 

And  he  said  unto  them,  Thus  saith  the  Lord  God  of  Israel,  Put  every  man 
his  sword  by  his  side,  and  go  in  and  out  from  gate  to  gate  throughout  the 
camp,  and  slay  every  man  his  brother,  and  every  man  his  companion,  and 
every  man  his  neighbour. 

And  the  children  of  Levi  did  according  to  the  word  of  Moses:  and  there 
fell  of  the  people  that  day  about  three  thousand  men. 

For  Moses  had  said,  Consecrate  yourselves  to  day  to  the  Lord,  even  every 
man  upon  his  son  and  upon  his  brother;  that  he  may  bestow  upon  you  a 
blessing  this  day. 

And  it  came  to  pass  on  the  morrow,  that  Moses  said  unto  the  people,  Ye 
have  sinned  a  great  sin:  and  now  I  will  go  up  unto  the  Lord;  peradventure 
I  shall  make  an  atonement  for  your  sin. 

EXODUS     379 


And  Moses  returned  unto  the  Lord,  and  said,  Oh,  this  people  have  sinned 
a  great  sin,  and  have  made  them  gods  of  gold. 

Yet  now,  if  thou  wilt  forgive  their  sin—;  and  if  not,  blot  me,  I  pray  thee, 
out  of  thy  book  which  thou  hast  written. 

And  the  Lord  said  unto  Moses,  Whosoever  hath  sinned  against  me,  him 
will  I  blot  out  of  my  book. 

Therefore  now  go,  lead  the  people  unto  the  place  of  which  I  have  spoken 
unto  thee:  behold,  mine  Angel  shall  go  before  thee:  nevertheless  in  the  day 
when  I  visit  I  will  visit  their  sin  upon  them. 

And  the  Lord  plagued  the  people,  because  they  made  the  calf,  which 
Aaron  made.— Exodus  32 


PLATO 


Crito 


Plato  was  a  pupil  of  Socrates  from  407  B. C.  until  the  letters  death  in  399. 
In  this  dialogue  Plato  relates  what  presumably  was  the  final  attitude  of  Soc- 
rates upon  the  subject  of  the  state.  Socrates  has  been  condemned  to  death 
by  the  Athenians  for  subversive  teaching.  His  friend  Crito  visits  him  in 
prison. 

SOCRATES.  Why  have  you  come  at  this  hour,  Crito?  it  must  be  quite  early? 
CRITO.  Yes,  certainly. 

SOCRATES.  What  is  the  exact  time? 

CRITO.  The  dawn  is  breaking. 

SOCRATES.   I  wonder  that  the  keeper  of  the  prison  would  let  you  in. 

CRITO.  He  knows  me,  because  I  often  come,  Socrates;  moreover  I  have  done 
him  a  kindness. 

SOCRATES.  And  are  you  only  just  come? 

CRITO.   No,  I  came  some  time  ago. 

SOCRATES.  Then  why  did  you  sit  and  say  nothing,  instead  of  awakening  me 
at  once? 

CRITO.  Why,  indeed,  Socrates,  I  myself  would  rather  not  have  all  this  sleep- 
lessness and  sorrow.  But  I  have  been  wondering  at  your  peaceful  slum- 
bers, and  that  was  the  reason  why  I  did  not  awaken  you,  because  I  wanted 
you  to  be  out  of  pain.  I  have  always  thought  you  happy  in  the  calmness 
of  your  temperament;  but  never  did  I  see  the  like  of  the  easy,  cheerful  way 
in  which  you  bear  this  calamity. 

SOCRATES.  Why,  Crito,  when  a  man  has  reached  my  age  he  ought  not  to  be 
repining  at  the  prospect  of  death. 

380         GOVERNMENT 


CRTTO.  And  yet  other  old  men  find  themselves  in  similar  misfortunes,  and  age 
does  not  prevent  them  from  repining. 

SOCRATES.  That  may  be.  But  you  have  not  told  me  why  you  come  at  this 
early  hour. 

CRITO.  I  come  to  bring  you  a  message  which  is  sad  and  painful;  not,  as  I 
believe,  to  yourself,  but  to  all  of  us  who  are  your  friends,  and  saddest  of 
all  to  me. 

SOCRATES.  What!  I  suppose  that  the  ship  has  come  from  Delos,  on  the  arrival 
of  which  I  am  to  die? 

CRITO.  No,  the  ship  has  not  actually  arrived,  but  she  will  probably  be  here 
to-day,  as  persons  who  have  come  from  Sunium  tell  me  that  they  left  her 
there;  and  therefore  to-morrow,  Socrates,  will  be  the  last  day  of  your  life. 

SOCRATES.  Very  well,  Crito;  if  such  is  the  will  of  God,  I  am  willing;  but  my 
belief  is  that  there  will  be  a  delay  of  a  day. 

CRITO.   Why  do  you  say  this? 

SOCRATES.  I  will  tell  you.  I  am  to  die  on  the  day  after  the  arrival  of  the  ship? 

CRITO.  Yes;  that  is  what  the  authorities  say. 

SOCRATES.  But  I  do  not  think  that  the  ship  will  be  here  until  to-morrow; 
this  I  gather  from  a  vision  which  I  had  last  night,  or  rather  only  just  now, 
when  you  fortunately  allowed  me  to  sleep. 

CRITO.   And  what  was  the  nature  of  the  vision? 

SOCRATES.  There  came  to  me  the  likeness  of  a  woman,  fair  and  comely, 
clothed  in  white  raiment,  who  called  to  me  and  said:  "O  Socrates,  the 
third  day  hence  to  Phthia  shalt  thou  go." 

CRITO.  What  a  singular  dream,  Socrates! 

SOCRATES.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  the  meaning,  Crito,  I  think. 

CRITO.  Yes;  the  meaning  is  only  too  clear.  But,  Oh!  my  beloved  Socrates, 
let  me  entreat  you  once  more  to  take  my  advice  and  escape.  For  if  you 
die  I  shall  not  only  lose  a  friend  who  can  never  be  replaced,  but  there  is 
another  evil:  people  who  do  not  know  you  and  me  will  believe  that  I 
might  have  saved  you  if  I  had  been  willing  to  give  money,  but  that  I  did 
not  care.  Now,  can  there  be  a  worse  disgrace  than  this— that  I  should  be 
thought  to  value  money  more  than  the  life  of  a  friend?  For  the  many 
will  not  be  persuaded  that  I  wanted  you  to  escape,  and  that  you  refused. 

SOCRATES.  But  why,  my  dear  Crito,  should  we  care  about  the  opinion  of  the 
many?  Good  men,  and  they  are  the  only  persons  who  are  worth  consider- 
ing, will  think  of  these  things  truly  as  they  happened. 

CRITO.  But  do  you  see,  Socrates,  that  the  opinion  of  the  many  must  be 
regarded,  as  is  evident  in  your  own  case,  because  they  can  do  the  very 
greatest  evil  to  any  one  who  has  lost  their  good  opinion. 

SOCRATES.   I  only  wish,  Crito,  that  they  could;  for  then  they  could  also  do 

CHITO     381 


the  greatest  good,  and  that  would  be  well.  But  the  truth  is,  that  they  can 
do  neither  good  nor  evil:  they  can  not  make  a  man  wise  or  make  him 
foolish;  and  whatever  they  do  is  the  result  of  chance. 

CRITO.  Well,  I  will  not  dispute  about  that;  but  please  to  tell  me,  Socrates, 
whether  you  are  not  acting  out  of  regard  to  me  and  your  other  friends: 
are  you  not  afraid  that  if  you  escape  hence  we  may  get  into  trouble  with 
the  informers  for  having  stolen  you  away,  and  lose  either  the  whole  or  a 
great  part  of  our  property;  or  that  even  a  worse  evil  may  happen  to  us? 
Now,  if  this  is  your  fear,  be  at  ease;  for  in  order  to  save  you  we  ought 
surely  to  run  this,  or  even  a  greater  risk;  be  persuaded,  then,  and  do 
as  I  say. 

SOCRATES.  Yes.  Crito,  that  is  one  fear  which  you  mention,  but  by  no  means 
the  only  one. 

CRITO.  Fear  not.  There  are  persons  who  at  no  great  cost  are  willing  to  save 
you  and  bring  you  out  of  prison;  and  as  for  the  informers,  you  may  observe 
that  they  are  far  from  being  exorbitant  in  their  demands;  a  little  money 
will  satisfy  them.  My  means,  which,  as  I  am  sure,  are  ample,  are  at  your 
service,  and  if  you  have  a  scruple  about  spending  all  mine,  here  are 
strangers  who  will  give  you  the  use  of  theirs;  and  one  of  them,  Simmias 
the  Theban,  has  brought  a  sum  of  money  for  this  very  purpose;  and  Cebes 
and  many  others  are  willing  to  spend  their  money  too.  I  say  therefore,  do 
not  on  that  account  hesitate  about  making  your  escape,  and  do  not  say, 
as  you  did  in  the  court,  that  you  will  have  a  difficulty  in  knowing  what  to 
do  with  yourself  if  you  escape.  For  men  will  love  you  in  other  places  to 
which  you  may  go,  and  not  in  Athens  only;  there  are  friends  of  mine  in 
Thessaly,  if  you  like  to  go  to  them,  who  will  value  and  protect  you,  and  no 
Thcssalian  will  give  you  any  trouble.  Nor  can  I  think  that  you  are  justi- 
fied, Socrates,  in  betraying  your  own  life  when  you  might  be  saved;  this 
is  playing  into  the  hands  of  your  enemies  and  destroyers;  and  moreover 
I  should  say  that  you  were  betraying  your  children;  for  you  might  bring 
them  up  and  educate  them;  instead  of  which  you  go  away  and  leave  them, 
and  they  will  have  to  take  their  chance;  and  if  they  do  not  meet  with  the 
usual  fate  of  orphans,  there  will  be  small  thanks  to  you.  No  man  should 
bring  children  into  the  world  who  is  unwilling  to  persevere  to  the  end  in 
their  nurture  and  education.  But  you  are  choosing  the  easier  part,  as  I 
think,  not  the  better  and  manlier,  which  would  rather  have  become  one 
who  professes  virtue  in  all  his  actions,  like  yourself.  And  indeed,  I  am 
ashamed  not  only  of  you,  but  of  us  who  are  your  friends,  when  I  reflect 
that  this  entire  business  of  yours  will  be  attributed  to  our  want  of  courage. 
The  trial  need  never  have  come  on,  or  might  have  been  brought  to  another 
issue;  and  the  end  of  all,  which  is  the  crowning  absurdity,  will  seem  to 
have  been  permitted  by  us,  through  cowardice  and  baseness,  who  might 


382 


GOVERNMENT 


have  saved  you,  as  you  might  have  saved  yourself,  if  we  had  been  good 
for  anything  (for  there  was  no  difficulty  in  escaping);  and  we  did  not  see 
how  disgraceful,  Socrates,  and  also  miserable  all  this  will  be  to  us  as  well  as 
to  you.  Make  your  mind  up  then,  or  rather  have  your  mind  already  made 
up,  for  the  time  of  deliberation  is  over,  and  there  is  only  one  thing  to  be 
done,  which  must  be  done,  if  at  all,  this  very  night,  and  which  any  delay 
will  render  all  but  impossible;  I  beseech  you  therefore,  Socrates,  to  be 
persuaded  by  me,  and  to  do  as  I  say. 

SOCRATES.  Dear  Crito,  your  zeal  is  invaluable,  if  a  right  one;  but  if  wrong,  the 
greater  the  zeal  the  greater  the  evil;  and  therefore  we  ought  to  consider 
whether  these  things  shall  be  done  or  not.  For  I  am  and  always  have 
been  one  of  those  natures  who  must  be  guided  by  reason,  whatever  the 
reason  may  be  which  upon  reflection  appears  to  me  to  be  the  best;  and  now 
that  this  fortune  has  come  upon  me,  I  can  not  put  away  the  reasons  which 
I  have  before  given:  the  principles  which  I  have  hitherto  honored  and 
revered  I  still  honor,  and  unless  we  can  find  other  and  better  principles 
on  the  instant,  I  am  certain  not  to  agree  with  you;  no,  not  even  if  the 
power  of  the  multitude  could  inflict  many  more  imprisonments,  confisca- 
tions, deaths,  frightening  us  like  children  with  hobgoblin  terrors.  But 
what  will  be  the  fairest  way  of  considering  the  question?  Shall  I  return 
to  your  old  argument  about  the  opinions  of  men?  some  of  which  are  to  be 
regarded,  and  others,  as  we  were  saying,  are  not  to  be  regarded.  Now 
were  we  right  in  maintaining  this  before  I  was  condemned?  And  has  the 
argument  which  was  once  good  now  proved  to  be  talk  for  the  sake  of 
talking;— in  fact  an  amusement  only,  and  altogether  vanity?  That  is  what 
I  want  to  consider  with  your  help,  Crito:— whether,  under  my  present  cir- 
cumstances, the  argument  appears  to  be  in  any  way  different  or  not;  and 
is  to  be  allowed  by  me  or  disallowed.  That  argument,  which,  as  I  believe, 
is  maintained  by  many  who  assume  to  be  authorities,  was  to  the  effect,  as 
I  was  saying,  that  the  opinions  of  some  men  are  to  be  regarded,  and  of 
other  men  not  to  be  regarded.  Now  you,  Crito,  are  a  disinterested  person 
who  are  not  going  to  die  to-morrow— at  least,  there  is  no  human  probability 
of  this,  and  you  are  therefore  not  liable  to  be  deceived  by  the  circum- 
stances in  which  you  are  placed.  Tell  me  then,  whether  I  am  right  in  say- 
ing that  some  opinions,  and  the  opinions  of  some  men  only,  are  to  be 
valued,  and  other  opinions,  and  the  opinions  of  other  men,  are  not  to  be 
valued.  I  ask  you  whether  I  was  right  in  maintaining  this? 

CRITO.   Certainly. 

SOCRATES.  The  good  are  to  be  regarded,  and  not  the  bad? 

CRITO.  Yes. 

SOCRATES.  And  the  opinions  of  the  wise  are  good,  and  the  opinions  of  the 
unwise  are  evil? 

CRITO     383 


CRITO.  Certainly. 

SOCRATES.  And  what  was  said  about  another  matter?  Was  the  disciple  in 
gymnastics  supposed  to  attend  to  the  praise  and  blame  and  opinion  of 
every  man,  or  of  one  man  only— his  physician  or  trainer,  whoever  that  was? 

CRITO.   Of  one  man  only. 

SOCRATES.  And  he  ought  to  fear  the  censure  and  welcome  the  praise  of  that 
one  only,  and  not  of  the  many? 

CRITO.  That  is  clear. 

SOCRATES.  And  he  ought  to  live  and  train,  and  eat  and  drink  in  the  way 
which  seems  good  to  his  single  master  who  has  understanding,  rather  than 
according  to  the  opinion  of  all  other  men  put  together? 

CRITO.  True. 

SOCRATES.  And  if  he  disobeys  and  disregards  the  opinion  and  approval  of 
the  one,  and  regards  the  opinion  of  the  many  who  have  no  understanding., 
will  he  not  suffer  evil? 

CRITO.  Certainly  he  will. 

SOCRATES.  And  what  will  the  evil  be,  whither  tending  and  what  affecting, 
in  the  disobedient  person? 

CRITO.   Clearly,  affecting  the  body;  that  is  what  is  destroyed  by  the  evil. 

SOCRATES.  Very  good;  and  is  not  this  true,  Crito,  of  other  things  which  we 
need  not  separately  enumerate?  In  the  matter  of  just  and  unjust,  fair  and 
foul,  good  and  evil,  which  are  the  subjects  of  our  present  consultation, 
ought  we  to  follow  the  opinion  of  the  many  and  to  fear  them;  or  the  opin- 
ion of  the  one  man  who  has  understanding,  and  whom  we  ought  to  fear 
and  reverence  more  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world :  and  whom  deserting  we 
shall  destroy  and  injure  that  principle  in  us  which  may  be  assumed  to  be 
improved  by  justice  and  deteriorated  by  injustice;— is  there  not  such  a 
principle? 

CRITO.   Certainly  there  is,  Socrates. 

SOCRATES.  Take  a  parallel  instance:— if,  acting  under  the  advice  of  men  who 
have  no  understanding,  we  destroy  that  which  is  improvable  by  health  and 
deteriorated  by  disease— when  that  has  been  destroyed,  I  say,  would  life 
be  worth  having?  And  that  is— the  body? 

CRITO.   Yes. 

SOCRATES.   Could  we  live,  having  an  evil  and  corrupted  body? 

CRITO.  Certainly  not. 

SOCRATES.  And  will  life  be  worth  having,  if  that  higher  part  of  man  be 
depraved,  which  is  improved  by  justice  and  deteriorated  by  injustice?  Do 
we  suppose  that  principle,  whatever  it  may  be  in  man,  which  has  to  do 
with  justice  and  injustice,  to  be  inferior  to  the  body? 

CRITO.   Certainly  not. 

SOCRATES.  More  honored,  then? 


384 


GOVERNMENT 


CRITO.  Far  more  honored. 

SOCRATES.  Then,  my  friend,  we  must  not  regard  what  the  many  say  of  us: 
but  what  he,  the  one  man  who  has  understanding  of  just  and  unjust,  will 
say,  and  what  the  truth  will  say.  And  therefore  you  begin  in  error  when 
you  suggest  that  we  should  regard  the  opinion  of  the  many  about  just 
and  unjust,  good  and  evil,  honorable  and  dishonorable.— Well,  some  one 
will  say,  "but  the  many  can  kill  us." 

CRITO.  Yes,  Socrates;  that  will  clearly  be  the  answer. 

SOCRATES.  That  is  true:  but  still  I  find  with  surprise  that  the  old  argument  is, 
as  I  conceive,  unshaken  as  ever.  And  I  should  like  to  know  whether  I  may 
say  the  same  of  another  proposition— that  not  life,  but  a  good  life,  is  to  be 
chiefly  valued? 

CRITO.   Yes,  that  also  remains. 

SOCRATES.  And  a  good  life  is  equivalent  to  a  just  and  honorable  one—that 
holds  also? 

CRITO.   Yes,  that  holds. 

SOCRATES.  From  these  premises  I  proceed  to  argue  the  question  whether  I 
ought  or  ought  not  to  try  and  escape  without  the  consent  of  the  Athenians: 
and  if  I  am  clearly  right  in  escaping,  then  I  will  make  the  attempt;  but  if 
not,  I  will  abstain.  The  other  considerations  which  you  mention,  of  money 
and  loss  of  character  and  the  duty  of  educating  children,  are,  as  I  fear, 
only  the  doctrines  of  the  multitude,  who  would  be  as  ready  to  call  people 
to  life,  if  they  were  able,  as  they  are  to  put  them  to  death— and  with  as 
little  reason.  But  now,  since  the  argument  has  thus  far  prevailed,  the  only 
question  which  remains  to  be  considered  is,  whether  we  shall  do  rightly 
either  in  escaping  or  in  suffering  others  to  aid  in  our  escape  and  paying 
them  in  money  and  thanks,  or  whether  we  shall  not  do  rightly;  and  if  the 
latter,  then  death  or  any  other  calamity  which  may  ensue  on  my  remaining 
here  must  not  be  allowed  to  enter  into  the  calculation. 

CRITO.   1  think  that  you  are  right,  Socrates;  how  then  shall  we  proceed? 

SOCRATES.  Let  us  consider  the  matter  together,  and  do  you  either  refute  me 
if  you  can,  and  I  will  be  convinced,  or  else  cease,  my  dear  friend,  from 
repeating  to  me  that  I  ought  to  escape  against  the  wishes  of  the  Athenians : 
for  I  am  extremely  desirous  to  be  persuaded  by  you,  but  not  against  my 
own  better  judgment.  And  now  please  to  consider  my  first  position,  and 
do  your  best  to  answer  me. 

CRITO.   I  will  do  my  best. 

SOCRATES.  Are  we  to  say  that  we  are  never  intentionally  to  do  wrong,  or  that 
in  one  way  we  ought  and  in  another  way  we  ought  not  to  do  wrong,  or  is 
doing  wrong  always  evil  and  dishonorable,  as  I  was  just  now  saying,  and 
as  has  been  already  acknowledged  by  us?  Are  all  our  former  admissions 
which  were  made  within  a  few  days  to  be  thrown  away?  And  have  we, 

CRITO     385 


at  our  age,  been  earnestly  discoursing  with  one  another  all  our  life  long 
only  to  discover  that  we  are  no  better  than  children?  Or  are  we  to  rest 
assured,  in  spite  of  the  opinion  of  the  many,  and  in  spite  of  consequences 
whether  better  or  worse,  of  the  truth  of  what  was  then  said,  that  injustice 
is  always  an  evil  and  dishonor  to  him  who  acts  unjustly?  Shall  we  affirm 
that? 

CRITO.  Yes. 

SOCRATES.  Then  we  must  do  no  wrong? 

CRITO.   Certainly  not. 

SOCRATES.  Nor  when  injured  injure  in  return,  as  the  many  imagine;  for  we 
must  injure  no  one  at  all? 

CRITO.   Clearly  not. 

SOCRATES.   Again,  Crito,  may  we  do  evil? 

CRITO.   Surely  not,  Socrates. 

SOCRATES.  And  what  of  doing  evil  in  return  for  evil,  which  is  the  morality  of 
the  many— is  that  just  or  not? 

CRITO.   Not  just. 

SOCRATES.  For  doing  evil  to  another  is  the  same  as  injuring  him? 

CRITO.  Very  true. 

SOCRATES.  Then  we  ought  not  to  retaliate  or  render  evil  for  evil  to  any  one, 
whatever  evil  we  may  have  suffered  from  him.  But  I  would  have  you 
consider,  Crito,  whether  you  really  mean  what  you  are  saying.  For  this 
opinion  has  never  been  held,  and  never  will  be  held,  by  any  considerable 
number  of  persons;  and  those  who  are  agreed  and  those  who  are  not 
agreed  upon  this  point  have  no  common  ground,  and  can  only  despise 
one  another  when  they  see  how  widely  they  differ.  Tell  me,  then,  whether 
you  agree  with  and  assent  to  my  first  principle,  that  neither  injury  nor 
retaliation  nor  warding  off  evil  by  evil  is  ever  right.  And  shall  that  be  the 
premiss  of  our  argument?  Or  do  you  decline  and  dissent  from  this?  For 
this  has  been  of  old  and  is  still  my  opinion;  but,  if  you  are  of  another 
opinion,  let  me  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  If,  however,  you  remain  of  the 
same  mind  as  formerly,  I  will  proceed  to  the  next  step. 

CRITO.   You  may  proceed,  for  I  have  not  changed  my  mind. 

SOCRATES.  Then  I  will  proceed  to  the  next  step,  which  may  be  put  in  the 
form  of  a  question:— Ought  a  man  to  do  what  he  admits  to  be  right,  or 
ought  he  to  betray  the  right? 

CRTTO.  He  ought  to  do  what  he  thinks  right. 

SOCRATES.  But  if  this  is  true,  what  is  the  application?  In  leaving  the  prison 
against  the  will  of  the  Athenians,  do  I  wrong  any?  or  rather  do  I  not 
wrong  those  whom  I  ought  least  to  wrong?  Do  I  not  desert  the  principles 
which  were  acknowledged  by  us  to  be  just?  What  do  you  say? 

CRITO.  I  can  not  tell,  Socrates;  for  I  do  not  know. 

386         GOVERNMENT 


SOCRATES.  Then  consider  the  matter  in  this  way:— Imagine  that  I  am  about 
to  play  truant  (you  may  call  the  proceeding  by  any  name  which  you 
like),  and  the  laws  and  the  government  come  and  interrogate  me:  "Tell 
us,  Socrates,"  they  say;  "what  are  you  about?  are  you  going  by  an  act  of 
yours  to  overturn  us— the  laws  and  the  whole  state,  as  far  as  in  you  lies? 
Do  you  imagine  that  a  state  can  subsist  and  not  be  overthrown,  in  which 
the  decisions  of  law  have  no  power,  but  are  set  aside  and  overthrown  by 
individuals?"  What  will  be  our  answer,  Crito,  to  these  and  the  like  words? 
Any  one,  and  especially  a  clever  rhetorician,  will  have  a  good  deal  to  urge 
about  the  evil  of  setting  aside  the  law  which  requires  a  sentence  to  be 
carried  out;  and  we  might  reply,  "Yes,  but  the  state  has  injured  us  and 
given  an  unjust  sentence/7  Suppose  I  say  that? 

CRITO.  Very  good,  Socrates. 

SOCRATES.  "And  was  that  our  agreement  with  you?"  the  law  would  say; 
"or  were  you  to  abide  by  the  sentence  of  the  state?"  And  if  I  were  to 
express  astonishment  at  their  saying  this,  the  law  would  probably  add: 
"Answer,  Socrates,  instead  of  opening  your  eyes:  you  are  in  the  habit  of 
asking  and  answering  questions.  Tell  us  what  complaint  you  have  to  make 
against  us  which  justifies  you  in  attempting  to  destroy  us  and  the  state? 
In  the  first  place  did  we  not  bring  you  into  existence?  Your  father  married 
your  mother  by  our  aid  and  begat  you.  Say  whether  you  have  any  objec- 
tion to  urge  against  those  of  us  who  regulate  marriage?"  None,  I  should 
reply.  "Or  against  those  of  us  who  regulate  the  system  of  nurture  and 
education  of  children  in  which  you  were  trained?  Were  not  the  laws,  who 
have  the  charge  of  this,  right  in  commanding  your  father  to  train  you  in 
music  and  gymnastic?"  Right,  I  should  reply.  "Well  then,  since  you  were 
brought  into  the  world  and  nurtured  and  educated  by  us,  can  you  deny 
in  the  first  place  that  you  are  our  child  and  slave,  as  your  fathers  were 
before  you?  And  if  this  is  true  you  are  not  on  equal  terms  with  us;  nor 
can  you  think  that  you  have  a  right  to  do  to  us  what  we  are  doing  to  you. 
Would  you  have  any  right  to  strike  or  revile  or  do  any  other  evil  to  a 
father  or  to  your  master,  if  you  had  one,  when  you  have  been  struck  or 
reviled  by  him,  or  received  some  other  evil  at  his  hands?— you  would  not 
say  this?  And  because  we  think  right  to  destroy  you,  do  you  think  that 
you  have  any  right  to  destroy  us  in  return,  and  your  country  as  far  as  in 
you  lies?  And  will  you,  O  professor  of  true  virtue,  say  that  you  are  justified 
in  this?  Has  a  philosopher  like  you  failed  to  discover  that  our  country  is 
more  to  be  valued  and  higher  and  holier  far  than  mother  or  father  or  any 
ancestor,  and  more  to  be  regarded  in  the  eyes  of  the  gods  and  of  men  of 
understanding?  also  to  be  soothed,  and  gently  and  reverently  entreated 
when  angry,  even  more  than  a  father,  and  if  not  persuaded,  obeyed?  And 
when  we  are  punished  by  her,  whether  with  imprisonment  or  stripes,  the 

CRITO     387 


punishment  is  to  be  endured  in  silence;  and  if  she  lead  us  to  wounds  or 
death  in  battle,  thither  we  follow  as  is  right;  neither  may  any  one  yield  or 
retreat  or  leave  his  rank,  but  whether  in  battle  or  in  a  court  of  law,  or  in 
any  other  place,  he  must  do  what  his  city  and  his  country  order  him; 
or  he  must  change  their  view  of  what  is  just:  and  if  he  may  do  no  violence 
to  his  father  or  mother,  much  less  may  he  do  violence  to  his  country." 
What  answer  shah1  we  make  to  this,  Crito?  Do  the  laws  speak  truly,  or 
do  they  not? 

CRITO.   I  think  that  they  do. 

SOCRATES.  Then  the  laws  will  say:  "Consider,  Socrates,  if  this  is  true,  that 
in  your  present  attempt  you  are  going  to  do  us  wrong.  For,  after  having 
brought  you  into  the  world,  and  nurtured  and  educated  you,  and  given 
you  and  every  other  citizen  a  share  in  every  good  that  we  had  to  give,  we 
further  proclaim  and  give  the  right  to  every  Athenian,  that  if  he  does  not 
like  us  when  he  has  come  of  age  and  has  seen  the  wrays  of  the  city,  and 
made  our  acquaintance,  he  may  go  where  he  pleases  and  take  his  goods 
with  him;  and  none  of  us  laws  will  forbid  him  or  interfere  with  him.  Any 
of  you  who  does  not  like  us  and  the  city,  and  who  wants  to  go  to  a  colony 
or  to  any  other  city,  may  go  where  he  likes,  and  take  his  goods  with  him. 
But  he  who  has  experience  of  the  manner  in  which  we  order  justice  and 
administer  the  state,  and  still  remains,  has  entered  into  an  implied  contract 
that  he  will  do  as  we  command  him.  And  he  who  disobeys  us  is,  as  we 
maintain,  thrice  wrong;  first,  because  in  disobeying  us  he  is  disobeying  his 
parents;  secondly,  because  we  are  the  authors  of  his  education;  thirdly, 
because  he  has  made  an  agreement  with  us  that  he  will  duly  obey  our 
commands;  and  he  neither  obeys  them  nor  convinces  us  that  our  com- 
mands are  wrong;  and  we  do  not  rudely  impose  them,  but  give  them  the 
alternative  of  obeying  or  convincing  us;— that  is  what  we  offer,  and  he 
does  neither.  These  are  the  sort  of  accusations  to  which,  as  we  were  say- 
ing, you,  Socrates,  will  be  exposed  if  you  accomplish  your  intentions;  you, 
above  all  other  Athenians."  Suppose  I  ask,  why  is  this?  they  will  justly 
retort  upon  me  that  I  above  all  other  men  have  acknowledged  the  agree- 
ment. "There  is  clear  proof,"  they  will  say,  "Socrates,  that  we  and  the  city 
were  not  displeasing  to  you.  Of  all  Athenians  you  have  been  the  most 
constant  resident  in  the  city,  which,  as  you  never  leave,  you  may  be 
supposed  to  love.  For  you  never  went  out  of  the  city  either  to  see  the 
games,  except  once  when  you  went  to  the  Isthmus,  or  to  any  other  place 
unless  when  you  were  on  military  service;  nor  did  you  travel  as  other  men 
do.  Nor  had  you  any  curiosity  to  know  other  states  or  their  laws:  your 
affections  did  not  go  beyond  us  and  our  state;  we  were  your  special 
favorites,  and  you  acquiesced  in  our  government  of  you;  and  this  is  the 
state  in  which  you  begat  your  children,  which  is  proof  of  your  satisfaction. 

388         GOVERNMENT 


Moreover,  you  might,  if  you  had  liked,  have  fixed  the  penalty  at  banish- 
ment in  the  course  of  the  trial— the  state  which  refuses  to  let  you  go  now 
would  have  let  you  go  then.  But  you  pretended  that  you  preferred  death 
to  exile,  and  that  you  were  not  grieved  at  death.  And  now  you  have 
forgotten  these  fine  sentiments,  and  pay  no  respect  to  us  the  laws,  of  whom 
you  are  the  destroyer;  and  are  doing  what  only  a  miserable  slave  would 
do,  running  away  and  turning  your  back  upon  the  compacts  and  agree- 
ments which  you  made  as  a  citizen.  And  first  of  all  answer  this  very 
question:  Are  we  right  in  saying  that  you  agreed  to  be  governed  accord- 
ing to  us  in  deed,  and  not  in  word  only?  Is  that  true  or  not?"  How  shall 
we  answer  that,  Crito?  Must  we  not  agree? 

CRITO.   There  is  no  help,  Socrates. 

SOCRATES.  Then  will  they  not  say:  "You,  Socrates,  are  breaking  the  cov- 
enants and  agreements  which  you  made  with  us  at  your  leisure,  not  in  any 
haste  or  under  any  compulsion  or  deception,  but  having  had  seventy  years 
to  think  of  them,  during  which  time  you  were  at  liberty  to  leave  the  city, 
if  we  were  not  to  your  mind,  or  if  our  covenants  appeared  to  you  to  be 
unfair.  You  had  your  choice,  and  might  have  gone  either  to  Lacedaemon 
or  Crete,  which  you  often  praise  for  their  good  government,  or  to  some 
other  Hellenic  or  foreign  state.  Whereas  you,  above  all  other  Athenians, 
seemed  to  be  so  fond  of  the  state,  or,  in  other  words,  of  us  her  laws  (for 
who  would  like  a  state  that  has  no  laws),  that  you  never  stirred  out  of  her; 
the  halt,  the  blind,  the  maimed  were  not  more  stationary  in  her  than  you 
were.  And  now  you  run  away  and  forsake  your  agreements.  Not  so,  Soc- 
rates, if  you  will  take  our  advice;  do  not  make  yourself  ridiculous  by 
escaping  out  of  the  city. 

"For  just  consider,  if  you  transgress  and  err  in  this  sort  of  way,  what 
good  will  you  do  either  to  yourself  or  to  your  friends?  That  your  friends 
will  be  driven  into  exile  and  deprived  of  citizenship,  or  will  lose  their 
property,  is  tolerably  certain;  and  you  yourself,  if  you  fly  to  one  of  the 
neighboring  cities,  as,  for  example,  Thebes  or  Megara,  both  of  which  are 
well-governed  cities,  will  come  to  them  as  an  enemy,  Socrates,  and  their 
government  will  be  against  you,  and  all  patriotic  citizens  will  cast  an  evil 
eye  upon  you  as  a  subverter  of  the  laws,  and  you  will  confirm  in  the  minds 
of  the  judges  the  justice  of  their  own  condemnation  of  you.  For  he  who  is 
a  corruptor  of  the  laws  is  more  than  likely  to  be  corruptor  of  the  young 
and  foolish  portion  of  mankind.  Will  you  then  flee  from  well-ordered 
cities  and  virtuous  men?  and  is  existence  worth  having  on  these  terms? 
Or  will  you  go  to  them  without  shame,  and  talk  to  them,  Socrates?  And 
what  will  you  say  to  them?  What  you  say  here  about  virtue  and  justice 
and  institutions  and  laws  being  the  best  things  among  men.  Would  that 
be  decent  of  you?  Surely  not.  But  if  you  go  away  from  well-governed 

CRITO         389 


states  to  Crito's  friends  in  Thessaly,  where  there  is  a  great  disorder  and 
license,  they  will  be  charmed  to  have  the  tale  of  your  escape  from  prison, 
set  off  with  ludicrous  particulars  of  the  manner  in  which  you  were 
wrapped  in  a  goatskin  or  some  other  disguise,  and  metamorphosed  as  the 
fashion  of  runaways  is— that  is  very  likely;  but  will  there  be  no  one  to 
remind  you  that  in  your  old  age  you  violated  the  most  sacred  laws  from 
a  miserable  desire  of  a  little  more  life.  Perhaps  not,  if  you  keep  them  in  a 
good  temper;  but  if  they  are  out  of  temper  you  will  hear  many  degrading 
things;  you  will  live,  but  how?— as  the  flatterer  of  all  men,  and  the  servant 
of  all  men;  and  doing  what?— eating  and  drinking  in  Thessaly,  having 
gone  abroad  in  order  that  you  may  get  a  dinner.  And  where  will  be  your 
fine  sentiments  about  justice  and  virtue  then?  Say  that  you  wish  to  live 
for  the  sake  of  your  children,  that  you  may  bring  them  up  and  educate 
them— will  you  take  them  into  Thessaly  and  deprive  them  of  Athenian 
citizenship?  Is  that  the  benefit  which  you  would  confer  upon  them?  Or 
are  you  under  the  impression  that  they  will  be  better  cared  for  and  edu- 
cated here  if  you  are  still  alive,  although  absent  from  them;  for  that  your 
friends  will  take  care  of  them?  Do  you  fancy  that  if  you  are  an  inhabitant 
of  Thessaly  they  will  take  care  of  them,  and  if  you  are  an  inhabitant  of 
the  other  world  they  will  not  take  care  of  them?  Nay;  but  if  they  who  call 
themselves  friends  are  truly  friends,  they  surely  will. 

"Listen,  then,  Socrates,  to  us  who  have  brought  you  up.  Think  not  of 
life  and  children  first,  and  of  justice  afterwards,  but  of  justice  first,  that 
you  may  be  justified  before  the  princes  of  the  world  below.  For  neither 
will  you  nor  any  that  belong  to  you  be  happier  or  holier  or  juster  in  this 
life,  or  happier  in  another,  if  you  do  as  Crito  bids.  Now  you  depart  in 
innocence,  a  sufferer  and  not  a  doer  of  evil;  a  victim,  not  of  the  laws,  but 
of  men.  But  if  you  go  forth,  returning  evil  for  evil,  and  injury  for  injury, 
breaking  the  covenants  and  agreements  which  you  have  made  with  us, 
and  wronging  those  whom  you  ought  least  to  wrong,  that  is  to  say,  your- 
self, your  friends,  your  country,  and  us,  we  shall  be  angry  with  you  while 
you  live,  and  our  brethren,  the  laws  in  the  world  below,  will  receive  you 
as  an  enemy;  for  they  will  know  that  you  have  done  your  best  to  destroy  us. 
Listen,  then,  to  us  and  not  to  Crito/' 

This  is  the  voice  which  I  seem  to  hear  murmuring  in  my  ears  like  the 
sound  of  the  flute  in  the  ears  of  the  mystic;  that  voice,  I  say,  is  humming 
in  my  ears,  and  prevents  me  from  hearing  any  other.  And  I  know  that 
anything  more  which  you  may  say  will  be  vain.  Yet  speak,  if  you  have 
anything  to  say. 

CRTTO.   I  have  nothing  to  say,  Socrates. 

SOCRATES.  Then  let  me  follow  the  intimations  of  the  will  of  God. 

390         GOVERNMENT 


Modern  democratic  concepts 

JOHN    STUART    MILL 

The  limits  of  government  interference 

I  HAVE  reserved  for  the  last  place  [in  this  discussion]  a  large  class  of 
questions  respecting  the  limits  of  government  interference.  .  .  .  These 
are  cases  in  which  the  reasons  against  interference  do  not  turn  upon  the 
principle  of  liberty:  the  question  is  not  about  restraining  the  actions  of 
individuals,  but  about  helping  them:  it  is  asked  whether  the  government 
should  do,  or  cause  to  be  done,  something  for  their  benefit,  instead  of  leav- 
ing it  to  be  done  by  themselves,  individually,  or  in  voluntary  combination. 

The  objections  to  government  interference,  when  it  is  not  such  as  to  in- 
volve infringement  of  liberty,  may  be  of  three  kinds. 

The  first  is,  when  the  thing  to  be  done  is  likely  to  be  better  done  by  indi- 
viduals than  by  the  government.  Speaking  generally,  there  is  no  one  so 
fit  to  conduct  any  business,  or  to  determine  how  or  by  whom  it  shall  be 
conducted,  as  those  who  are  personally  interested  in  it.  This  principle 
condemns  the  interferences,  once  so  common,  of  the  legislature,  or  the 
officers  of  government,  with  the  ordinary  processes  of  industry.  But  this 
part  of  the  subject  has  been  sufficiently  enlarged  upon  by  political  econ- 
omists, and  is  not  particularly  related  to  the  principles  of  this  Essay. 

The  second  objection  is  more  nearly  allied  to  our  subject.  In  many  cases, 
though  individuals  may  not  do  the  particular  thing  so  well,  on  the  average, 
as  the  officers  of  government,  it  is  nevertheless  desirable  that  it  should 
be  done  by  them,  rather  than  by  the  government,  as  a  means  to  their  own 
mental  education— a  mode  of  strengthening  their  active  faculties,  exercising 
their  judgment,  and  giving  them  a  familiar  knowledge  of  the  subjects  with 
which  they  are  thus  left  to  deal.  This  is  a  principal,  though  not  the  sole, 
recommendation  of  jury  trial  (in  cases  not  political);  of  free  and  popular 
local  and  municipal  institutions;  of  the  conduct  of  industrial  and  philan- 
thropic enterprises  by  voluntary  associations.  These  are  not  questions  of 
liberty,  and  are  connected  with  that  subject  only  by  remote  tendencies; 
but  they  are  questions  of  development.  It  belongs  to  a  different  occasion 
from  the  present  to  dwell  on  these  things  as  parts  of  national  education; 
as  being,  in  truth,  the  peculiar  training  of  a  citizen,  the  practical  part  of 
the  political  education  of  a  free  people,  taking  them  out  of  the  narrow 
circle  of  personal  and  family  selfishness,  and  accustoming  them  to  the  com- 

THE  LIMITS   OF  GOVERNMENT  INTERFERENCE        391 


prehension  of  joint  interests,  the  management  of  joint  concerns— habituating 
them  to  act  from  public  or  semi-public  motives,  and  guide  their  conduct 
by  aims  which  unite  instead  of  isolating  them  from  one  another.  Without 
these  habits  and  powers,  a  free  constitution  can  neither  be  worked  nor  pre- 
served; as  is  exemplified  by  the  too-often  transitory  nature  of  political  free- 
dom in  countries  where  it  does  not  rest  upon  a  sufficient  basis  of  local  liber- 
ties. The  management  of  purely  local  business  by  the  localities,  and  of  the 
great  enterprises  of  industry  by  the  union  of  those  who  voluntarily  supply 
the  pecuniary  means,  is  further  recommended  by  all  the  advantages  which 
have  been  set  forth  in  this  Essay  as  belonging  to  individuality  of  develop- 
ment, and  diversity  of  modes  of  action.  Government  operations  tend  to 
be  everywhere  alike.  With  individuals  and  voluntary  associations,  on  the 
contrary,  there  are  varied  experiments,  and  endless  diversity  of  experience. 
What  the  State  can  usefully  do  is  to  make  itself  a  central  depository,  and 
active  circulator  and  diffuser,  of  the  experience  resulting  from  many  trials. 
Its  business  is  to  enable  each  experimentalist  to  benefit  by  the  experiments 
of  others;  instead  of  tolerating  no  experiments  but  its  own. 

The  third,  and  most  cogent  reason  tor  restricting  the  interference  of  gov- 
ernment is  the  great  evil  of  adding  unnecessarily  to  its  power.  Every  func- 
tion superadded  to  those  already  exercised  by  the  government  causes  its 
influence  over  hopes  and  fears  to  be  more  widely  diffused,  and  converts, 
more  and  more,  the  active  and  ambitious  part  of  the  public  into  harigers-on 
of  the  government,  or  of  some  party  which  aims  at  becoming  the  govern- 
ment. If  the  roads,  the  railways,  the  banks,  the  insurance  offices,  the  great 
joint-stock  companies,  the  universities,  and  the  public  charities,  were  all 
of  them  branches  of  the  government;  if,  in  addition,  the  municipal  corpora- 
tions and  local  boards,  with  all  that  now  devolves  on  them,  became  depart- 
ments of  the  central  administration;  if  the  employees  of  all  these  different 
enterprises  were  appointed  and  paid  by  the  government,  and  looked  to  the 
government  for  every  rise  in  life;  not  all  the  freedom  of  the  press  and 
popular  constitution  of  the  legislature  would  make  this  or  any  other  coun- 
try free  otherwise  than  in  name.  And  the  evil  would  be  greater,  the  more 
efficiently  and  scientifically  the  administrative  machinery  was  constructed 
—the  more  skilful  the  arrangements  for  obtaining  the  best  qualified  hands 
and  heads  with  which  to  work  it.  In  England  it  has  of  late  been  proposed 
that  all  the  members  of  the  civil  service  of  government  should  be  selected 
by  competitive  examination,  to  obtain  for  these  employments  the  most  intel- 
ligent and  instructed  persons  procurable;  and  much  has  been  said  and 
written  for  and  against  this  proposal.  One  of  the  arguments  most  insisted 
on  by  its  opponents,  is  that  the  occupation  of  a  permanent  official  servant 
of  the  State  does  not  hold  out  sufficient  prospects  of  emolument  and  im- 

392         GOVERNMENT 


portance  to  attract  the  highest  talents,  which  will  always  be  able  to  find 
a  more  inviting  career  in  the  professions,  or  in  the  service  of  companies 
and  other  public  bodies.  One  would  not  have  been  surprised  if  this  argu- 
ment had  been  used  by  the  friends  of  the  proposition,  as  an  answer  to  its 
principal  difficulty.  Coming  from  the  opponents  it  is  strange  enough.  What 
is  urged  as  an  objection  is  the  safety-valve  of  the  proposed  system.  If 
indeed  all  the  high  talent  of  the  country  could  be  drawn  into  the  service 
of  the  government,  a  proposal  tending  to  bring  about  that  result  might  well 
inspire  uneasiness.  If  every  part  of  the  business  of  society  which  required 
organized  concert,  or  large  and  comprehensive  views,  were  in  the  hands  of 
the  government,  and  if  government  offices  were  universally  filled  by  the 
ablest  men,  all  the  enlarged  culture  and  practised  intelligence  in  the  coun- 
try, except  the  purely  speculative,  would  be  concentrated  in  a  numerous 
bureaucracy,  to  whom  alone  the  rest  of  the  community  would  look  for  all 
things:  the  multitude  tor  direction  and  dictation  in  all  they  had  to  do; 
the  able  and  aspiring  for  personal  advancement.  To  be  admitted  into  the 
ranks  of  this  bureaucracy,  and  when  admitted,  to  rise  therein,  would  be 
the  sole  objects  of  ambition.  Under  this  regime,  not  only  is  the  outside 
public  ill-qualified,  for  want  of  practical  experience,  to  criticize  or  check 
the  mode  of  operation  of  the  bureaucracy,  but  even  if  the  accidents  of 
despotic  or  the  natural  working  of  popular  institutions  occasionally  raise 
to  the  summit  a  ruler  or  rulers  of  reforming  inclinations,  no  reform  can  be 
effected  which  is  contrary  to  the  interest  of  the  bureaucracy.  Such  is  the 
melancholy  condition  of  the  Russian  empire,  as  shown  in  the  accounts  of 
those  who  have  had  sufficient  opportunity  of  observation.  The  Czar  him- 
self is  powerless  against  the  bureaucratic  body;  he  can  send  any  one  of 
them  to  Siberia,  but  he  cannot  govern  without  them,  or  against  their  will. 
On  every  decree  of  his  they  have  a  tacit  veto,  by  merely  refraining  from 
carrying  it  into  effect.  In  countries  of  more  advanced  civilization  and  of 
a  more  insurrectionary  spirit,  the  public,  accustomed  to  expect  everything 
to  be  done  for  them  by  the  State,  or  at  least  to  do  nothing  for  themselves 
without  asking  from  the  State  not  only  leave  to  do  it,  but  even  how  it  is  to 
be  done,  naturally  hold  the  State  responsible  for  all  evil  which  befalls  them, 
and  when  the  evil  exceeds  their  amount  of  patience,  they  rise  against  the 
government,  and  make  what  is  called  a  revolution;  whereupon  somebody 
else,  with  or  without  legitimate  authority  from  the  nation,  vaults  into  the 
seat,  issues  his  orders  to  the  bureaucracy,  and  everything  goes  on  much 
as  it  did  before;  the  bureaucracy  being  unchanged,  and  nobody  else  being 
capable  of  taking  their  place. 

A  very  different  spectacle  is  exhibited  among  a  people  accustomed  to 
transact  their  own  business.  In  France,  a  large  part  of  the  people,  having 

THE    LIMITS    OF   GOVERNMENT    INTERFERENCE         393 


been  engaged  in  military  service,  many  of  whom  have  held  at  least  the  rank 
of  non-commissioned  officers,  there  are  in  every  popular  insurrection  several 
persons  competent  to  take  the  lead,  and  improvise  some  tolerable  plan  of 
action.  What  the  French  are  in  military  affairs,  the  Americans  are  in  every 
kind  of  civil  business;  let  them  be  left  without  a  government,  every  body 
of  Americans  is  able  to  improvise  one,  and  to  carry  on  that  or  any  other 
public  business  with  a  sufficient  amount  of  intelligence,  order,  and  deci- 
sion. This  is  what  every  free  people  ought  to  be:  and  a  people  capable  of 
this  is  certain  to  be  free;  it  will  never  let  itself  be  enslaved  by  any  man  or 
body  of  men  because  these  are  able  to  seize  and  pull  the  reins  of  the  cen- 
tral administration.  No  bureaucracy  can  hope  to  make  such  a  people  as 
this  do  or  undergo  anything  that  they  do  not  like.  But  where  everything 
is  done  through  the  bureaucracy,  nothing  to  which  the  bureaucracy  is  really 
adverse  can  be  done  at  all.  The  constitution  of  such  countries  is  an  organ- 
ization of  the  experience  and  practical  ability  of  the  nation  into  a  disci- 
plined body  for  the  purpose  of  governing  the  rest;  and  the  more  perfect 
that  organization  is  in  itself,  the  more  successful  in  drawing  to  itself  and 
educating  for  itself  the  persons  of  greatest  capacity  from  all  ranks  of  the 
community,  the  more  complete  is  the  bondage  of  all,  the  members  of  the 
bureaucracy  included.  For  the  governors  are  as  much  the  slaves  of  their 
organization  and  discipline  as  the  governed  are  of  the  governors.  A  Chinese 
mandarin  is  as  much  the  tool  and  creature  of  a  despotism  as  the  humblest 
cultivator.  An  individual  Jesuit  is  to  the  utmost  degree  of  abasement  the 
slave  of  his  order,  though  the  order  itself  exists  lor  the  collective  power 
and  importance  of  its  members. 

It  is  not,  also,  to  be  forgotten,  that  the  absorption  of  all  the  principal 
ability  of  the  country  into  the  governing  body  is  fatal,  sooner  or  later,  to 
the  mental  activity  and  progressiveness  of  the  body  itself.  Banded  together 
as  they  are— working  a  system  which,  like  all  systems,  necessarily  proceeds 
in  a  great  measure  by  fixed  rules— the  official  body  are  under  the  constant 
temptation  of  sinking  into  indolent  routine,  or,  if  they  now  and  then  desert 
that  mill-horse  round,  of  rushing  into  some  half-examined  crudity  which 
has  struck  the  fancy  of  some  leading  member  of  the  corps:  and  the  sole 
check  to  these  closely  allied,  though  seemingly  opposite,  tendencies,  the 
only  stimulus  which  can  keep  the  ability  of  the  body  itself  up  to  a  high 
standard,  is  liability  to  the  watchful  criticism  of  equal  ability  outside  the 
body.  It  is  indispensable,  therefore,  that  the  means  should  exist,  inde- 
pendently of  the  government,  of  forming  such  ability,  and  furnishing  it 
with  the  opportunities  and  experience  necessary  for  a  correct  judgment  of 
great  practical  affairs.  If  we  would  possess  permanently  a  skilful  and  effi- 
cient body  of  functionaries— above  all,  a  body  able  to  originate  and  willing 
to  adopt  improvements;  if  we  would  not  have  our  bureaucracy  degenerate 

394        GOVERNMENT 


Into  a  pedantocracy,  this  body  must  not  engross  all  the  occupations  which 
form  and  cultivate  the  faculties  required  for  the  government  of  mankind. 
To  determine  the  point  at  which  evils,  so  formidable  to  human  freedom 
and  advancement,  begin,  or  rather  at  which  they  begin  to  predominate 
over  the  benefits  attending  the  collective  application  of  the  force  of  society, 
under  its  recognized  chiefs,  for  the  removal  of  the  obstacles  which  stand 
in  the  way  of  its  well-being;  to  secure  as  much  of  the  advantages  of  cen- 
tralized power  and  intelligence  as  can  be  had  without  turning  into  govern- 
mental channels  too  great  a  proportion  of  the  general  activity—is  one  of 
the  most  difficult  and  complicated  questions  in  the  art  of  government.  It 
is,  in  a  great  measure,  a  question  of  detail,  in  which  many  and  various 
considerations  must  be  kept  in  view,  and  no  absolute  rule  can  be  laid  down. 
But  I  believe  that  the  practical  principle  in  which  safety  resides,  the  ideal 
to  be  kept  in  view,  the  standard  by  which  to  test  all  arrangements  intended 
for  overcoming  the  difficulty,  may  be  conveyed  in  these  words:  the  greatest 
dissemination  of  power  consistent  with  efficiency;  but  the  greatest  possible 
centralization  of  information,  and  diffusion  of  it  from  the  centre.  Thus,  in 
municipal  administration,  there  would  be,  as  in  the  New  England  States,  a 
very  minute  division  among  separate  officers,  chosen  by  the  localities,  of 
all  business  which  is  not  better  left  to  the  persons  directly  interested;  but 
besides  this,  there  would  be,  in  each  department  of  local  affairs,  a  central 
superintendence,  forming  a  branch  of  the  general  government.  The  organ 
of  this  superintendence  would  concentrate,  as  in  a  focus,  the  variety  of  in- 
formation and  experience  derived  from  the  conduct  of  that  branch  of  pub- 
lic business  in  all  the  localities,  from  everything  analogous  which  is  done 
in  foreign  countries,  and  from  the  general  principles  of  political  science. 
This  central  organ  should  have  a  right  to  know  all  that  is  done,  and  its 
special  duty  should  be  that  of  making  the  knowledge  acquired  in  one  place 
available  for  others.  Emancipated  from  the  petty  prejudices  and  narrow 
views  of  a  locality  by  its  elevated  position  and  comprehensive  sphere  of 
observation,  its  advice  would  naturally  carry  much  authority;  but  its  actual 
power,  as  a  permanent  institution,  should,  I  conceive,  be  limited  to  com- 
pelling the  local  officers  to  obey  the  laws  laid  down  for  their  guidance. 
In  all  things  not  provided  for  by  general  rules,  those  officers  should  be  left 
to  their  own  judgment,  under  responsibility  to  their  constituents.  For  the 
violation  of  rules,  they  should  be  responsible  to  law,  and  the  rules  them- 
selves should  be  laid  down  by  the  legislature;  the  central  administrative 
authority  only  watching  over  their  execution,  and  if  they  were  not  properly 
carried  into  effect,  appealing,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  case,  to  the 
tribunals  to  enforce  the  law,  or  to  the  constituencies  to  dismiss  the  func- 
tionaries who  had  not  executed  it  according  to  its  spirit.  Such,  in  its  general 
conception,  is  the  central  superintendence  which  the  Poor  Law  Board  is 

THE    LIMITS    OF    GOVERNMENT   INTERFERENCE         395 


intended  to  exercise  over  the  administrators  of  the  Poor  Rate  throughout 
the  country.  Whatever  powers  the  Board  exercises  beyond  this  limit  were 
right  and  necessary  in  that  peculiar  case,  for  the  cure  of  rooted  habits  of 
maladministration  in  matters  deeply  affecting  not  the  localities  merely,  but 
the  whole  community;  since  no  locality  has  a  moral  right  to  make  itself  by 
mismanagement  a  nest  of  pauperism,  necessarily  overflowing  into  other 
localities,  and  impairing  the  moral  and  physical  condition  of  the  whole 
labouring  community.  The  powers  of  administrative  coercion  and  sub- 
ordinate legislation  possessed  by  the  Poor  Law  Board  (but  which,  owing 
to  the  state  of  opinion  on  the  subject,  are  very  scantily  exercised  by  them), 
though  perfectly  justifiable  in  a  case  of  first-rate  national  interest,  would 
be  wholly  out  of  place  in  the  superintendence  of  interests  purely  local.  But 
a  central  organ  of  information  and  instruction  for  all  the  localities  would 
be  equally  valuable  in  all  departments  of  administration.  A  government 
cannot  have  too  much  of  the  kind  of  activity  which  does  not  impede,  but 
aids  and  stimulates,  individual  exertion  and  development.  The  mischief 
begins  when,  instead  of  calling  forth  the  activity  and  powers  of  individuals 
and  bodies,  it  substitutes  its  own  activity  for  theirs;  when,  instead  of  in- 
forming, advising,  and,  upon  occasion,  denouncing,  it  makes  them  work 
in  fetters,  or  bids  them  stand  aside  and  does  their  work  instead  of  them. 
The  worth  of  a  State,  in  the  long  run,  is  the  worth  of  the  individuals  com- 
posing it;  and  a  State  which  postpones  the  interests  of  their  mental  expan- 
sion and  elevation  to  a  little  more  of  administrative  skill,  or  of  that  sem- 
blance of  it  which  practice  gives,  in  the  details  of  business;  a  State  which 
dwarfs  its  men,  in  order  that  they  may  be  more  docile  instruments  in  its 
hands  even  for  beneficial  purposes—will  find  that  with  small  men  no  great 
thing  can  really  be  accomplished;  and  that  the  perfection  of  machinery  to 
which  it  has  sacrificed  everything  will  in  the  end  avail  it  nothing,  for  want 
of  the  vital  power  which,  in  order  that  the  machine  might  work  more 
smoothly,  it  has  preferred  to  banish. 


FRANKLIN  DELANO  ROOSEVELT  Progressive  government 

MY  FRIENDS:  I  count  it  a  privilege  to  be  invited  to  address  the  Common- 
wealth Club.   It  has  stood  in  the  life  of  this  city  and  State,  and  it  is 
perhaps  accurate  to  add,  the  Nation,  as  a  group  of  citizen  leaders  interested 
in  fundamental  problems  of  Government,  and  chiefly  concerned  with  achievc- 

From  The  Public  Papers  and  Addresses  of  Franklin  D.  Roosevelt,  Volume  I,  Random 
House,  Inc.  This  speech  was  made  before  the  Commonwealth  Club  in  San  Francisco, 
during  the  1932  campaign  for  the  presidency  and  in  the  midst  of  a  nation-wide  depression. 


396 


GOVERNMENT 


merit  of  progress  in  Government  through  non-partisan  means.  The  privilege 
of  addressing  you,  therefore,  in  the  heat  of  a  political  campaign,  is  great. 
I  want  to  respond  to  your  courtesy  in  terms  consistent  with  your  policy. 

I  want  to  speak  not  of  politics  but  of  Government.  I  want  to  speak  not  of 
parties,  but  of  universal  principles.  They  are  not  political,  except  in  that 
larger  sense  in  which  a  great  American  once  expressed  a  definition  of  politics, 
that  nothing  in  all  of  human  life  is  foreign  to  the  science  of  politics. 

T  do  want  to  give  you,  however,  a  recollection  of  a  long  life  spent  for  a 
large  part  in  public  office.  Some  of  my  conclusions  and  observations  have 
been  deeply  accentuated  in  these  past  few  weeks.  I  have  traveled  far— from 
Albany  to  the  Golden  Gate.  I  have  seen  many  people,  and  heard  many 
things,  and  today,  when  in  a  sense  my  journey  has  reached  the  half-way 
mark,  I  am  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  discuss  with  you  what  it  all  means 
to  me. 

Sometimes,  my  friends,  particularly  in  years  such  as  these,  the  hand  of  dis- 
couragement falls  upon  us.  It  seems  that  things  are  in  a  rut,  fixed,  settled, 
that  the  world  has  grown  old  and  tired  and  very  much  out  of  joint.  This  is 
the  mood  of  depression,  of  dire  and  weary  depression. 

But  then  we  look  around  us  in  America,  and  everything  tells  us  that  we  are 
wrong.  America  is  new.  It  is  in  the  process  of  change  and  development. 
It  has  the  great  potentialities  of  youth,  and  particularly  is  this  true  of  the 
great  West,  and  of  this  coast,  and  of  California. 

I  would  not  have  you  feel  that  I  regard  this  as  in  any  sense  a  new  com- 
munity. I  have  traveled  in  many  parts  of  the  world,  but  never  have  I  felt 
the  arresting  thought  of  the  change  and  development  more  than  here,  where 
the  old,  mystic  East  would  seem  to  be  near  to  us,  where  the  currents  of  life 
and  thought  and  commerce  of  the  whole  world  meet  us.  This  factor  alone 
is  sufficient  to  cause  man  to  stop  and  think  of  the  deeper  meaning  of  things, 
when  he  stands  in  this  community. 

But  more  than  that,  I  appreciate  that  the  membership  of  this  club  consists 
of  men  who  are  thinking  in  terms  beyond  the  immediate  present,  beyond 
their  own  immediate  tasks,  beyond  their  own  individual  interests.  I  want  to 
invite  you,  therefore,  to  consider  with  me  in  the  large,  some  of  the  relation- 
ships of  Government  and  economic  life  that  go  deeply  into  our  daily  lives, 
our  happiness,  our  future  and  our  security. 

The  issue  of  Government  has  always  been  whether  individual  men  and 
women  will  have  to  serve  some  system  of  Government  or  economics,  or 
whether  a  system  of  Government  and  economics  exists  to  serve  individual 
men  and  women.  This  question  has  persistently  dominated  the  discussion 
of  Government  for  many  generations.  On  questions  relating  to  these  things 
men  have  differed,  and  for  time  immemorial  it  is  probable  that  honest  men 
will  continue  to  differ. 

PROGRESSIVE    GOVERNMENT         397 


The  final  word  belongs  to  no  man;  yet  we  can  still  believe  in  change  and 
in  progress.  Democracy,  as  a  dear  old  friend  of  mine  in  Indiana,  Meredith 
Nicholson,  has  called  it,  is  a  quest,  a  never-ending  seeking  for  better  things, 
and  in  the  seeking  for  these  things  and  the  striving  for  them,  there  are  many 
roads  to  follow.  But,  if  we  map  the  course  of  these  roads,  we  find  that  there 
are  only  two  general  directions. 

When  we  look  about  us,  we  are  likely  to  forget  how  hard  people  have 
worked  to  win  the  privilege  of  Government.  The  growth  of  the  national 
Governments  of  Europe  was  the  struggle  for  the  development  of  a  central- 
ized force  in  the  Nation,  strong  enough  to  impose  peace  upon  ruling  barons. 
In  many  instances  the  victory  of  the  central  Government,  the  creation  of  a 
strong  central  Government,  was  a  haven  of  refuge  to  the  individual.  The 
people  preferred  the  master  far  away  to  the  exploitation  and  cruelty  of  the 
smaller  master  near  at  hand. 

But  the  creators  of  national  Government  were  perforce  ruthless  men. 
They  were  often  cruel  in  their  methods,  but  they  did  strive  steadily  toward 
something  that  society  needed  and  very  much  wanted,  a  strong  central  State 
able  to  keep  the  peace,  to  stamp  out  civil  war,  to  put  the  unruly  nobleman  in 
his  place,  and  to  permit  the  bulk  of  individuals  to  live  safely.  The  man  of 
ruthless  force  had  his  place  in  developing  a  pioneer  country,  just  as  he  did  in 
fixing  the  power  of  the  central  Government  in  the  development  of  Nations. 
Society  paid  him  well  for  his  services  and  its  development.  When  the  devel- 
opment among  the  Nations  of  Europe,  however,  had  been  completed,  ambi- 
tion and  ruthlessness,  having  served  their  term,  tended  to  overstep  their 
mark. 

There  came  a  growing  feeling  that  Government  was  conducted  for  the 
benefit  of  a  few  who  thrived  unduly  at  the  expense  of  all.  The  people  sought 
a  balancing— a  limiting  force.  There  came  gradually,  through  town  councils, 
trade  guilds,  national  parliaments,  by  constitution  and  by  popular  participa- 
tion and  control,  limitations  on  arbitrary  power. 

Another  factor  that  tended  to  limit  the  power  of  those  who  ruled,  was  the 
rise  of  the  ethical  conception  that  a  ruler  bore  a  responsibility  for  the  welfare 
of  his  subjects. 

The  American  colonies  were  born  in  this  struggle.  The  American  Revolu- 
tion was  a  turning  point  in  it.  After  the  Revolution  the  struggle  continued 
and  shaped  itself  in  the  public  life  of  the  country.  There  were  those  who 
because  they  had  seen  the  confusion  which  attended  the  years  of  war  for 
American  independence  surrendered  to  the  belief  that  popular  Government 
was  essentially  dangerous  and  essentially  unworkable.  They  were  honest 
people,  my  friends,  and  we  cannot  deny  that  their  experience  had  warranted 
some  measure  of  fear.  The  most  brilliant,  honest  and  able  exponent  of  this 

398         GOVERNMENT 


point  of  view  was  Hamilton.  He  was  too  impatient  of  slow-moving  methods. 
Fundamentally  he  believed  that  the  safety  of  the  republic  lay  in  the  auto- 
cratic strength  of  its  Government,  that  the  destiny  of  individuals  was  to  serve 
that  Government,  and  that  fundamentally  a  great  and  strong  group  of  central 
institutions,  guided  by  a  small  group  of  able  and  public  spirited  citizens, 
could  best  direct  all  Government. 

But  Mr.  Jefferson,  in  the  summer  of  1776,  after  drafting  the  Declaration  of 
Independence  turned  his  mind  to  the  same  problem  and  took  a  different 
view.  He  did  not  deceive  himself  with  outward  forms.  Government  to  him 
was  a  means  to  an  end,  not  an  end  in  itself;  it  might  be  either  a  refuge  and 
a  help  or  a  threat  and  a  danger,  depending  on  the  circumstances.  We  find 
him  carefully  analyzing  the  society  for  which  he  was  to  organize  a  Govern- 
ment. "We  have  no  paupers.  The  great  mass  of  our  population  is  of  laborers, 
our  rich  who  cannot  live  without  labor,  either  manual  or  professional,  being 
few  and  of  moderate  wealth.  Most  of  the  laboring  class  possess  property, 
cultivate  their  own  lands,  have  families  and  from  the  demand  for  their 
labor,  are  enabled  to  exact  from  the  rich  and  the  competent  such  prices  as 
enable  them  to  feed  abundantly,  clothe  above  mere  decency,  to  labor  mod- 
erately and  raise  their  families." 

These  people,  he  considered,  had  two  sets  of  rights,  those  of  "personal 
competency"  and  those  involved  in  acquiring  and  possessing  property.  By 
"personal  competency"  he  meant  the  right  of  free  thinking,  freedom  of  form- 
ing and  expressing  opinions,  and  freedom  of  personal  living,  each  man 
according  to  his  own  lights.  To  insure  the  first  set  of  rights,  a  Government 
must  so  order  its  functions  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  individual.  But  even 
Jefferson  realized  that  the  exercise  of  the  property  rights  might  so  interfere 
with  the  rights  of  the  individual  that  the  Government,  without  whose  assist- 
ance the  property  rights  could  not  exist,  must  intervene,  not  to  destroy 
individualism,  but  to  protect  it. 

You  are  familiar  with  the  great  political  duel  which  followed;  and  how 
Hamilton,  and  his  friends,  building  toward  a  dominant  centralized  power 
were  at  length  defeated  in  the  great  election  of  1800,  by  Mr.  Jefferson's  party. 
Out  of  that  duel  came  the  two  parties,  Republican  and  Democratic,  as  we 
know  them  today. 

So  began,  in  American  political  life,  the  new  day,  the  day  of  the  individ- 
ual against  the  system,  the  day  in  which  individualism  was  made  the  great 
watchword  of  American  life.  The  happiest  of  economic  conditions  made  that 
day  long  and  splendid.  On  the  Western  frontier,  land  was  substantially  free. 
No  one,  who  did  not  shirk  the  task  of  earning  a  living,  was  entirely  without 
opportunity  to  do  so.  Depressions  could,  and  did,  come  and  go;  but  they 
could  not  alter  the  fundamental  fact  that  most  of  the  people  lived  partly  by 

PROGRESSIVE   GOVERNMENT        399 


selling  their  labor  and  partly  by  extracting  their  livelihood  from  the  soil,  so 
that  starvation  and  dislocation  were  practically  impossible.  At  the  very  worst 
there  was  always  the  possibility  of  climbing  into  a  covered  wagon  and  mov- 
ing west  where  the  untilled  prairies  afforded  a  haven  for  men  to  whom  the 
East  did  not  provide  a  place.  So  great  were  our  natural  resources  that  we 
could  offer  this  relief  not  only  to  our  own  people,  but  to  the  distressed  of  all 
the  world;  we  could  invite  immigration  from  Europe,  and  welcome  it  with 
open  arms.  Traditionally,  when  a  depression  came  a  new  section  of  land  was 
opened  in  the  West;  and  even  our  temporary  misfortune  served  our  manifest 
destiny. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  that  a  new  force  was 
released  and  a  new  dream  created.  The  force  was  what  is  called  the  industrial 
revolution,  the  advance  of  steam  and  machinery  and  the  rise  of  the  forerun- 
ners of  the  modern  industrial  plant.  The  dream  was  the  dream  of  an  economic 
machine,  able  to  raise  the  standard  of  living  for  everyone;  to  bring  luxury 
within  the  reach  of  the  humblest;  to  annihilate  distance  by  steam  power  and 
later  by  electricity,  and  to  release  everyone  from  the  drudgery  of  the  heaviest 
manual  toil.  It  was  to  be  expected  that  this  would  necessarily  affect  Govern- 
ment. Heretofore,  Government  had  merely  been  called  upon  to  produce 
conditions  within  which  people  could  live  happily,  labor  peacefully,  and  rest 
secure.  Now  it  was  called  upon  to  aid  in  the  consummation  of  this  new 
dream.  There  was,  however,  a  shadow  over  the  dream.  To  be  made  real,  it 
required  use  of  the  talents  of  men  of  tremendous  will  and  tremendous  ambi- 
tion, since  by  no  other  force  could  the  problems  of  financing  and  engineering 
and  new  developments  be  brought  to  a  consummation. 

So  manifest  were  the  advantages  of  the  machine  age,  however,  that  the 
United  States  fearlessly,  cheerfully,  and,  I  think,  rightly,  accepted  the  bitter 
with  the  sweet.  It  was  thought  that  no  price  was  too  high  to  pay  for  the 
advantages  which  we  could  draw  from  a  finished  industrial  system.  The  his- 
tory of  the  last  half  century  is  accordingly  in  large  measure  a  history  of  a 
group  of  financial  Titans  whose  methods  were  not  scrutinized  with  too 
much  care,  and  who  were  honored  in  proportion  as  they  produced  the  results, 
irrespective  of  the  means  they  used.  The  financiers  who  pushed  the  railroads 
to  the  Pacific  were  always  ruthless,  often  wasteful,  and  frequently  corrupt; 
but  they  did  build  railroads,  and  we  have  them  today.  It  has  been  estimated 
that  the  American  investor  paid  for  the  American  railroad  system  more  than 
three  times  over  in  the  process;  but  despite  this  fact  the  net  advantage  was  to 
the  United  States.  As  long  as  we  had  free  land;  as  long  as  population  was 
growing  by  leaps  and  bounds;  as  long  as  our  industrial  plants  were  insuffi- 
cient to  supply  our  own  needs,  society  chose  to  give  the  ambitious  man  free 
play  and  unlimited  reward  provided  only  that  he  produced  the  economic 
plant  so  much  desired. 


400 


GOVERNMENT 


During  this  period  of  expansion,  there  was  equal  opportunity  for  all,  and 
tne  business  of  Government  was  not  to  interfere  but  to  assist  in  the  develop- 
ment of  industry.  This  was  done  at  the  request  of  business  men  themselves. 
The  tariff  was  originally  imposed  for  the  purpose  of  "fostering  our  infant 
industry,"  a  phrase  I  think  the  older  among  you  will  remember  as  a  political 
issue  not  so  long  ago.  The  railroads  were  subsidized,  sometimes  by  grants  of 
money,  oftener  by  grants  of  land;  some  of  the  most  valuable  oil  lands  in  the 
United  States  were  granted  to  assist  the  financing  of  the  railroad  which 
pushed  through  the  Southwest.  A  nascent  merchant  marine  was  assisted  by 
grants  of  money,  or  by  mail  subsidies,  so  that  our  steam  shipping  might  ply 
the  seven  seas.  Some  of  my  friends  tell  me  that  they  do  not  want  the  Gov- 
ernment in  business.  With  this  I  agree;  but  I  wonder  whether  they  realize 
the  implications  of  the  past.  For  while  it  has  been  American  doctrine  that 
the  Government  must  not  go  into  business  in  competition  with  private  enter- 
prises, still  it  has  been  traditional,  particularly  in  Republican  administrations, 
for  business  urgently  to  ask  the  Government  to  put  at  private  disposal  all 
kinds  of  Government  assistance.  The  same  man  who  tells  you  that  he  does 
not  want  to  see  the  Government  interfere  in  business— and  he  means  it,  and 
has  plenty  of  good  reasons  for  saying  so— is  the  first  to  go  to  Washington 
and  ask  the  Government  for  a  prohibitory  tariff  on  his  product.  When  things 
get  just  bad  enough,  as  they  did  two  years  ago,  he  will  go  with  equal  speed  to 
the  United  States  Government  and  ask  for  a  loan;  and  the  Reconstruction 
Finance  Corporation  is  the  outcome  of  it.  Each  group  has  sought  protection 
from  the  Government  for  its  own  special  interests,  without  realizing  that  the 
function  of  Government  must  be  to  favor  no  small  group  at  the  expense  of  its 
duty  to  protect  the  rights  of  personal  freedom  and  of  private  property  of  all 
its  citizens. 

In  retrospect  we  can  now  see  that  the  turn  of  the  tide  came  with  the  turn 
of  the  century.  We  were  reaching  our  last  frontier;  there  was  no  more  free 
land  and  our  industrial  combinations  had  become  great  uncontrolled  and 
irresponsible  units  of  power  within  the  State.  Clear-sighted  men  saw  with 
fear  the  danger  that  opportunity  would  no  longer  be  equal;  that  the  growing 
corporation,  like  the  feudal  baron  of  old,  might  threaten  the  economic  free- 
dom of  individuals  to  earn  a  living.  In  that  hour,  our  anti-trust  laws  were 
born.  The  cry  was  raised  against  the  great  corporations.  Theodore  Roose- 
velt, the  first  great  Republican  Progressive,  fought  a  Presidential  campaign 
on  the  issue  of  "trust  busting"  and  talked  freely  about  malefactors  of  great 
wealth.  If  the  Government  had  a  policy  it  was  rather  to  turn  the  clock  back, 
to  destroy  the  large  combinations  and  to  return  to  the  time  when  every  man 
owned  his  individual  small  business. 

This  was  impossible;  Theodore  Roosevelt,  abandoning  the  idea  of  "trust 
busting,"  was  forced  to  work  out  a  difference  between  "good"  trusts  and 

PROGRESSIVE   GOVERNMENT        401 


"bad"  trusts.  The  Supreme  Court  set  forth  the  famous  "rule  of  reason*  by 
which  it  seems  to  have  meant  that  a  concentration  of  industrial  power  was 
permissible  if  the  method  by  which  it  got  its  power,  and  the  use  it  made  of 
that  power,  were  reasonable. 

Woodrow  Wilson,  elected  in  1912,  saw  the  situation  more  clearly.  Where 
Jefferson  had  feared  the  encroachment  of  political  power  on  the  lives  of 
individuals,  Wilson  knew  that  the  new  power  was  financial.  He  saw,  in  the 
highly  centralized  economic  system,  the  despot  of  the  twentieth  century,  on 
whom  great  masses  of  individuals  relied  for  their  safety  and  their  livelihood, 
and  whose  irresponsibility  and  greed  (if  they  were  not  controlled)  would 
reduce  them  to  starvation  and  penury.  The  concentration  of  financial  power 
had  not  proceeded  so  far  in  1912  as  it  has  today;  but  it  had  grown  far  enough 
for  Mr.  Wilson  to  realize  fully  its  implications.  It  is  interesting,  now,  to  read 
his  speeches.  What  is  called  "radical"  today  (and  I  have  reason  to  know 
whereof  I  speak)  is  mild  compared  to  the  campaign  of  Mr.  Wilson.  "No 
man  can  deny,"  he  said,  "that  the  lines  of  endeavor  have  more  and  more 
narrowed  and  stiffened;  no  man  who  knows  anything  about  the  develop- 
ment of  industry  in  this  country  can  have  failed  to  observe  that  the  larger 
kinds  of  credit  are  more  and  more  difficult  to  obtain  unless  you  obtain  them 
upon  terms  of  uniting  your  efforts  with  those  who  already  control  the  indus- 
try of  the  country,  and  nobody  can  fail  to  observe  that  every  man  who  tries 
to  set  himself  up  in  competition  with  any  process  of  manufacture  which  has 
taken  place  under  the  control  of  large  combinations  of  capital  will  presently 
find  himself  either  squeezed  out  or  obliged  to  sell  and  allow  himself  to  be 
absorbed."  Had  there  been  no  World  War—had  Mr.  Wilson  been  able  to 
devote  eight  years  to  domestic  instead  of  to  international  affairs— we  might 
have  had  a  wholly  different  situation  at  the  present  time.  However,  the  then 
distant  roar  of  European  cannon,  growing  ever  louder,  forced  him  to  aban- 
don the  study  of  this  issue.  The  problem  he  saw  so  clearly  is  left  with  us  as 
a  legacy;  and  no  one  of  us  on  either  side  of  the  political  controversy  can 
deny  that  it  is  a  matter  of  grave  concern  to  the  Government. 

A  glance  at  the  situation  today  only  too  clearly  indicates  that  equality 
of  opportunity  as  we  have  known  it  no  longer  exists.  Our  industrial  plant  is 
built;  the  problem  just  now  is  whether  under  existing  conditions  it  is  not 
overbuilt.  Our  last  frontier  has  long  since  been  reached,  and  there  is  prac- 
tically no  more  free  land.  More  than  half  of  our  people  do  not  live  on  the 
farms  or  on  lands  and  cannot  derive  a  living  by  cultivating  their  own 
property.  There  is  no  safety  valve  in  the  form  of  a  Western  prairie  to  which 
those  thrown  out  of  work  by  Eastern  economic  machines  can  go  for  a  new 
start.  We  are  not  able  to  invite  the  immigration  from  Europe  to  share  our 
endless  plenty.  We  are  now  providing  a  drab  living  for  our  own  people. 

402         GOVERNMENT 


Our  system  of  constantly  rising  tariffs  has  at  last  reacted  against  us  to  the 
point  of  closing  our  Canadian  frontier  on  the  north,  our  European  markets 
on  the  east,  many  of  our  Latin-American  markets  to  the  south,  and  a  goodly 
proportion  of  our  Pacific  markets  on  the  west,  through  the  retaliatory  tariffs 
of  those  countries.  It  has  forced  many  of  our  great  industrial  institutions 
which  exported  their  surplus  production  to  such  countries,  to  establish  plants 
in  such  countries,  within  the  tariff  walls.  This  has  resulted  in  the  reduction 
of  the  operation  of  their  American  plants,  and  opportunity  for  employment. 

Just  as  freedom  to  farm  has  ceased,  so  also  the  opportunity  in  business  has 
narrowed.  It  still  is  true  that  men  can  start  small  enterprises,  trusting  to 
native  shrewdness  and  ability  to  keep  abreast  of  competitors;  but  area  after 
area  has  been  preempted  altogether  by  the  great  corporations,  and  even  in 
the  fields  which  still  have  no  great  concerns,  the  small  man  starts  under  a 
handicap.  The  unfeeling  statistics  of  the  past  three  decades  show  that  the 
independent  business  man  is  running  a  losing  race.  Perhaps  he  is  forced  to 
the  wall;  perhaps  he  cannot  command  credit;  perhaps  he  is  "squeezed  out," 
in  Mr.  Wilson's  words,  by  highly  organized  corporate  competitors,  as  your 
corner  grocery  man  can  tell  you.  Recently  a  careful  study  was  made  of  the 
concentration  of  business  in  the  United  States.  It  showed  that  our  economic 
life  was  dominated  by  some  six  hundred  odd  corporations  who  controlled 
two-thirds  of  American  industry.  Ten  million  small  business  men  divided 
the  other  third.  More  striking  still,  it  appeared  that  if  the  process  of  concen- 
tration goes  on  at  the  same  rate,  at  the  end  of  another  century  we  shall  have 
all  American  industry  controlled  by  a  dozen  corporations,  and  run  by  perhaps 
a  hundred  men.  Put  plainly,  we  are  steering  a  steady  course  toward  eco- 
nomic oligarchy,  if  we  are  not  there  already. 

Clearly,  all  this  calls  for  a  re-appraisal  of  values.  A  mere  builder  of  more 
industrial  plants,  a  creator  of  more  railroad  systems,  an  organizer  of  more 
corporations,  is  as  likely  to  be  a  danger  as  a  help.  The  day  of  the  great 
promoter  or  the  financial  Titan,  to  whom  we  granted  anything  if  only  he 
would  build,  or  develop,  is  over.  Our  task  now  is  not  discovery  or  exploita- 
tion of  natural  resources,  or  necessarily  producing  more  goods.  It  is  the 
soberer,  less  dramatic  business  of  administering  resources  and  plants  already 
in  hand,  of  seeking  to  reestablish  foreign  markets  for  our  surplus  production, 
of  meeting  the  problem  of  underconsumption,  of  adjusting  production  to 
consumption,  of  distributing  wealth  and  products  more  equitably,  of  adapt- 
ing existing  economic  organizations  to  the  service  of  the  people.  The  day 
of  enlightened  administration  has  come. 

Just  as  in  older  times  the  central  Government  was  first  a  haven  of  refuge, 
and  then  a  threat,  so  now  in  a  closer  economic  system  the  central  and  ambi- 
tious financial  unit  is  no  longer  a  servant  of  national  desire,  but  a  danger. 

PROGRESSIVE   GOVERNMENT        403 


I  would  draw  the  parallel  one  step  farther.  We  did  not  think  because 
national  Government  had  become  a  threat  in  the  18th  century  that  therefore 
we  should  abandon  the  principle  of  national  Government.  Nor  today  should 
we  abandon  the  principle  of  strong  economic  units  called  corporations, 
merely  because  their  power  is  susceptible  of  easy  abuse.  In  other  times  we 
dealt  with  the  problem  of  an  unduly  ambitious  central  Government  by  modi- 
fying it  gradually  into  a  constitutional  democratic  Government.  So  today 
we  are  modifying  and  controlling  our  economic  units. 

As  I  see  it,  the  task  of  Government  in  its  relation  to  business  is  to  assist  the 
development  of  an  economic  declaration  of  rights,  an  economic  constitutional 
order.  This  is  the  common  task  of  statesman  and  business  man.  It  is  the 
minimum  requirement  of  a  more  permanently  safe  order  of  things. 

Happily,  the  times  indicate  that  to  create  such  an  order  not  only  is  the 
proper  policy  of  Government,  but  it  is  the  only  line  of  safety  for  our  eco- 
nomic structures  as  well.  We  know,  now,  that  these  economic  units  cannot 
exist  unless  prosperity  is  uniform,  that  is,  unless  purchasing  power  is  well 
distributed  throughout  every  group  in  the  Nation.  That  is  why  even  the  most 
selfish  of  corporations  for  its  own  interest  would  be  glad  to  see  wages  re- 
stored and  unemployment  ended  and  to  bring  the  Western  farmer  back  to 
his  accustomed  level  of  prosperity  and  to  assure  a  permanent  safety  to  both 
groups.  That  is  why  some  enlightened  industries  themselves  endeavor  to 
limit  the  freedom  of  action  of  each  man  and  business  group  within  the  in- 
dustry in  the  common  interest  of  all;  why  business  men  everywhere  are  ask- 
ing a  form  of  organization  which  will  bring  the  scheme  of  things  into  balance, 
even  though  it  may  in  some  measure  qualify  the  freedom  of  action  of  indi- 
vidual units  within  the  business. 

The  exposition  need  not  further  be  elaborated.  It  is  brief  and  incomplete, 
but  you  will  be  able  to  expand  it  in  terms  of  your  own  business  or  occupation 
without  difficulty.  I  think  everyone  who  has  actually  entered  the  economic 
struggle— which  means  everyone  who  was  not  born  to  safe  wealth— knows  in 
his  own  experience  and  his  own  life  that  we  have  now  to  apply  the  earlier 
concepts  of  American  Government  to  the  conditions  of  today. 

The  Declaration  of  Independence  discusses  the  problem  of  Government 
in  terms  of  a  contract.  Government  is  a  relation  of  give  and  take,  a  contract, 
perforce,  if  we  would  follow  the  thinking  out  of  which  it  grew.  Under 
such  a  contract  rulers  were  accorded  power,  and  the  people  assented  to  that 
power  on  consideration  that  they  be  accorded  certain  rights.  The  task  of 
statesmanship  has  always  been  the  re-definition  of  these  rights  in  terms  of  a 
changing  and  growing  social  order.  New  conditions  impose  new  require- 
ments upon  Government  and  those  who  conduct  Government. 


404 


GOVERNMENT 


I  held,  for  example,  in  proceedings  before  me  as  Governor,  the  purpose  of 
which  was  the  removal  of  the  Sheriff  of  New  York,  that  under  modern 
conditions  it  was  not  enough  for  a  public  official  merely  to  evade  the  legal 
terms  of  official  wrong-doing.  He  owed  a  positive  duty  as  well.  I  said  in 
substance  that  if  he  had  acquired  large  sums  of  money,  he  was  when  accused 
required  to  explain  the  sources  of  such  wealth.  To  that  extent  this  wealth 
was  colored  with  a  public  interest.  I  said  that  in  financial  matters,  public 
servants  should,  even  beyond  private  citizens,  be  held  to  a  stern  and  uncom- 
promising rectitude. 

I  feel  that  we  are  coming  to  a  view  through  the  drift  of  our  legislation  and 
our  public  thinking  in  the  past  quarter  century  that  private  economic  power 
is,  to  enlarge  an  old  phrase,  a  public  trust  as  well.  I  hold  that  continued 
enjoyment  of  that  power  by  any  individual  or  group  must  depend  upon  the 
fulfillment  of  that  trust.  The  men  who  have  reached  the  summit  of  Ameri- 
can business  life  know  this  best;  happily,  many  of  these  urge  the  binding 
quality  of  this  greater  social  contract. 

The  terms  of  that  contract  are  as  old  as  the  Republic,  and  as  new  as  the 
new  economic  order. 

Every  man  has  a  right  to  life;  and  this  means  that  he  has  also  a  right  to 
make  a  comfortable  living.  He  may  by  sloth  or  crime  decline  to  exercise  that 
right;  but  it  may  not  be  denied  him.  We  have  no  actual  famine  or  dearth; 
our  industrial  and  agricultural  mechanism  can  produce  enough  and  to  spare. 
Our  Government,  formal  and  informal,  political  and  economic,  owes  to 
everyone  an  avenue  to  possess  himself  of  a  portion  of  that  plenty  sufficient 
for  his  needs,  through  his  own  work. 

Every  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  property;  which  means  a  right  to  be 
assured,  to  the  fullest  extent  attainable,  in  the  safety  of  his  savings.  By  no 
other  means  can  men  carry  the  burdens  of  those  parts  of  life  which,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  afford  no  chance  of  labor;  childhood,  sickness,  old  age.  In 
all  thought  of  property,  this  right  is  paramount;  all  other  property  rights  must 
yield  to  it.  If,  in  accord  with  this  principle,  we  must  restrict  the  operations 
of  the  speculator,  the  manipulator,  even  the  financier,  I  believe  we  must 
accept  the  restriction  as  needful,  not  to  hamper  individualism  but  to  pro- 
tect it. 

These  two  requirements  must  be  satisfied,  in  the  main,  by  the  individuals 
who  claim  and  hold  control  of  the  great  industrial  and  financial  combina- 
tions which  dominate  so  large  a  part  of  our  industrial  life.  They  have  under- 
taken to  be,  not  business  men,  but  princes  of  property.  I  am  not  prepared 
to  say  that  the  system  which  produces  them  is  wrong.  I  am  very  clear  that 
they  must  fearlessly  and  competently  assume  the  responsibility  which  goes 

PROGRESSIVE  GOVERNMENT        405 


with  the  power.  So  many  enlightened  business  men  know  this  that  the  state- 
ment would  be  little  more  than  a  platitude,  were  it  not  for  an  added 
implication. 

This  implication  is,  briefly,  that  the  responsible  heads  of  finance  and  in- 
dustry instead  of  acting  each  for  himself,  must  work  together  to  achieve  the 
common  end.  They  must,  where  necessary,  sacrifice  this  or  that  private  ad- 
vantage; and  in  reciprocal  self-denial  must  seek  a  general  advantage.  It  is 
here  that  formal  Government— political  Government,  if  you  choose— comes  in. 
Whenever  in  the  pursuit  of  this  objective  the  lone  wolf,  the  unethical  com- 
petitor, the  reckless  promoter,  the  Ishmael  or  Insull  whose  hand  is  against 
every  man's,  declines  to  join  in  achieving  an  end  recognized  as  being  for  the 
public  welfare,  and  threatens  to  drag  the  industry  back  to  a  state  of  anarchy, 
the  Government  may  properly  be  asked  to  apply  restraint.  Likewise,  should 
the  group  ever  use  its  collective  power  contrary  to  the  public  welfare,  the 
Government  must  be  swift  to  enter  and  protect  the  public  interest. 

The  Government  should  assume  the  function  of  economic  regulation  only 
as  a  last  resort,  to  be  tried  only  when  private  initiative,  inspired  by  high 
responsibility,  with  such  assistance  and  balance  as  Government  can  give,  has 
finally  failed.  As  yet  there  has  been  no  final  failure,  because  there  has  been 
no  attempt;  and  I  decline  to  assume  that  this  Nation  is  unable  to  meet  the 
situation. 

The  final  term  of  the  high  contract  was  for  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness. We  have  learned  a  great  deal  of  both  in  the  past  century.  We  know 
that  individual  liberty  and  individual  happiness  mean  nothing  unless  both 
are  ordered  in  the  sense  that  one  man's  meat  is  not  another  man's  poison. 
We  know  that  the  old  "rights  of  personal  competency,"  the  right  to  read,  to 
think,  to  speak,  to  choose  and  live  a  mode  of  life,  must  be  respected  at  all 
hazards.  We  know  that  liberty  to  do  anything  which  deprives  others  of  those 
elemental  rights  is  outside  the  protection  of  any  compact;  and  that  Govern- 
ment in  this  regard  is  the  maintenance  of  a  balance,  within  which  every 
individual  may  have  a  place  if  he  will  take  it;  in  which  every  individual 
may  find  safety  if  he  wishes  it;  in  which  every  individual  may  attain  such 
power  as  his  ability  permits,  consistent  with  his  assuming  the  accompanying 
responsibility. 

All  this  is  a  long,  slow  talk.  Nothing  is  more  striking  than  the  simple  inno- 
cence of  the  men  who  insist,  whenever  an  objective  is  present,  on  the  prompt 
production  of  a  patent  scheme  guaranteed  to  produce  a  result.  Human 
endeavor  is  not  so  simple  as  that.  Government  includes  the  art  of  formulating 
a  policy,  and  using  the  political  technique  to  attain  so  much  of  that  policy  as 
will  receive  general  support;  persuading,  leading,  sacrificing,  teaching  al- 
ways, because  the  greatest  duty  of  a  statesman  is  to  educate.  But  in  the 


406 


GOVERNMENT 


matters  of  which  I  have  spoken,  we  are  learning  rapidly,  in  a  severe  school. 
The  lessons  so  learned  must  not  be  forgotten,  even  in  the  mental  lethargy  of 
a  speculative  upturn.  We  must  build  toward  the  time  when  a  major  depres- 
sion cannot  occur  again;  and  if  this  means  sacrificing  the  easy  profits  of  infla- 
tionist booms,  then  let  them  go;  and  good  riddance, 

Faith  in  America,  faith  in  our  tradition  of  personal  responsibility,  faith 
in  our  institutions,  faith  in  ourselves  demand  that  we  recognize  the  new 
terms  of  the  old  social  contract.  We  shall  fulfill  them,  as  we  fulfilled  the 
obligation  of  the  apparent  Utopia  which  Jefferson  imagined  for  us  in  1776, 
and  which  Jefferson,  Roosevelt  and  Wilson  sought  to  bring  to  realization. 
We  must  do  so,  lest  a  rising  tide  of  misery,  engendered  by  our  common 
failure,  engulf  us  all.  But  failure  is  not  an  American  habit;  and  in  the 
strength  of  great  hope  we  must  all  shoulder  our  common  load. 


International  organization 


DAVID    LAWRENCE 


The  death  of  the  U.N.1 


THE  UNITED  NATIONS  as  an  organization  designed  to  enforce  peace  in  the 
world  has  come  to  a  humiliating  end. 

Like  its  predecessor— the  League  of  Nations— it  has  been  killed  by  states- 
men faithless  to  the  ideals  they  had  once  professed. 

The  Korean  war  was  in  our  times  the  acid  test  of  the  power  of  an  interna- 
tional organization  to  operate  as  a  military  alliance  against  aggressors. 

When  the  showdown  came,  one  set  of  members  was  arming  against  an- 
other set  in  Europe.  Other  members  were  claiming  to  be  "neutral"  in  Asia. 
Still  others  were  deliberately  furnishing  the  aggressors  with  arms  to  help  kill 
the  soldiers  of  other  states  resisting  aggression. 

The  U.N.  lacked  the  moral  courage  to  denounce  Soviet  Russia  for  aiding 
the  common  enemy— the  Communist  Chinese  and  North  Korean  Communist 
armies. 

No  more  flagrant  example  of  the  decay  of  international  morality  could  be 

1  A  copyrighted  editorial  in  the  July  3,  1953,  issue  of  U.S.  News  6-  World  Report,  an 
independent  weekly  news  magazine  published  at  Washington.  Mr.  Lawrence  has  long 
been  a  supporter  of  international  cooperation  and  collective  security  through  both  the 
League  of  Nations  and  the  United  Nations.  In  other  editorials  he  has  elaborated  on  the 
idea  of  the  U.N.  as  an  international  forum,  especially  for  the  mobilization  of  moral  force. 


THE   DEATH   OF  THE   U.N.        407 


cited  than  the  concerted  behavior  of  the  note-writers  in  the  foreign  offices 
of  Great  Britain,  France,  the  United  States,  Canada  and  India  in  their  recent 
assault  on  the  little  government  of  Korea.  What  was  its  crime?  It  refused  to 
keep  its  own  brothers  from  the  North  in  further  bondage  while  the  Commu- 
nists were  to  send  in  their  agents  to  "brainwash"  those  same  prisoners— all 
this  under  the  auspices  of  a  commission  of  five  countries,  with  the  deciding 
vote  held  by  a  pro-Communist  government,  calling  itself  "neutral."  Was  it 
so  ignoble  on  the  part  of  Korea— not  even  a  U.N.  member— to  assert  its  sov- 
ereign right  as  an  ally  to  act  against  such  palpable  trickery?  * 

How  can  the  smaller  nations  of  the  world  ever  look  again  to  the  larger  na- 
tions for  justice  when,  with  a  might-makes-right  flourish,  the  major  powers 
ignored  the  protest  of  the  Republic  of  Korea,  which  had  lost  200,000  sol- 
diers in  battle  and  more  than  1,000,000  civilians  in  the  ravages  of  war? 

What,  then,  has  the  U.N.  accomplished?  It  has  failed  to  discipline  the 
principal  aggressors.  It  has  succeeded  only  in  bullying  the  principal  victim 
of  aggression— forcing  it  to  choose  between  a  dishonorable  armistice  and  na- 
tional suicide. 

It  is  the  merest  sophistry  to  pretend  that  the  U.N.  intervened  in  Korea  in 
June  1950  solely  to  repel  aggression  at  the  38th  parallel.  The  record  shows 
that  the  U.N.  authorized  the  crossing  of  the  38th  parallel  by  its  military 
forces,  and  then  a  few  days  later— on  October  7,  1950— adopted  a  resolution 
declaring  that  "the  United  Nations  armed  forces"  must  take  "all  appropriate 
steps"  to  "ensure  conditions  of  stability  throughout  Korea." 

Let  us  concede  that  the  U.N.  subsequently  met  defeat  on  the  battlefields 
of  Korea,  when  Soviet  Russia  sent  the  armies  of  Communist  China  into  the 
fray— a  defeat  imposed  by  the  timidity  of  the  U.N.  alliance  which  refused 
to  allow  maximum  military  power  to  be  used  at  a  crucial  moment  against 
the  enemy. 

Let  us  concede  that  this  alliance  was  afraid  of  Soviet  Russia  and  an  en- 
larged war. 

Would  it  not  have  been  the  better  part  of  candor  to  say  so  frankly  in  a 
formal  resolution  repealing  the  previous  objective,  rather  than  to  claim- 
nearly  three  years  later— that  the  U.N.  never  intended  to  unify  Korea  by 
military  means? 

The  United  States  is  desirous,  to  be  sure,  of  helping  to  enforce  world 
peace,  sending  men  and  money  to  foreign  lands  to  achieve  that  objective. 
But  let  us  do  it  with  allies  who  are  ready  to  make  the  same  sacrifices  we  are 
willing  to  make. 

1  The  reference  is  to  the  release  on  June  18,  1953,  of  27,000  anti-Communist  prisoners 
of  war  by  South  Korean  guards  at  Syngman  Rhee's  order.  This  action  was  contrary  to 
the  truce  agreement. 

408         GOVERNMENT 


Let  us  resurrect  the  U.N.  only  as  a  forum  for  international  debate,  but  not 
as  an  instrument  of  collective  security.  For  we  have  learned  now  to  our  sor- 
row that  by  a  system  of  majority  voting  we  cannot  expect  anything  but  col- 
lective insecurity. 

Alliances  are  necessary.  We  cannot  go  it  alone.  But  let  us  not  become 
constricted  in  a  strait  jacket  of  international  parliamentarism  wherein  the 
lives  of  our  own  citizens  are  of  so  much  less  concern  to  other  nations  than 
they  are  to  us. 

Our  duty  is  to  preserve  this  nation's  independence— to  maintain  our  right- 
ful sovereignty  and  to  make  alliances  which  impose  specific  obligations  not 
merely  on  ourselves  but  on  nations  capable  of  reciprocal  action. 

The  U.N.  is  dead— it  was  killed  by  the  Korean  war.  May  real  alliances 
emerge  as  a  substitute  now  to  enforce  peace! 

Methods  of  enforcing  peace  can  no  longer  be  left  to  the  votes  of  an  all- 
inclusive  international  organization  which  fails  to  differentiate  between 
friend  and  foe.  Let  us  forsake  an  organization  which  in  the  name  of  free- 
dom squelches  the  aspirations  of  small  nations  when  they  seek  emancipa- 
tion from  imperialists  as  well  as  from  aggressors.  This  is  the  American  tra- 
dition born  July  4,  1776.  May  God  give  us  the  courage  to  preserve  the  basic 
principles  of  the  American  faith  as  we  see  unmoral  diplomacy  writing,  with 
deceptive  phrases,  equivocations  and  quibbles,  the  inglorious  epitaph  of  the 
United  Nations! 


HENRY  CABOT  LODGE,  JR.  What  the  United  Nations 

means  to  the  United  States 


IT  is  A  great  honor  to  be  speaking  in  this  historic  place  before  this  im- 
portant audience.  Here,  in  this  old  colonial  capitol,  are  symbolized 
events  which  gave  birth  to  this  country— events  which  are  still  as  fresh,  as 
vivid,  and  as  contagious  as  they  were  on  the  day  that  Patrick  Henry,  stand- 
ing on  this  very  place,  spoke  out  fearlessly,  eloquently,  immortally  against 
tyranny  and  the  forces  of  tyranny.  Every  day  that  goes  by  sees  brave  men 
coming  through  the  Iron  Curtain  at  the  risk  of  their  lives  in  search  of  free- 
dom because,  like  Patrick  Henry,  they  prefer  death  to  slavery. 

This  address  was  delivered  before  the  Virginia  House  of  Burgesses  at  Williamsburg, 
Virginia,  on  January  30,  1954.  Reprinted  from  The  Department  of  State  Bulletin,  Febru- 
ary 15,  1954. 

WHAT   THE   UNITED  NATIONS   MEANS    .    .    .        409 


Coming  from  Massachusetts,  in  whose  State  House  also  events  took  place 
which  played  a  vital  part  in  the  forming  of  this  country,  and  as  one  who 
has  served  in  the  Legislature  of  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts,  I 
naturally  have  a  deep  appreciation  of  what  it  means  to  address  the  Legisla- 
ture of  Virginia.  You  are  the  authentic  voice  of  the  sovereign  people,  and 
anyone  occupying  the  office  which  I  now  hold  must  count  it  a  privilege  to  be 
able  to  report  to  you. 

Today,  I  ask  you  to  look  at  the  United  Nations,  to  scrutinize  its  purposes, 
its  achievements,  its  shortcomings,  its  utility,  and  its  future  promise— all  with 
the  utmost  frankness.  The  times  are  far  too  serious  for  self-delusion.  We 
must  see  this  thing  as  it  is— we  must  coolly  appraise  its  value.  We  must  ask 
ourselves  the  great  question  which  we  always  ask  ourselves  in  our  official 
capacity  as  legislators:  Is  it  good  for  America? 

In  bluntest  terms,  the  United  Nations  is  an  international  device  whose 
primary  purpose  is  "to  save  succeeding  generations  from  the  scourge  of  war" 
by  developing  enough  strength  to  deter  aggression  and,  if  in  spite  of  the 
United  Nations  it  should  occur,  to  repel  it. 

It  was  created  by  a  charter,  which  was  ratified  by  the  Senate  by  a  vote  of 
89  to  2  in  1945  at  the  close  of  the  bloodiest  war  in  history.  It  was  invited 
to  establish  itself  in  the  United  States  by  a  unanimous  vote  of  the  United 
States  Congress  and  has  its  headquarters  in  New  York  City. 

To  promote  peace,  the  charter  created  a  Security  Council  of  11  members 
which  has  the  power,  subject  to  the  veto  of  any  one  of  its  5  permanent 
members,  in  case  of  aggression  to  issue  action  orders  which  are  legally 
binding  on  all  United  Nations  members. 

It  also  set  up  a  General  Assembly,  which  cannot  issue  orders  but  has 
power  to  debate  and  to  recommend.  In  the  General  Assembly  each  of  the 
60  member  nations  has  one  vote,  regardless  of  size. 

When  the  United  Nations  was  founded,  it  was  assumed  that  the  great 
allies  of  World  War  II  would  stay  together  to  keep  peace.  But  the  Soviet 
Union  became  hostile  to  the  free  world  and,  by  its  abuse  of  the  veto,  caused 
the  Security  Council  to  become  less  and  less  active,  with  the  result  that  the 
General  Assembly  has  become  the  busy  place.  (A  veto-proof  method  has  at 
last  been  evolved  for  bringing  a  collective  defense  program  into  being  by 
recommendations  passed  by  a  two-thirds  vote  of  the  General  Assembly. 
When,  as,  and  if  aggression  occurs  in  the  future,  we  will  no  longer  be  para- 
lyzed by  the  Communist  abuse  of  the  veto. ) 

This  growth  of  the  General  Assembly  is  in  many  ways  a  sound  develop- 
ment because  a  solid  foundation  for  peace  actually  depends  on  two  things: 
(1)  the  existence  of  common  practical  interests;  and  (2)  the  existence  of  a 
common  sense  of  justice,  which  means  a  common  sense  of  right  and  wrong 

410        GOVERNMENT 


and  a  common  view  of  the  relation  of  the  individual  to  his  government. 

Until  both  of  these  things  exist,  those  who  insist  on  schemes  for  world 
union  or  world  government  do  more  harm  than  good  because,  like  someone 
feeding  fried  potatoes  to  a  newborn  baby,  they  are  trying  to  ram  something 
down  the  throat  of  the  world  which  it  cannot  digest.  If  any  one  of  the  13 
colonies,  at  the  time  of  the  American  Revolution,  had  had  a  view  of  life  as 
different  from  the  rest  of  the  world  as  the  view  of  the  Soviet  Union  is 
different  from  the  free  world  today,  there  would  have  been  no  United 
States.  The  American  revolutionists,  unlike  the  people  of  the  world  today, 
all  had  the  same  general  thoughts  about  the  nature  of  man. 

In  the  modern  world  there  is  already  a  growing  knowledge  that  countries 
have  many  common  practical  interests.  But  the  growth  of  a  common  sense 
of  justice  seems  to  come  more  slowly— and,  as  any  effective  scheme  for  world 
order  depends  on  such  a  sense  of  justice,  the  essential  first  step  is  a  world 
forum  where  issues  can  be  debated  and  put  to  a  vote  and  where  world  public 
opinion  can  develop.  The  General  Assembly  is  thus  a  place  where  they  "talk 
and  vote"— just  as  they  do  in  any  democratic  assemblage— because  it  is  by 
talking  and  voting  that  you  sometimes  avert  war,  and  it  is  by  talking  and 
voting  that  you  build  a  world  sense  of  right  and  wrong. 

The  60  member  nations  of  the  United  Nations  are  a  sizeable  majority  of 
the  world's  nations  and  of  the  world's  population.  The  General  Assembly 
is,  therefore,  the  indispensable  first  step— the  necessary  foundation  for  any 
future  world  order  which  mankind  may  wish  to  build.  It  is  as  far  as  we  can 
go  now.  But  we  should  go  this  far. 

Accomplishments  of  the  United  Nations 

THE  UNITED  NATIONS  is  a  place  where: 
.  .  .  public  opinion  is  developed— and  public  opinion  makes  things 
happen  in  spite  of  iron  curtains. 

.  .  .  we  can  see  what  the  Communists  are  doing  in  the  war  of  ideas— 
and  sometimes  in  other  ways.  Without  it  we  could  not  see  nearly  as  much. 

.  .  .  you  can  get  authoritative  reactions  quickly  on  the  state  of  opinion 
in  almost  any  part  of  the  world,  which  it  would  take  days,  if  not  weeks,  to 
get  otherwise. 

.  .  .  Americans  can  see  how  their  American  public  servants  are  conduct- 
ing the  American  side  of  the  cold  war.  It  therefore  enables  us  to  correct 
our  mistakes  more  quickly  and  with  greater  sureness  than  we  could  do 
otherwise. 

.  .  .  the  free  world  gets  consolidated.  Being  free,  the  non-Communist 
nations  naturally  tend  to  go  their  own  way  and  to  drift  apart.  But  sooner 

WHAT   THE  UNITED  NATIONS   MEANS   .    .    .        411 


or  later  some  Communist  spokesman  will  make  some  statement  that  is  so 
monstrous  that  you  can  almost  see  the  free  nations  getting  together  before 
your  very  eyes.  This  more  than  counterbalances  whatever  advantages  the 
Communists  may  get  out  of  their  propaganda. 

.  .  .  we  have  developed  valuable  allies— certainly  not  as  many  as  we 
should  have  liked.  But,  equally  certain,  whatever  allies  we  have  are  wel- 
come and  are  that  much  clear  gain. 

...  six  of  the  member  nations  are  peoples  who  were  under  alien  control 
when  the  charter  was  signed.  Of  the  800  million  people  in  the  free  world 
who  were  dependent  10  years  ago,  some  600  million— or  three-fourths— 
have  won  full  independence  since  1945.  The  newly  independent  countries 
which  belong  to  the  United  Nations  include  India,  Pakistan,  Burma,  the 
Philippines,  Indonesia,  and  Israel. 

.  .  .  representatives  of  nations  can  meet  without  formality  to  settle  dis- 
putes. Those  who  want  to  divide  and  rule  are  impeded,  for  this  is  a  hard 
game  to  play  when  the  entire  free  world  is  looking  on. 

.  .  .  the  threat  of  war  in  Iran  in  1946,  due  to  pressure  of  Russian  troops, 
was  moderated  and  gradually  extinguished. 

.  .  .  the  initiative  was  taken,  with  substantial  American  backing,  to  pre- 
vent Communist  encroachment  on  Greece  in  1947. 

.  .  .  open  warfare  over  Kashmir  between  India  and  Pakistan  was  stopped. 

.  .  .  the  advent  of  Israel  into  the  family  of  nations  was  determined  and 
an  end  put  to  a  bloody  war  in  the  Holy  Land,  although  the  situation  is  still 
dangerous. 

.  .  .  working  with  the  Netherlands  and  the  Indonesians,  full  independence 
was  given  to  the  76  million  peoples  inhabiting  Indonesia. 

.  .  .  part  of  the  free  world  was  organized  to  repel  the  bloody  aggression 
in  Korea,  which  threatened  the  whole  free  world— and  not  only  in  Asia. 

.  .  .  the  Kremlin  has  a  real  headache  in  the  United  Nations.  They  cannot 
control  the  United  Nations;  they  cannot  break  it  up;  they  dare  not  leave  it. 

What  United  Nations  is  not 

THE  UNITED  NATIONS  is  not  a  world  government.  It  cannot  impose  a  tax 
of  any  kind.  It  cannot  draft  a  single  soldier— from  any  country  for 
service  in  Korea  or  elsewhere.  Its  charter  specifically  prohibits  its  interven- 
tion in  domestic  matters  ( article  2,  paragraph  7 ) .  Your  representative  at  the 
United  Nations  is  called  Ambassador  by  act  of  Congress,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  he  represents  a  sovereign  state  and  not  a  political  subdivision.  It 
would,  of  course,  be  a  manifest  absurdity  to  give  the  large  and  small  states 
each  one  vote  in  a  body  which  had  the  powers  of  a  government. 

It  is  not  a  heavy  burden  on  the  United  States  taxpayer— 16  cents  per  citi- 
zen in  Year  11  of  the  Atomic  Age.  This  is  less  than  half  of  what  is  spent  for 

412         GOVERNMENT 


the  sanitation  of  the  city  of  New  York,  or  one-fourteenth  of  what  is  spent  for 
cigarettes.  The  amount  spent,  according  to  the  New  York  Times  figures,  by 
the  United  Nations,  foreign  delegations,  and  secretariat  members  living  in 
New  York  far  exceeds  our  annual  contribution  to  the  United  Nations  and 
the  specialized  agencies— and  the  American  contribution  was  reduced  both 
in  percentage  and  in  actual  dollars  at  the  last  session  of  the  General 
Assembly. 

It  does  not  threaten  the  destruction  of  our  Constitution  because,  as  the 
Supreme  Court  has  said,  "the  treaty  making  power  does  not  extend  as  far 
as  to  authorize  what  the  Constitution  forbids."  There  is  only  one  organ  of 
the  United  Nations  which  can  take  action  which  is  legally  binding.  That 
is  the  Security  Council  and  there  the  United  States  is  completely  protected 
by  the  veto.  None  of  the  other  things  the  United  Nations  can  do  are  any- 
thing but  recommendatory. 

It  is  not  a  nest  of  Communist  spies,  because  there  is  nothing  to  spy  on  in 
the  United  Nations— which  is  why  the  Soviets  haven't  even  filled  their 
quota  of  employees.  No  United  States  citizen  employed  by  the  United  Na- 
tions has  ever  been  prosecuted  for  espionage.  Every  United  States  citizen 
employed  there  will  within  a  few  months  have  been  screened  in  accordance* 
with  a  Civil  Service  Commission-FBI  plan.  With  so  many  good  Americans 
to  choose  from  there  is  no  justification  whatever  for  employing  a  single 
American  in  the  United  Nations  who  is  a  Communist. 

It  is  not  a  snare  which  dragged  the  United  States  into  the  Korean  war. 
The  United  States  took  the  initiative  in  getting  the  United  Nations  to  take 
action  against  the  Communist  aggressor  in  Korea. 

It  is  certainly  not  a  device  which  has  had  an  unbroken  record  of  suc- 
cesses. Far  from  it.  It  did  not  prevent  the  Communist  victory  in  China. 
Neither  did  the  United  States.  Communist  successes  in  other  parts  of  the 
world  have  taken  place  in  spite  of  the  United  Nations.  Yet  it  not  only  sur- 
vives but  actually  functions  helpfully,  though  imperfectly,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  the  Communist  bloc  is  in  a  cold  war  with  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Its  future 

THE  NEED  for  the  United  Nations  is  sure  to  grow  as  rapidly  as  science 
progresses.  Today,  none  of  the  60  nations  comprising  the  United  Na- 
tions is  able  to  maintain  itself  alone— except  for  the  Soviet  Union,  which 
does  it  by  harsh  slave  labor.  The  United  States  cannot  exist  without  sup- 
plies far  in  excess  of  what  we  produce  here.  If  we  were  denied  as  few  as 
20  essential  materials  we  would  be  completely  crippled  economically. 
The  whole  of  North  America,  with  guided  missiles  and  atomic  weapons, 
can  be  crippled  militarily.  Maybe  it  was  possible  to  get  along  without  a 
place  like  the  United  Nations  in  the  days  when  the  4&  day  boat  to  Europe 

WHAT    THK    ITN1TF.1)    NATIONS    MEANS    .    .    .        413 


was  the  quickest  way  to  travel  across  the  seas,  although  even  in  those  days 
we  got  into  two  world  wars.  But  a  place  like  the  United  Nations  is  as  neces- 
sary now  in  international  politics  as  an  airport  in  international  travel. 

It  is  perhaps  because  of  this  need  that  the  United  Nations,  with  all  its 
faults,  has  been  able,  more  than  any  other  body  in  modern  history,  to  organ- 
ize peace  and  security— in  spite  of  the  great  threats  to  peace  and  security 
at  large  in  the  world. 

This  is,  undoubtedly,  why  war  would  be  inevitable  if  the  United  Nations 
disappeared. 

If  war  came  in  spite  of  the  United  Nations,  it  would  then  be  the  indis- 
pensable instrument  for  repelling  the  aggression— which  is  probably  one 
reason  why  the  Communists  don't  leave  it. 

This  explains  why  men  of  good  will  throughout  the  world  would  be  strain- 
ing every  nerve  to  create  even  the  imperfect  device  which  we  have  now  if 
the  United  Nations  did  not  exist. 

Therefore  there  is  a  need  for  the  United  Nations,  a  need  as  real  as  the 
yearning  of  mankind  no  longer  to  send  its  sons  off  to  slaughter. 

Three  questions  have  been  raised  in  the  United  States  with  regard  to  the 
*  United  Nations,  and  satisfactory  answers  to  these  questions  must  be  given. 

One  concerns  the  loyalty  of  United  States  personnel  on  the  payroll,  and, 
as  I  have  said,  within  a  few  months  every  American  employed  there  will 
have  been  screened  in  accordance  with  the  Civil  Service  Commission-FBI 
plan. 

The  second  is  that  the  Soviets  used  the  United  Nations  to  fight  their  cold 
war  battles  whereas  the  United  States  did  not.  This  situation  does  not  exist 
in  the  United  Nations  today.  We  follow  the  policy  of  actively  using  the 
United  Nations  as  the  one  great  world  forum  for  international  presentation 
and  rebuttal.  At  the  last  session  of  the  General  Assembly  we  used  it  as  a 
place  in  which  the  big  truth  could  be  used  to  demolish  the  big  lie. 

To  give  a  few  examples,  Dr.  Charles  Mayo  of  the  Mayo  Clinic,  who  was 
an  American  delegate,  made  a  smashing  demonstration  of  the  diabolical 
falsity  of  the  Communist  charge  that  the  United  States  has  been  using  germ 
warfare  in  Korea.  Other  delegates  focused  the  spotlight  of  world  attention 
on  forced  labor  behind  the  Iron  Curtain  and  on  treatment  of  World  War  II 
prisoners  of  war.  I  presented  the  dreadful  story  of  Communist  atrocities  in 
Korea  which  so  moved  the  General  Assembly  that  it  adopted  a  condemna- 
tory resolution.  In  addition  to  these  specific  topics,  we  have  adopted  the 
practice  of  always  answering  a  Communist  speaker  immediately  so  that  no 
news  story  goes  out  of  the  United  Nations  to  the  world  public  consisting 
only  of  the  Communist  side.  In  that  news  story  there  is  always  something 
from  the  side  of  the  free  world. 

414        GOVERNMENT 


In  November  the  President  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  if  the  legislature 
of  Puerto  Rico  adopted  a  resolution  asking  for  complete  independence,  he 
would  be  glad  to  do  all  in  his  power  to  see  that  Puerto  Rico  got  it.  The 
President  chose  the  United  Nations  as  the  place  at  which  that  announce- 
ment should  be  made.  When  it  was  made,  it  created  great  good  will  for 
the  United  States  among  Latin  American  countries  and  also  in  countries 
in  Asia  and  Africa  where  the  colonial  question  is  a  matter  of  active  interest. 

The  third  question  asks  whether  it  is  true  that  the  United  States  has  given 
an  undue  proportion  of  manpower  to  the  Korean  war  and  that  the  other 
members  of  the  United  Nations  have  put  in  too  little. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  contribution  of  the  United  States  to  the  war  in 
Korea  was  of  overriding  importance  and  was  in  fact  utterly  indispensable. 
In  combat  manpower  alone  the  contribution  of  the  United  States  was  far 
larger  than  that  of  any  one  country  except  the  Republic  of  Korea— and  it  is 
the  United  States  which  trained  and  equipped  the  Republic  of  Korea  army. 

It  is  also  true  that  the  other  United  Nations  members  put  up  the  equiva- 
lent of  two  divisions.  The  United  States  divisions  at  World  War  II  figures 
cost  $600  million  a  year.  The  cost  today  is  probably  greater,  but  is  a  secret. 
If,  therefore,  the  United  States  had  had  to  furnish  these  two  divisions,  the 
added  dollar  cost  would  have  been  at  least  $600  million.  When  you  compare 
that  with  our  annual  contribution  of  $25  million,  you  can  see  that  on  a  finan- 
cial basis  alone  the  United  Nations  is  not  a  bad  deal. 

Carrying  the  fiscal  argument  still  further,  remember  that  the  most  expert 
studies  indicate  that  after  every  last  bill  has  been  paid,  World  War  II  will 
have  cost  us  $1  trillion,  300  billion— which  again  makes  our  $25  million 
contribution  to  the  United  Nations  seem  smaller. 

Of  course,  money  is  not  the  only,  and  not  even  the  most  important,  con- 
sideration. If  the  United  States  had  had  to  supply  two  more  divisions  there 
would  have  been  that  many  more  American  casualties,  that  many  more 
tragedies  in  American  homes,  which  were  instead  suffered  in  homes  of  other 
countries  whose  brave  men  answered  the  call. 

Many  persons  had  the  idea  at  the  end  of  World  War  II  that  the  United 
Nations  would  be  an  automatic  peace  producer— that  a  few  gifted  lawyers 
scattered  around  the  world  would  draft  a  charter;  that  this  charter  would  be 
ratified  by  the  nations;  that  a  handsome  building  would  be  erected;  and 
that  then  the  world  would  have  an  automatic  device  for  peace. 


T 


No  automatic  device  for  peace 

HE  TRUTH  is  that  there  is  no  automatic  device  for  peace.  If  the  United 
Nations  is  as  automatic  as  a  burglar  alarm,  it  is  doing  well.  But  what 

WHAT  THE  UNITED  NATIONS   MEANS   .   .   .        415 


happens  after  the  bell  rings  is  up  to  the  members,  and  you  will  get  results 
solely  in  proportion  as  you  contribute.  In  the  grim  struggle  for  peace,  the 
payments  which  must  be  made  are  not  merely  in  money;  they  are  chiefly 
in  the  service  of  men.  In  the  face  of  something  as  critical  as  an  impending 
war  nothing  less  than  human  muscle,  human  hearts,  and  human  service  will 
do  the  job. 

Rather  than  draft  a  charter  and  then  look  for  troops  it  might  have  been 
more  logical  at  the  time  for  the  nations  to  have  earmarked  the  troops  and 
then  drafted  the  charter.  But  history  is  not  always  logical  and  we  do 
progress. 

In  the  struggle  for  peace,  as  in  every  other  human  endeavor,  the  success 
of  the  struggle  depends  directly  on  how  hard  you  work,  how  deeply  you 
sacrifice,  how  sincerely  you  care,  how  much  in  the  service  of  your  sons  you 
are  willing  to  put  in.  No  amount  of  diplomatic  nicety  and  verbal  courtesy 
can  alter  this  fact,  and  the  future  of  the  United  Nations  is  bound  up  in  it. 

The  United  Nations  is  a  place  where  the  nations  of  the  world  may  take 
whatever  collective  action  they  are  at  any  given  moment  capable  of  taking. 
Such  a  place  is  a  vital  necessity. 

While  the  need  for  the  United  Nations  is  as  strong  and  as  steady  as  the 
human  yearning  for  peace,  its  future  success  depends  entirely  on  the  extent 
to  which  its  members  support  it.  It  is  up  to  them.  They  can  drop  it  impa- 
tiently and  destroy  it  because  it  had  not  brought  the  millennium,  or  they 
can  kill  it  by  failure  to  support  it.  Or,  like  the  Wright  brothers  with  their 
first  airplane  in  1903,  they  can  perfect  it  and  transform  it  into  something 
which  will  make  future  generations  forever  grateful  that  we  in  the  1950's  had 
the  patience  and  the  foresight  to  make  this  beginning. 

For  Americans  the  United  Nations  is  not  only  a  place  to  promote  peace, 
it  is  the  greatest  single  place  in  which  to  develop  partners  who,  valuing 
their  own  freedom,  will  fight  to  defend  it  whenever  it  is  attacked  and  thus, 
on  a  basis  of  mutual  respect,  help  us  in  our  struggle  to  survive.  For  a 
nation  like  the  United  States,  which  has  most  of  the  world's  wealth  and  only 
6  percent  of  the  world's  population,  the  conclusion  must  be  obvious  that 
we  cannot  have  too  many  partners  to  help  us  carry  the  load  of  combat. 

The  United  Nations  is  primitive;  it  is  evolutionary;  it  has  not  brought, 
and  will  not  bring,  the  millennium.  But  it  is  useful;  its  cost  is  small;  it  is  an 
intelligent  first  step;  it  stands  between  us  and  international  anarchy.  It  thus 
stands  between  us  and  World  War  III  or  the  extinction  of  human  freedom— 
or  both.  Finally,  it  represents  another  important  step  in  man's  long  march 
toward  freedom— a  march  with  so  many  impressive  associations  with  this 
historic  city  and  this  historic  House  of  Burgesses. 

416       GOVERNMENT 


THE    TALK    OF    THE    TOWN 

Plug  the  weep-holes  in  the  spandrels  l 

FOR  us,  one  of  the  excitements  of  New  York  in  these  racy  days  is  living 
near  enough  to  the  United  Nations  headquarters  so  that  we  can  wander 
in  now  and  again  and  sit  in  the  new  chairs  and  listen  to  the  old  debates. 
For  about  eight  years,  we  have  followed  the  U.N.  around  the  country,  have 
sat  with  it  in  sadness  in  the  queer  dwellings  where,  for  lack  of  any  better 
place  to  go,  it  has  parked  its  briefcase.  Opera  houses,  hotel  rooms,  college 
gyms,  skating  rinks,  gyroscope  factories.  And  now  the  little  green  shebang 
on  the  East  River.  All  its  homes  have  been  queer;  all  have  had  one  quality 
in  common— a  kind  of  dreaminess  compounded  of  modern  interiors,  ancient 
animosities,  and  the  aching  hopes  of  invisible  millions. 

We  saw  an  article  in  a  Texas  paper  not  long  ago  about  the  U.N.— a  warn- 
ing by  an  educator  that  grade-school  children  are  being  indoctrinated  with 
one-worldism.  He  felt  that  it  is  improper,  or  inadvisable,  to  introduce 
youngsters  in  their  formative  years  to  anything  as  mysterious  and  complex  as 
this  international  forum,  and  to  what  he  called  "the  false  mirage  of  hope." 
His  argument  was  that  until  children  have  become  acquainted  with  their 
own  America,  and  have  attained  maturity  of  judgment,  it  is  dangerous  to 
introduce  them  to  the  United  Nations  and  to  "bespeak  its  virtues."  He  wants 
school  children  to  "see  America  first."  He  suspects  a  sinister  motivation  be- 
hind the  attempt  to  teach  school  children  about  the  U.N.  His  concern  is  a 
genuine  concern,  obviously,  and  his  argument  is  a  familiar  one,  for  the 
question  of  the  United  Nations  has  bothered  many  a  board  of  education. 

It  seems  to  us  that  the  answer  is  rather  simple.  Of  course  children  should 
see  America  first;  they  are  bound  to  see  it  first  anyway,  as  it  is  what  they 
see  when  they  look  out  the  window,  or  at  the  blackboard,  or  into  the  faces 
of  their  teachers  and  their  contemporaries.  But  one  of  the  many  visible  facts 
about  America  today  is  that  it  is,  for  better  or  for  worse,  participating  in  the 
United  Nations.  It  would  be  indefensible  to  tell  school  children  that  the 
United  Nations  is  working  well,  but  we  think  it's  equally  indefensible  to 
pretend  that  it  doesn't  exist,  or  that  we're  not  involved  deeply  in  it.  The 
writer  of  the  article  in  the  paper  describes  the  U.N.  as  "ill-sired  and  begot- 
ten." Well,  we  were  there  at  the  birth,  and  we  came  away  with  the  impres- 
sion that  the  U.N.  had  indeed  a  very  odd  parentage:  its  dam  was  hope,  its 


Reprinted  by  permission.  Copyright  1953  The  New  Yorker  Magazine,  Inc. 

PLUG  THE  WEEP-HOLES   .   .    .        417 


sire  was  fear.  The  result  was  a  weak  constitution.  The  infant  is,  we  admit, 
unpromising.  But  the  desires  and  passions  that  brought  nations  and  peoples 
together  in  1945  are  by  no  means  unpromising.  There  was  something  about 
that  affair  eight  years  ago  that  was  inevitable,  and  shaky  though  it  be  today, 
it  is  a  fact.  No  Texas  educator  should  try  to  conceal  the  facts  of  life.  Kids 
have  always  been  quick  to  pick  them  up,  despite  the  prudish  attempts  of 
their  elders  to  prettify  things. 

We  were  thinking  of  these  matters  the  other  day  as  we  sat  moodily  watch- 
ing a  meeting  of  the  Political  and  Security  Committee  of  the  General  Assem- 
bly. We  wondered  whether  the  Texas  educator  had  ever  wandered  around 
much  inside  the  U.N.,  as  we  do  from  time  to  time.  We  wondered  whether 
he'd  actually  experienced  the  strange  atmosphere  of  the  place—the  atmos- 
phere he  wants  to  keep  secret  from  children.  It  is,  we  agree,  a  hall  of  fantasy. 
The  fantasy  is  partly  physical:  the  interiors  always  a  little  too  good,  the 
doors  transparent,  not  really  separating  one  area  from  another,  the  carpets 
too  soft  and  deep,  the  words  too  hard  and  shallow,  the  corridors  lonely,  the 
chairs  and  facilities  luxurious  far  beyond  the  facts  of  international  harmony. 
Everywhere  a  sense  of  modernity,  of  elegance,  of  unreality.  And  over  all 
a  brooding  excitement.  Here  under  this  roof  are  gathered  every  tension, 
every  dream,  every  trick,  every  philosophy,  every  tongue.  In  many  respects, 
when  added  all  together,  it  is  without  meaning.  There  are  days  when  it 
seems  wholly  without  meaning.  Yet  in  one  respect  it  is  the  most  significant 
place  of  all,  and  to  keep  a  child  from  experiencing  this  side  of  it  seems  to 
us  to  misjudge  the  power  of  children  to  know  and  to  understand.  Any  rea- 
sonably intelligent  child  of  seven  is  capable  of  realizing  that  he  has  an 
opposite  number  somewhere  in  the  world— some  other  seven-year-old,  who 
is  endowed  with  essentially  the  same  properties  and  desires,  if  not  the  same 
opportunities  and  protections,  and  who  is  estranged  because  of  distance 
and  estranged  because  of  language,  and  who  is  about  to  grow  up  into  either 
an  enemy  or  a  friend. 

The  U.N.  is  a  home  that  hasn't  been  lived  in;  the  rooms  are  the  work  of 
a  decorator,  not  of  a  wife.  There  is  no  more  chilling  sight  than  the  spectacle 
of  the  preliminaries:  the  delegates  standing  around  the  periphery,  talking 
in  low  tones,  each  in  his  own  tongue;  the  wise  smiles  on  the  wise  faces; 
the  strategy  of  the  day  being  plotted— the  strategy  that  plays  with  the  lives 
of  millions  all  over  the  globe,  including,  we  must  sadly  add,  the  lives  of 
school  children  in  Texas.  This  is  the  chilliest  sight  we  ever  saw.  And  the 
photographers  closing  in  on  Vishinsky  as  though  he  were  the  last  man  on 
earth,  as  though  he  had  some  special  meaning  that  could  be  revealed  to  the 
world  through  the  power  of  the  lens. 

The  place  often  reminds  us  of  a  hospital.  Recently  we  walked  in  and  the 

418        GOVERNMENT 


public-address  system  was  paging  the  delegate  from  Iran  (as  in  a  hospital 
you  hear  a  doctor  being  called,  and  you  shudder  with  the  feeling  that  some- 
where a  patient  has  taken  a  turn  for  the  worse).  In  the  U.N.  you  hear  them 
calling,  calling,  "The  delegate  from  Iran,"  hear  it  sound  importantly  in  the 
corridors,  and  you  wonder  if  something  in  the  Middle  East  has  taken  a  turn 
for  the  worse.  The  U.N.  is  that  kind  of  place— a  chamber  of  horrors,  but  not 
anything  you  can  keep  from  children.  Even  the  building  itself  leaks;  it  has 
weep-holes  in  the  spandrels,  and  is  open  to  the  rains  and  the  winds  of  the 
world.  Confronted  with  its  unsuccess,  confronted  with  its  frauds  and  its 
trickeries  and  its  interminable  debates,  we  yet  stand  inside  the  place  and 
feel  the  winds  of  the  world  weeping  into  our  own  body,  feel  the  force  under- 
lying the  United  Nations,  the  force  that  is  beyond  question  and  beyond  com- 
pare and  not  beyond  the  understanding  of  children.  It  will  be  their  task 
(as  it  is  ours)  to  plug  the  weep-holes  in  the  spandrels. 


PLUG   THE   WEEP-HOLES    .    .    .        419 


678910111213141516    64636261605958 


Book  TWO:  Literature 


part  1 

The  nature  of 
imaginative  writing 


'FICTION'    VERSUS    TACT' 


A  NATURAL  question  at  the  beginning  several  factual  passages  and  a  liteiary 
of  a  study  of  the  reading  of  fie-  passage,  all  of  our  selections  dealing 
tion,  drama,  and  poetry  is,  "What  is  it  with  similar  subject  matter,  whales  and 
that  literature  does  that  other  types  of  whaling.  Our  first  three  passages  have 
writing  do  not  do?"  Common  sense  sug-  been  drawn  respectively  from  science, 
gests  that  we  may  answer  this  question,  economics,  and  history,  the  fourth  from 
in  part  at  least,  by  contrasting  the  pur-  a  novel.  The  group  will  help  us  con- 
poses  and  achievements  of  literature  on  trast  informative  writing  ("fact")  with 
the  one  hand  and  of  nonliterary  ac-  imaginative  writing  ("fiction").  The  sci- 
counts  on  the  other.  Let  us  compare  entific  selection  follows: 

AMONG  mammals  which  have  turned  to  aquatic  life,  the  whales— the  order 
Cetacea— constitute  the  largest  and  most  important  group  and  the  best 
adapted  to  an  existence  in  the  water.  Both  structurally  and  functionally  they 
have  become  completely  divorced  from  their  former  land  life  and  are  help- 
less if  stranded.  Only  in  their  need  for  air  breathing  do  they  exhibit  any  func- 
tional reminiscence  for  their  former  terrestrial  existence.  .  .  . 

Marine  life  has  been  accompanied  by  many  internal  modifications.  The 
original  whales  appear  to  have  been  fish-eating  carnivores.  The  majority  of 
modern  whales  are  still  toothed,  but,  as  in  the  seals,  the  teeth  have  been 
simplified,  usually  to  simple  pegs.  The  number  has  in  many  cases  increased 
greatly  over  the  primitive  placental  forty-four;  in  others  teeth  have  been 
reduced  in  number  or  entirely  abandoned  for  a  straining  apparatus  of  whale- 
bone. The  anterior  portion  of  the  skull  has  been  elongated  irom  the  first. 
But  in  correlation  with  the  breathing  problem  in  diving  types,  the  nostrils 
have  moved  backward  in  the  skull  and  in  typical  living  whales  are  placed, 
as  the  blowhole,  on  the  top  of  the  head.  .  .  . 

Whales  may  be  divided  into  three  suboiders:  the  Archaeocetes,  of  the 
early  Tertiary;  and  two  living  groups— the  Odontoceti,  or  toothed  whales, 
and  the  Mysticeti,  or  whalebone  whales.— ALFRED  S.  ROMEH,  Vertebrate 
Paleontology  (University  of  Chicago  Press,  1945),  pp.  486  f. 

Clearly  Romer  here  wanted  to  do  one  counted,  measured,  compared,  and  con- 
thing  only:  to  instruct  us  about  whales.  trasted.  When  he  says  that  in  typical 
To  this  end,  he  set  down  what  we  popu-  living  whales  the  nostrils  are  placed  "as 
larly  call  "facts"— phenomena  which,  in  the  blowhole,  on  the  top  of  the  head," 
this  case,  can  and  have  been  observed,  he  is  not  guessing  or  imagining:  he  is 

2         FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


describing  an  observed  phenomenon. 
Even  when  Romer  compares  primitive 
whales  with  modern  whales,  he  is  still 
basing  his  statements  upon  observed 
material— in  this  case  upon  skeletal  re- 
mains. Where  the  author  is  not  com- 
pletely certain,  he  takes  pains  to  indi- 
cate the  fact.  The  original  whales,  for 
example,  he  says,  "appear  to  have  been 
fish-eating  carnivores."  Note  that  he 
does  not  say  that  they  were  such  crea- 
tures: he  uses  a  word  which  distin- 
guishes a  likelihood  from  a  certainty. 
In  short,  the  passage  consists  of  (a) 
statements  describing  and  comparing 
what  has  been  observed,  and  (b)  state- 
ments that  draw  carefully  weighed  con- 
clusions about  what  has  been  observed. 
Since  the  conclusions  are  reached 
only  after  a  methodical  sorting  of  the 
facts,  we  find  it  useful  to  observe  how 
the  facts  are  ordered  to  convey  informa- 
tion to  us.  After  reading  the  first  sen- 
tence, we  know  the  scientific  name  for 
whales,  we  know  that  they  belong  to 
the  class  of  mammals,  and  that  within 
that  class  they  are  the  group  (or  order) 
which  is  the  largest,  the  most  important, 
and  the  best  adapted  to  water.  We 
start,  then,  with  a  careful  definition. 
The  next  two  sentences  tell  us  general 
facts  about  the  adaptation  of  whales  to 
marine  life.  The  second  paragraph,  in 
the  excerpted  form  given  here,  de- 
scribes specific  internal  characteristics 
which  developed  as  a  result  of  this  shift 
to  an  aquatic  environment.  Then  the 
third  paragraph  separates  members  of 


the  order  into  suborders.  If  you  have 
studied  much  science,  you  will  know 
that  the  author  here  is  beginning  the 
process  called  classification,  and  you 
will  guess  that  his  next  step  will  be  to 
describe  each  class  of  whales  in  detail. 

Observe  what  the  author  does  not 
do.  Notice  that  he  does  not  spin  a  yarn, 
describe  a  scene,  or  re-create  an  ex- 
perience. Therefore,  his  statements  here, 
based  though  they  are  on  concrete  de- 
tails, are  abstract.  Notice  that  he  does 
not  employ  words  which  either  evoke 
pictures  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  or 
stimulate  emotional  reactions.  He  does 
not  order  his  material  in  such  a  way  as 
to  communicate  an  experience  or  a 
mood,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  unfold  a 
series  of  ideas.  Finally,  observe  that 
human  judgments  and  evaluations  are 
not  involved.  The  author  does  not  main- 
tain that  the  toothed  whales,  for  ex- 
ample, are  the  best  of  living  whales,  or 
the  most  beautiful,  or  the  truest  to 
their  class. 

What  we  have  noticed  about  this 
selection  can  be  noticed  about  almost 
any  typical  work  strictly  in  the  natural 
sciences.  The  material  consists  of  facts 
discovered  and  verified  by  observation 
and  of  hypotheses  and  of  conclusions 
arrived  at  through  an  orderly  consider- 
ation of  the  facts.  The  statements  are 
ordinarily  abstract  rather  than  concrete, 
emotionless  rather  than  emotive,  and 
descriptive  rather  than  evaluative.  Turn 
now  to  a  somewhat  different— but  also 
factual— passage : 


THE  PHYSICAL  losses  [in  whaling]  resulting  from  the  destruction  of  ves- 
sels, cargoes,  and  equipment  were  indeed  formidable  when  considered 
in  the  absolute;  but  when  compared  with  the  size  of  the  entire  fleet  at  sea 
during  any  given  year,  they  constituted  a  smaller  percentage  of  the  whole 
than  might  reasonably  have  been  expected  as  a  result  of  the  nature  of  the 


FICTION   VERSUS    FACT 


have  been  slave-drivers;  sperm  oil  from  the  Seychelles  Islands  and  whale- 
bone from  Kamchatka;  barnacles  acquired  in  every  one  of  the  seven  seas, 
scrimshaw  work  and  Chinese  tea,  Oriental  silk  and  souvenirs  from  the  Fiji 
Islands;  bonanza  voyages  and  penniless  hands;  log-books  telling  of  stove 
boats  and  accounts  telling  of  exorbitant  charges;  rope- walks  and  sail-lofts, 
outfitters  and  ship-chandlers;  Quaker  and  Cape  Verde  half-breed,  Puritan  and 
Kanaka;  pure  sperm  oil  which  has  been  bailed  out  of  the  head  of  a  cachalot 
and  black  and  stinking  whale  oil  which  has  been  four  years  at  sea;  stories  of 
murder  and  of  rape  in  the  South  Seas;  yarns  of  cheap  love  in  Paita  and  of 
frozen  noses  in  the  Sea  of  Okhotsk;  Seamen's  Bethel  and  dens  of  drunken 

vice;  counting-houses  with  high  stools 

Cosmopolitan  and  provincial,  of  the  great  outlying  world  and  of  pinched 
New  England,  pious  and  abandoned,  aesthetic  and  ugly,  alluring  and  re- 
pulsive, colorful  and  drab,  adventurous  and  cautious,  courting  danger  and 
loving  security— such  was  New  Bedford. . .  .—ELMO  PAUL  HOHMAN,  The 
American  Whaleman  (Longmans,  Green,  1928),  p.  47. 


The  areas  of  man's  intellectual  enter- 
prise are  roughly  considered  to  be  three: 
the  natural  sciences,  the  social  studies, 
and  the  humanities.  The  passage  just 
quoted  is  history  not  as  social  science 
but  as  humanistic  evaluation.  Those 
working  in  the  humanities  are  not  pri- 
marily interested  in  the  description  of 
our  natural  and  social  worlds:  their 
chief  concern  (to  which  other  concerns 
to  be  sure  are  subordinated)  is  in  hu- 
man values.  Such  workers  are  forever 
weighing  human  experience  on  scales 
of  the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful. 
The  field  includes  such  subjects  as 
ethics,  religion,  philosophy,  languages, 
the  fine  arts,  literature,  and  certain  kinds 
of  history.  In  subjects  such  as  religion 
and  philosophy,  the  process  of  evalua- 
tion is  usually  clear  and  explicit.  The 
process  is  also  clear  in  the  historical 
passage  on  New  Bedford  just  quoted. 
The  town  in  the  great  days  of  whaling, 
says  Hohman,  was  "alluring  and  ludi- 
crous"; it  was  "pious  and  abandoned, 
aesthetic  and  ugly."  Obviously,  human 


values  are  involved  in  these  statements 
as  well  as  in  others  in  the  passage. 

The  passage  is  made  up  of  such  gen- 
eralizations (pars.  1  and  3)  plus  a  num- 
ber of  details  in  the  New  Bedford  scene 
which  justify  them  (par.  2).  The  cata- 
logue in  the  second  paragraph  typifies 
what  has  been  called  "impressionistic 
presentation."  The  author  wishes  to 
convey  a  certain  impression  or  mood 
compounded  of  certain  thoughts  and 
certain  feelings.  He  therefore  presents 
a  number  of  details  which  contribute 
to  that  impression.  As  always,  the  his- 
torian here,  of  course,  is  basing  what 
he  writes  on  his  study  of  sources— his- 
tories of  the  town,  newspapers,  docu- 
ments. As  always,  he  is  generalizing  and 
presenting  facts.  This  is  factual  writing, 
but  in  some  ways  it  approaches  imag- 
inative literature. 

However,  literature— fiction,  drama, 
and  poetry— ordinarily  differs  markedly 
from  all  factual  writings,  even  those  in 
the  humanistic  fields.  With  the  previous 
factual  passages,  let  us  contrast  the  fio 


6 


FICTION   VERSUS    FACT 


tional  excerpt  which  follows.  During  the  (the  second  mate)   in  command  of  a 

voyage  recounted  in  Herman  Melville's  whaling  boat,  Tashtego  (the  harpooner), 

famous  novel  Moby  Dick,  the  crew  of  and  the  crew  are  in  pursuit  as  the  pas- 

the  Pequod  has  sighted  a  whale.  Stubb  sage  begins: 

AND  THUS  with  oars  and  yells  the  keel  cut  the  sea.  Meanwhile,  Stubb 
retaining  his  place  in  the  van,  still  encouraged  his  men  to  the  onset,  all 
the  while  puffing  the  smoke  from  his  mouth.  Like  desperadoes  they 
tugged  and  they  strained,  till  the  welcome  cry  was  heard— "Stand  up, 
Tashtego!— give  it  to  him!"  The  harpoon  was  hurled.  "Stern  all!"  The  oarsmen 
backed  water;  the  same  moment  something  went  hot  and  hissing  along 
every  one  of  their  wrists.  It  was  the  magical  line.  An  instant  before,  Stubb 
had  swiftly  caught  two  additional  turns  with  it  round  the  loggerhead, 
whence,  by  reason  of  its  increased  rapid  circlings,  a  hempen  blue  smoke  now 
jetted  up  and  mingled  with  the  steady  fumes  from  his  pipe.  As  the  line 
passed  round  and  round  the  loggerhead,  so  also,  just  before  reaching  that 
point,  it  blisteringly  passed  through  and  through  both  of  Stubb's  hands, 
from  which  the  hand-cloths,  or  squares  of  quilted  canvas  sometimes  worn 
at  these  times,  had  accidentally  dropped.  It  was  like  holding  an  enemy's 
sharp  two-edged  sword  by  the  blade,  and  that  enemy  all  the  time  striving 
to  wrest  it  out  of  your  clutch. 

"Wet  the  line!  wet  the  line!"  cried  Stubb  to  the  tub  oarsman  (him  seated 
by  the  tub)  who,  snatching  off  his  hat,  dashed  the  sea-water  into  it.  More 
turns  were  taken,  so  that  the  line  began  holding  its  place.  The  boat  now  flew 
through  the  boiling  water  like  a  shark  all  fins.  Stubb  and  Tashtego  here 
changed  places—stem  for  stern— a  staggering  business  truly  in  that  rocking 
commotion. 

From  the  vibrating  line  extending  the  entire  length  of  the  upper  part  of 
the  boat,  and  from  its  now  being  more  tight  than  a  harpstring,  you  would 
have  thought  the  craft  had  two  keels— one  cleaving  the  water,  the  other  the 
air— as  the  boat  churned  on  through  both  opposing  elements  at  once.  A  con- 
tinual cascade  played  at  the  bows;  a  ceaseless  whirling  eddy  in  her  wake; 
and,  at  the  slightest  motion  from  within,  even  but  of  a  little  finger,  the  vibrat- 
ing, cracking  craft  canted  over  her  spasmodic  gunwhale  into  the  sea.  Thus 
they  rushed;  each  man  with  might  and  main  clinging  to  his  seat,  to  prevent 
being  tossed  to  the  foam;  and  the  tall  form  of  Tashtego  at  the  steering  oar 
crouching  almost  double,  in  order  to  bring  down  his  centre  of  gravity.  Whole 
Atlantics  and  Pacifies  seemed  passed  as  they  shot  on  their  way,  till  at  length 
the  whale  somewhat  slackened  his  flight. 

"Haul  in— haul  in!"  cried  Stubb  to  the  bowsman!  and,  facing  round 
towards  the  whale,  all  hands  began  pulling  the  boat  up  to  him,  while  yet  the 


FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


boat  was  being  towed  on.  Soon  ranging  up  by  his  flank,  Stubb,  firmly  plant- 
ing his  knee  in  the  clumsy  cleat,  darted  dart  after  dart  into  the  flying  fish;  at 
the  word  of  command,  the  boat  alternately  sterning  out  of  the  way  of  the 
whale's  horrible  wallow,  and  then  ranging  up  for  another  fling. 

The  red  tide  now  poured  from  all  sides  of  the  monster  like  brooks  down  a 
hill.  His  tormented  body  rolled  not  in  brine  but  in  blood,  which  bubbled  and 
seethed  for  furlongs  behind  in  their  wake.  The  slanting  sun  playing  upon 
this  crimson  pond  in  the  sea,  sent  back  its  reflection  into  every  face,  so  that 
they  all  glowed  to  each  other  like  red  men.  And  all  the  while,  jet  after  jet  of 
white  smoke  was  agonizingly  shot  from  the  spiracle  of  the  whale,  and  vehe- 
ment puff  after  puff  from  the  mouth  of  the  excited  headsman;  as  at  every 
dart,  hauling  in  upon  his  crooked  lance  (by  the  line  attached  to  it),  Stubb 
straightened  it  again  and  again,  by  a  few  rapid  blows  against  the  gunwhale, 
then  again  and  again  sent  it  into  the  whale. 

"Pull  up— pull  up!"  he  now  cried  to  the  bowsman,  as  the  waning  whale  re- 
laxed in  his  wrath.  "Pull  up!— close  to!"  and  the  boat  ranged  along  the  fish's 
flank.  When  reaching  far  over  the  bow,  Stubb  slowly  churned  his  long  sharp 
lance  into  the  fish,  and  kept  it  there,  carefully  churning  and  churning,  as  if 
cautiously  seeking  to  feel  after  some  gold  watch  that  the  whale  might  have 
swallowed,  and  which  he  was  fearful  of  breaking  ere  he  could  hook  it  out. 
But  that  gold  watch  he  sought  was  the  innermost  life  of  the  fish.  And  now  it 
is  struck;  for,  starting  from  his  trance  into  that  unspeakable  thing  called  his 
"flurry,"  the  monster  horribly  wallowed  in  his  blood,  overwrapped  himself  in 
impenetrable,  mad,  boiling  spray,  so  that  the  imperilled  craft,  instantly  drop- 
ping astern,  had  much  ado  blindly  to  struggle  out  from  that  phrensied  twi- 
light into  the  clear  air  of  the  day. 

And  now  abating  in  his  flurry,  the  whale  once  more  rolled  out  into  view; 
surging  from  side  to  side;  spasmodically  dilating  and  contracting  his  spout- 
hole,  with  sharp,  cracking,  agonized  respirations.  At  last,  gush  after  gush  of 
clotted  red  gore,  as  if  it  had  been  the  purple  lees  of  red  wine,  shot  into  the 
frighted  air;  and  falling  back  again,  ran  dripping  down  his  motionless  flanks 
into  the  sea.  His  heart  had  burst! 

"He's  dead,  Mr.  Stubb,"  said  Daggoo. 

"Yes;  both  pipes  smoked  out!"  and  withdrawing  his  own  from  his  mouth, 
Stubb  scattered  the  dead  ashes  over  the  water;  and,  for  a  moment,  stood 
thoughtfully  eyeing  the  vast  corpse  he  had  made. 

Immediately  we  notice  that  Melville,  factual  writers  have  generalized,  he  par- 

in  contrast  to  Romer  and  Hohman,  is  ticularizes:  He  tells  us  not  about  whales 

communicating  not  factual  information  and  whalers  in  general  but  about  one 

but  an  imagined  experience.  Where  the  whale,  one  crew,  and  what  happened  to 

8         FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


them.  Whereas  the  whales  and  whalers 
of  the  other  passages  actually  existed, 
neither  the  whale  nor  the  crew  of  Mel- 
ville's account  is  historically  "real";  Mel- 
ville has  "imagined"  them  (see  p.  36). 
Romer  and  Hohman  give  us  their  ideas 
in  an  order  like  that  of  thought.  Melville 
tells  of  the  experiences  of  his  whalers 
and  his  whale  in  an  order  like  that  of 
experiences  in  life  itself.  The  factual 
passages  cover  ages  or  decades;  this 
passage,  though  much  longer,  covers  in 
concrete  detail  only  a  few  minutes.  And 
details  are  not  classified  and  general- 
ized: they  are  offered  to  our  senses— as 
pictures,  sounds,  movements— individu- 
ally, as  they  would  come  to  us  if  we 
ourselves  were  on  the  scene. 

As  a  result  (if  the  author  achieves 
the  effect  at  which  he  aimed),  when 
we  read  this  last  passage,  we  should 
react  very  differently  from  the  way  we 
should  react  when  we  read  the  factual 
passages.  While  reading  the  factual  pas- 
sages, we  react  intellectually;  while 
reading  Melville,  we  react  both  intel- 
lectually and  emotionally.  From  the  first 
two  passages  and  even  from  the  third 
we  get  more  of  a  sense  of  watching  a 
man  thinking  than  we  get  of  watching 
things  happen  in  the  actual  world.  The 
account  drawn  from  Moby  Dick,  imag- 
ined though  it  is,  gives  us  a  sense  of 
sharing  a  real  experience. 

At  least  part  of  our  emotional  reac- 
tion is  the  result  of  the  fact  that  (unlike 
the  authors  of  the  passages  concern- 
ing whales  and  whaling  risks)  Melville 
shows  his  own  feelings  about  his  sub- 
ject matter.  Even  more  than  the  passage 
about  New  Bedford,  the  selection  from 
Moby  Dick  indicates  by  its  details  and 
its  wording  what  its  author's  emotions 
are.  Leo  Stein  suggested  a  contrast  we 
notice  in  these  passages  when  he  said: 


Art  is  the  union  of  man  and  nature; 
its  realities  are  essentially  man-made. 
Science  is  the  separation  of  man  and 
nature,  so  far  as  in  a  man's  universe  this 
is  possible.  Science  tries  to  see  things 
as  a  disembodied  intelligence,  a  robot 
intelligence,  would  see  them.  It  prefers 
the  testimony  of  a  registering  apparatus 
and  pointer  readings  to  the  testimony 
of  'a  simple  separate  person/  But  with- 
out that  simple  separate  person,  there  is 
no  art. 

Melville's  way  of  writing  indicates 
not  only  his  emotional  reactions  but  also 
his  judgments  of  human  affairs.  Even 
in  so  brief  a  passage  as  this,  we  learn 
something  of  his  way  of  looking  at  life; 
and  when  we  read  the  whole  novel  of 
which  this  is  a  part,  we  see  that  the 
incident  contributes  its  share  to  a  work 
which  sets  forth  a  profound  view  of 
human  life.  We  note,  though,  that 
neither  here  nor  elsewhere  in  the  novel 
does  Melville  state  his  interpretations 
explicitly,  but  that  he  embodies  them 
in  an  imaginative  narrative.  They  are 
implied  rather  than  explicitly  stated. 

These,  then,  are  some  of  the  differ- 
ences between  one  literary  and  three 
factual  handlings  of  similar  materials. 
How  many  of  the  contrasts  noticed 
between  the  selections  from  Romer 
and  Hohman,  on  the  one  hand,  and 
from  Melville,  on  the  other,  will  be 
found  if  similar  contrasts  are  made 
between  other  parallel  factual  and  liter- 
ary accounts?  What  generalizations  are 
possible  about  the  aims  and  the  meth- 
ods of  imaginative  authors,  whether 
they  write  fiction  or  drama  or  poetry? 
What  do  these  generalizations  mean  to 
you  as  readers?  These  are  questions 
which  you  are  to  try  to  solve  as  you 
study  the  selections  which  follow. 


FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


The  cases  of  Jean  Muir  and  Alice  Wetter 


passages,  one  factual  and  the  other  imaginative,  which  tell  of  similar 
happenings  are  printed  on  the  pages  which  follow.  Your  purpose  as  you  read  the 
passages  and  answer  the  questions  about  them  is  to  test  and  supplement  what  has 

been  said  in  the  previous  pages  about 
the  aims  and  metJiods  (and  therefore 
the  value  to  you  as  a  reader)  of  imagi- 
native literature.  The  first  is  from  a  fac- 
tual story  in  a  weekly  news  magazine. 
The  second  is  from  a  novel,  The  Trou- 
bled Air.  In  the  novel,  Clement  Archer, 
a  radio  director,  has  been  asked  to  dis- 
charge five  actors  who  have  been  ap- 
pearing on  his  weekly  show  because  a 
magazine  article  has  implied  that  they 
are  Communists.  Archer  has  requested 
and  won  tJic  right  to  postpone  action 

NEWSWEEK  for  *wo  wee^s>  during  wJiich  he  is  in- 

vestigating the  justice  of  the  implicit 
accusations.  During  his  interviews,  he 

~T)  C  finds  some  of  the  cast  innocent,  some 

JL   111  ^ C    Ol  patently  guilty,  of  subversive  activity. 

The  excerpt  tells  of  his  interview  with 
one  of  the  five,  Alice  Weller. 


ON  SUNDAY,  Aug.  27,  Jean  Muir  arrived  at  an  NBC  studio  about  noon 
for  the  last  rehearsals  of  The  Aldrich  Family,  due  to  start  its  second 
year  on  TV  that  night.  She  brought  a  cake  to  celebrate  with  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  cast.  Then  came  the  announcement  that  the  show  was  canceled 
(Newsweek,  Sept.  4). 

No  reason  was  given  at  the  time,  but  General  Foods  Corp.,  the  sponsor, 
subsequently  stated  what  had  already  been  rumored— that  the  postponement 
had  been  effected  by  twenty  phone  calls  and  two  telegrams  protesting  Miss 
Muir's  appearance  as  "Mother  Aldrich."  These  protests,  the  company  state- 
ment said,  made  her  a  "controversial  personality."  As  such  she  might  "pro- 
voke unfavorable  criticism  and  even  antagonism  among  sizable  groups  of 
consumers." 


Reprinted  by  special  permission  from  Newsweek  Magazine,  September  11,  1950  issue. 

10         FICTION    VERSUS   FACT 


Jean  Muir  had  become  a  "controversial  personality"  and  occasioned  the 
protests  principally  because  her  name  is  listed,  along  with  149  others,  in 
the  pamphlet  "Red  Channels:  The  Report  of  Communist  Influence  in  Radio 
and  Television."  x  The  news  of  Miss  Muir's  replacement  was  the  first  pub- 
licized indication  of  the  pamphlet's  power. 

The  first  purpose  of  "Red  Channels"  is  "to  show  how  the  Communists  have 
been  able  to  carry  out  their  plan  of  infiltration  of  the  radio  and  television 
industry."  This  is  done  by  listing  after  each  name  Red,  Red-front,  or  sus- 
pected Red-front  activities  and  organizations.  The  pamphlet  carefully  does 
not  state  that  any  "biographee"  is  a  Communist,  but  the  implication  is  there. 
Miss  Muir's  proclivity  for  such  activities  and  groups  has,  according  to  "Red 
Channels,"  been  fairly  strong;  nine  entries  appear  after  her  name.  She  sub- 
sequently denied  that  she  is  or  ever  has  been  a  Communist,  claimed  she 
"loathes"  Communism,  and  stated  she  never  heard  of  some  of  the  organiza- 
tions she  was  supposed  to  belong  to. 

Last  week  no  network  or  advertising  agency  officials  were  willing  to  be 
quoted  on  whether  a  performer,  director,  writer,  or  producer  listed  in  "Red 
Channels"  will  be  hired.  It  is  clear  to  them,  however,  that  future  "Muir  in- 
cidents" can  be  avoided  by  referring  to  "Red  Channels"  or  by  checking  with 
the  six-month-old  Joint  Committee  Against  Communism,  which  has  ap- 
pointed a  Radio  Committee  to  "watch  and  monitor  radio  and  television." 
This  radio  committee  uses  "Red  Channels"  as  its  main  source.  The  pamphlet, 
according  to  spokesman  Rabbi  Benjamin  Schultz,  is  only  "one  of  our  sources." 
Other  sources  are  "in  the  radio  game,"  and  the  members  of  the  committee 
have  "some  knowledge  ourselves."  According  to  Dr.  Schultz,  the  radio  com- 
mittee has  already  been  receiving  inquiries  about  performers  from  pro- 
spective employers.  .  .  . 


Published  in  June  by  Counterattack,  a  Communist  fighting  newsletter. 


PURGE   OF   PERFORMERS         11 


IRWIN    SHAW 


Alice  Weller 


A  ICE  WELLER  lived  high  up  on  Central  Park  West,  in  a  building  that  had 
at  one  time  been  luxurious  and  genteel.  By  now  it  was  only  genteel. 
The  carpets  were  threadbare  and  greenish,  if  they  were  any  color,  and 
the  walls  of  the  lobby  were  a  dim  olive  stucco.  The  elevator  clanked  and 
groaned  as  it  rattled  up  the  shaft  and  the  operator  wheezed  as  he  worked 
the  lever. 

"Mrs.  Weller,"  Archer  said. 

"Fourth  floor,"  the  elevator  man  said.  "Does  she  expect  you?" 

"Yes."  Archer  sniffed  the  mingled  odors  of  oil,  dust  and  age,  and  it  brought 
back  the  memory  of  the  pleasant  evenings  he  had  spent  a  long  time  ago  in 
this  house,  when  Alice's  husband,  who  had  been  Archer's  friend,  was  alive. 
Since  his  death,  Archer  had  visited  Alice  less  and  less  frequently,  salving 
his  conscience  with  the  knowledge  that  he  had  found  work  for  her  more  or 
less  steadily  ever  since  he  had  become  a  director,  even  though  there  had 
been  times  when  he  had  to  fight  the  producers  of  his  shows  to  do  it. 

Alice  opened  the  door  herself.  She  was  dressed  in  a  ruinously  youthful 
cotton  dress  that  made  her  look  older  than  she  was.  Her  hair,  just  out  of 
curlers,  was  too  tightly  bunched  over  her  forehead.  She  smiled  softly  when 
Archer  kissed  her.  "It's  nice  to  see  you  here  again,"  she  said,  without  re- 
proach. "It's  been  so  long." 

Her  hands,  Archer  noticed,  as  she  hung  up  his  coat,  were  cracked  and  red, 
as  though  she  had  done  a  great  many  dishes  very  recently.  She  led  the  way 
into  the  living  room,  seeming,  in  the  incongruous  dress,  not  matronly  but 
exhausted. 

"Take  that  chair,"  she  said,  pointing.  "The  one  you  used  to  like  has  a 
broken  spring." 

Archer  sat  down  obediently,  feeling  guilty  that  Alice  remembered  that  he 
had  liked  a  particular  chair.  He  didn't  remember  any  of  the  chairs. 

"I  think  111  sit  me  down  here,"  Alice  said,  folding  into  the  sofa,  which 
gave  off  several  grinding  squeaks  as  her  weight  settled.  It  was  her  one 
affectation,  Archer  remembered.  She  said,  I  must  sit  me  down,  and  I  must 
wake  me  up  and  I  must  take  me  home.  Probably  it  had  charmed  some  man 
a  long  time  ago  and  she  had  dimly  clung  to  the  trick,  feeling  momentarily 
younger  each  time  she  used  it.  Archer  had  always  been  uneasy  when  he 
heard  her  talk  like  that  and  he  realized  it  still  left  him  uneasy.  She  sat  stiffly 
on  the  stiff  couch,  as  though  she  had  somehow  lost  the  knack  of  grace. 

12         FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


"Ralph  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you  again."  Alice  was  saying.  "He's  asked 
for  you  often." 

"How  is  he?"  Archer  asked  politely,  wondering  how  long  he  would  have 
decently  to  wait  before  telling  Alice  what  he  was  here  for. 

"He's  grown  so  tall  you  won't  recognize  him,"  Alice  said,  like  a  mother. 
"He  wants  to  be  a  physicist  now,  he  says.  You  know,  the  papers're  so  full  of 
science  these  days,  and  they  have  professors  down  to  talk  to  them  all  the 
time."  She  laughed  softly.  If  you  closed  your  eyes  and  just  listened  to  the 
gentle  melody  of  her  voice,  you  would  imagine  a  young,  delightful,  hesi- 
tant girl  in  the  room  with  you.  "I  don't  know  what's  happened  to  firemen 
and  jockeys  any  more,"  Alice  said.  "The  things  the  boys  wanted  to  be  when 
I  was  a  young  girl." 

Ralph  was  her  only  child.  Her  husband  had  been  an  architect  who  had 
just  begun  to  have  his  initial  successes  after  years  of  struggle  when  he  had 
been  killed  in  an  automobile  accident  in  1942.  He  had  been  something  of  a 
political  thinker  and  had  not  believed  in  insurance.  Looking  around  him  at 
the  meager  room,  with  its  worn  furniture  and  mended  curtains,  and  its  air 
of  being  fragile  and  desperate,  as  though  it  was  inhabited  by  people  who 
could  not  bear  another  shock  from  life,  Archer  thought  that  it  would  have 
been  better  if  the  architect  had  not  had  such  original  notions  and  had  taken 
out  a  policy  or  two  in  his  wife's  name  before  he  took  that  automobile  ride. 

"So  many  problems  come  up,"  Alice  was  saying.  "Just  last  week  I  was 
offered  the  role  of  the  mother  in  the  road  company  of  Breakwater.  It's  a 
good  part  and  the  money  was  good  and  they  wanted  to  give  me  a  year's 
contract.  But  it  would  have  meant  leaving  Ralph  alone— sending  him  to  a 
boarding  school.  I  talked  to  him  about  it—he's  amazingly  grownup,  you  can 
discuss  anything  with  him— and  he  was  very  brave  about  it.  But  at  the  last 
minute  I  told  them  no."  She  laughed  sadly.  "I  don't  know  what  I'll  do  when 
he  grows  up  and  decides  to  go  off  and  get  married.  I'll  probably  behave 
terribly  and  get  drunk  and  insult  the  bride."  She  waved  her  hands  vaguely, 
apologizing.  "I  must  shut  me  up,"  she  said  nervously.  "I  mustn't  babble  on 
about  my  family.  What  about  you?  You  look  very  well  these  days.  Very 
distinguished-looking.  I've  been  meaning  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  with  a  pain- 
ful, dim  echo  of  coquetry. 

"I'm  fine,"  Archer  said,  because  that  described  it  as  well  as  any  other  one 
word.  "The  program  keeps  me  alive." 

Alice  chuckled  self-consciously.  "It  also  keeps  me  alive,"  she  said  shyly. 
"And  Ralph." 

That  was  an  unfortunate  way  for  me  to  put  it,  Archer  thought.  The  phrase 
went  too  deep  when  you  examined  it  seriously,  as  Alice  was  doing. 

"You're  on  it  this  week,  too,"  Archer  said,  grateful  that  he  could  say  that 

ALICE    WEIXER         13 


much.  One  hundred  dollars  more  for  the  complicated  process  of  keeping 
Ralph  and  his  mother  alive.  "Quite  a  nice  part.  Not  very  long,  but  juicy." 

"Thanks,  Clement."  Alice's  hands  waved  in  front  of  her.  Her  gratitude, 
Archer  thought,  is  always  uncomfortably  naked.  "Mr.  O'Neill  called  me  this 
morning  and  told  me," 

Archer  phoned  in  a  list  of  people  he  was  going  to  use  each  week  and 
O'Neill  made  the  necessary  calls  each  Monday  morning.  There  were  going 
to  be  some  bad  Monday  mornings  for  Alice  from  now  on,  sitting  by  the 
silent  telephone,  if  Hutt  had  his  way.  Well,  Archer  thought,  the  longer  I 
wait  the  harder  it's  going  to  be. 

"Alice,"  he  said,  rubbing  the  top  of  his  head  nervously,  "I'm  in  trouble." 

"Oh."  Alice  took  in  her  breath  sharply.  An  expression  of  concern  washed 
tremblingly  over  her  face.  "Can  I  help?"  she  asked. 

"Something  queer  has  come  up,"  Archer  said.  "About  you." 

"About  me?"  Alice  looked  surprised,  then  frightened. 

"You  know,"  Archer  said,  "for  the  last  year  or  so,  agencies  have  been 
dropping  people  from  programs  because  they've  been.  .  ."  He  hesitated, 
searching  for  the  least  harmful  word.  "Because  they've  been  accused  of  being 
Communists  or  fellow  travelers,  whatever  that  is." 

"Clement,"  Alice  peered  worriedly  at  him,  "you're  not  being  fired,  are 
you?" 

Archer  grinned  weakly.  "No,  not  at  the  moment." 

Alice  sighed  with  obvious  relief.  "These  days,"  she  said,  "it's  impossible  to 
tell  what's  going  to  happen  next." 

"Alice,"  Archer  said,  determined  to  get  it  out  without  further  delay,  "the 
truth  is,  I've  been  asked  to  drop  you." 

Strangely,  she  smiled  at  him.  It  was  a  slow,  hurt  smile,  an  involuntary 
twitching  of  the  muscles  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  joy,  but  which,  by  some 
trick  of  mechanics,  twisted  her  mouth  upward  at  the  corners.  Clumsily, 
without  seeming  to  notice  what  she  was  doing,  she  lifted  her  hands  and 
poked  aimlessly  at  the  tight  curls  around  her  ears. 

"But  you're  not  doing  it,"  Alice  said.  "You  just  said  there  was  a  nice  part 
for  me  this  Thursday.  And  O'Neill  called  at  ten  o'clock  this  morning.  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  Archer,  "that's  right.  I  got  us  a  period  of  grace."  As  he  said  it 
he  wondered  abstractedly  why  he  had  said  us.  "We  have  two  weeks  to  do 
something  about  it." 

"Two  weeks."  Alice's  shoulders  drooped  and  her  hands  dropped  again. 
"What  can  you  do  in  two  weeks?" 

"Don't  give  up  in  advance,"  Archer  said,  annoyed  at  Alice's  quick  accept- 
ance of  defeat.  "We  might  do  a  great  deal." 

"I  don't  understand."  Alice  stood  up  heavily.  She  walked  toward  the 

14        FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


window,  looking  stout,  hiding  her  face  from  Archer.  "I  don't  know  where 
to  begin.  What  do  they  say  about  me?" 

"Hutt  received  an  advance  copy  of  a  magazine  article,"  Archer  said  slowly 
and  clearly,  trying  to  pierce  through  Alice's  vagueness.  "In  it  you  and  several 
others  are  said  to  belong  to  various  Communist-front  organizations.  Do  you 
belong  to  any  organizations  that  might  be— suspect?" 

Alice  turned  and  faced  him  bewilderedly.  "I  don't  know."  She  seemed 
distracted,  as  though  she  were  having  trouble  focusing  her  mind  on  the  sub- 
ject. "I  belong  to  several  things.  AFRA.  Actors  Equity.  The  Parent-Teachers' 
Association.  Then  there's  a  league  that  my  husband  used  to  give  money  to, 
for  protecting  Negroes'  civil  rights.  I  sometimes  send  them  five  dollars.  .  . 
Do  you  think  it  might  be  any  of  them?" 

"Probably  not,"  said  Archer.  "Is  there  anything  else?" 

"Well,  I  certainly  don't  belong  to  the  Communist  Party."  Alice  tried  to 
smile.  "I'm  sometimes  pretty  vague  but  I'd  know  that,  wouldn't  I?" 

"I'm  sure  you  would."  Archer  smiled  reassuringly. 

"I  haven't  done  anything  illegal."  Alice's  voice  became  stronger  as  she 
began  to  get  accustomed  to  the  idea  that  she  would  have  to  defend  herself 
and  that  Archer  was  there  to  help  her.  "I'd  know  it  if  I'd  broken  any  laws, 
wouldn't  I?" 

"It  isn't  quite  as  simple  as  that,"  Archer  said,  "any  more."  He  was  un- 
happy about  being  the  one  who  was  forced  to  explain  the  new,  melancholy, 
uncertain  order  of  things  to  Alice,  "Because  of  the  strained  relations  be- 
tween us  and  Russia,"  he  said  rhetorically,  like  a  schoolteacher,  "because  of 
the  tensions  that  have  developed  since  the  war— there's  a  kind  of  twilight 
zone  now,  in  which  people  are  placed  without  committing  any  overt  acts.  It's 
a  zone  of— of  moral  disapproval,  I  guess  you  could  call  it— for  certain  opin- 
ions, certain  associations.  .  ." 

"Opinions?"  Alice  laughed  softly  and  sank  into  a  chair,  as  though  she 
were  very  tired.  "Who  knows  what  my  opinions  are?  I  don't  know  myself. 
Oh,  dear,  you  must  think  I'm  an  absolute  fool.  In  the  last  few  years  I  seem 
to  have  grown  incapable  of  thinking  clearly  about  anything.  I  belong  in  a 
cartoon— in  one  of  those  hats,  making  a  speech  to  a  gardening  club  in  the 
suburbs." 

"Not  at  all,"  Archer  said,  feeling  that  his  voice  was  too  brisk. 

"Yes,  yes."  Alice  shook  her  head  ruefully.  "You  don't  have  to  be  so  polite. 
Even  Ralph  makes  fun  of  me  sometimes,  and  he's  only  fourteen  years  old." 
She  picked  up  a  photograph  of  her  son  that  was  on  a  bookcase  and  stared 
at  it. 

"Last  year,"  Alice  said  suddenly,  "it  might  have  something  to  do  with 
what  happened  last  winter." 

ALICE   WELLZR         15 


"What's  that?"  Archer  asked,  puzzled. 

"I  got  a  terrible  letter.  Printed.  In  pencil.  All  misspelled." 

"What  letter?"  Archer  tried  to  sound  patient.  "Try  to  remember  everything 
you  can,  Alice." 

"It  was  anonymous.  I  only  read  half  of  it  and  I  threw  it  away,"  Alice  said. 
"I  couldn't  bear  to  read  it.  It  called  me  the  most  filthy  names.  You'd  be  sur- 
prised what  people  can  send  through  the  mails.  It  said  why  didn't  I  go  back 
to  where  I  came  from  if  I  didn't  like  it  here."  Alice  essayed  a  laugh.  "I  don't 
know  quite  what  they  meant  by  that.  My  family's  lived  in  New  York  for 
over  a  hundred  years.  They  threatened  me."  She  looked  up  at  the  ceiling, 
remembering,  the  sagging  skin  of  her  throat  pulled  tight.  "  We're  going  to 
take  care  of  you  and  your  kind,'  it  said,  'soon.  We  are  forming,'  it  said,  'and 
it  won't  take  long  now.  In  Europe  they  shaved  the  heads  of  women  like  you, 
but  you  won't  get  off  just  with  a  haircut/  " 

Archer  closed  his  eyes,  ashamed  for  the  people  he  passed  every  day,  un- 
recognizingly,  on  the  street.  "Why  didn't  you  show  it  to  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  couldn't,"  Alice  said.  "Some  of  the  names  they  called  me  you  just 
couldn't  show  to  anyone.  I  bought  a  new  lock  for  the  door  and  I  had  a  chain 
put  on."  She  laughed  nervously.  "It  was  really  nothing.  Nothing  happened. 
I  even  managed  to  forget  about  it  until  today." 

"Have  you  any  idea  why  that  letter  was  sent  to  you?"  Archer  asked,  think- 
ing, Now  we  are  entering  another  field,  the  field  of  the  anonymous  threat 
to  impoverished  widows.  Live  in  the  big  city  and  expose  yourself  to  all  its 
cultural  advantages. 

"Yes,"  Alice  said,  surprisingly  definite.  "It  was  after  that  big  meeting  last 
winter,  that  peace  meeting  at  the  Waldorf.  The  one  that  had  those  Russian 
writers  and  composers.  .  ." 

"Were  you  there?"  Archer  asked  incredulously. 

"Yes,  I  was."  Alice  sounded  defiant. 

"What  the  hell  were  you  doing  there?" 

"I  was  on  the  radio  panel.  I  was  supposed  to  make  a  speech,  but  I  was 
too  nervous  and  I  got  out  of  it.  I  was  going  to  speak  on  the  bad  effects  of 
the  crime  shows  on  children." 

Hopeless,  Archer  thought,  listening  to  the  soft,  defensive  voice,  absolutely 
hopeless. 

"You  have  no  idea  how  evil  they  are,"  Alice  said  earnestly.  "Full  of  peo- 
ple being  tortured  and  killed  and  hitting  each  other  over  the  head.  It's  the 
only  thing  I  fight  about  with  Ralph.  He  sits  there,  listening,  getting  jumpy 
and  over-stimulated,  when  he  should  be  out  in  the  open  air  or  doing  his 
homework.  I  feel  quite  strongly  about  it,"  she  said  primly,  as  though  she 
were  a  little  surprised  at  herself  for  permitting  herself  the  luxury  of  feeling 

16         FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


quite  strongly  about  anything.  "But  then,  when  the  time  approached,  I  knew 
I  could  never  manage  to  stand  up  in  front  of  all  those  important  people.  .  /' 
She  laughed  embarrassedly.  "I  said  I  had  a  headache/* 

"There  were  thousands  of  pickets  around  the  hotel  all  the  time,"  Archer 
said,  wonderingly.  "Didn't  you  realize  you  were  liable  to  get  into  trouble?" 

"I  saw  those  pickets.  They  looked  like  very  low  types.  Very  coarse  and 
unreasonable,"  Alice  said,  invincibly  ladylike.  "Just  the  kind  to  send  a  woman 
an  unprintable  anonymous  letter/' 

"Was  your  name  on  the  program?"  Archer  asked  wearily. 

"Yes."  Alice  started  to  get  up.  "I  think  I  have  it  in  the  desk  if  you'd  like 
to.  .  ." 

"Never  mind.  Never  mind.  Sit  down."  He  stared  consideringly  at  Alice, 
as  she  subsided.  At  least  he  knew  now  why  the  magazine  had  included  her 
in  its  list.  It  didn't  take  much,  he  realized  grimly.  One  undelivered  speech 
on  the  effects  of  afternoon  serials  on  the  minds  of  growing  boys.  .  .  He 
shook  his  head,  half  in  pity,  half  in  exasperation.  "How  did  you  get  mixed 
up  in  it,  Alice?"  he  asked. 

"Frances  Mothcrwell  told  me  about  it,"  Alice  said,  "and  asked  me  to  ap- 
pear in  the  radio  section.  She  said  it  would  focus  the  attention  of  the  world 
on  the  necessity  of  avoiding  a  third  world  war." 

Frances  Motherwell,  Archer  thought  bitterly,  herself  almost  invulnerable, 
energetically  supplying  slogans  and  disaster  to  bereft  ladies  with  low  bank 
accounts. 

"You  mustn't  be  angry  with  me,  Clement,"  Alice  said  unhappily.  "I  knew 
a  lot  of  people  thought  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  the  Con- 
ference, and  the  papers  kept  saying  it  was  a  Communist  trick.  And,  really, 
they  didn't  seem  to  accomplish  very  much.  But  even  if  they  accomplished 
just  a  tiny  bit,  even  if  it  made  people  in  Washington  and  Moscow  just  a 
fraction  more  unwilling  to  go  to  war,  I  had  to  go.  .  .  I  suppose  a  mother, 
especially  if  she  only  has  one  son,  is  kind  of  crazy  on  the  subject  of  war. 
Ralph  is  fourteen.  In  four  or  five  more  years,  he'll  be  just  the  age,  .  .  My 
sister,  she's  older  than  I  am,  she  lives  in  Chicago,  she  sent  a  son  to  the  last 
one.  He  came  back— but  he  was  hit  in  the  face,  his  chin  was  all  shot  away. 
They've  operated  on  him  ten  times,  but  he  still.  .  ."  Alice  stopped.  "He 
refuses  to  go  out.  He  refuses  to  see  anyone.  He  sits  in  his  room  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  all  day  long.  You  read  the  papers  and  every  day  they  talk  about 
being  firm,  about  delivering  ultimatums,  about  sending  soldiers  all  over  the 
world.  .  .  They  keep  building  new  submarines,  faster  airplanes,  rockets, 
bombs.  You  look  at  your  son,  fourteen  years  old,  sitting  in  the  front  room, 
practicing  the  cello,  and  you  think  they're  preparing  it  for  him,  all  those  old 
men  in  Washington,  all  those  generals,  all  those  people  on  the  newspapers. 


ALICE    WELLER 


17 


They're  preparing  to  have  Ralph  shot.  Blown  up.  That' s  what  I  think  every 
time  I  read  a  general's  speech  in  the  papers,  every  time  I  see  new  planes  in 
the  newsreels.  When  I  get  home  from  the  movies  I  go  into  Ralph's  room  and 
I  look  at  him  sleeping  there  and  I  think,  They  want  to  kill  him.  They  want 
to  kill  him/  I'll  tell  you  something,  Clement,"  Alice  said  loudly,  "if  there  was 
any  place  to  go  and  I  could  scrape  together  the  money,  I'd  take  Ralph  to- 
morrow. To  the  smallest  island,  the  most  backward  country— and  hide  him 
there  and  stay  there  with  him.  Of  course  there's  no  place  to  go.  They've 
made  sure  of  that."  There  was  a  profound  note  of  bitterness  in  Alice's  voice 
that  Archer  had  never  heard  before.  "So  I  did  what  I  could.  I  was  very  brave 
and  I  went  to  a  meeting,  one  afternoon,  at  the  Waldorf  Astoria,  on  Park 
Avenue,"  she  said  with  harsh  sarcasm.  "And  I  put  a  chain  on  my  door." 

"Alice,  darling,"  Archer  said  gently,  "did  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you 
were  being  used?" 

"Good,"  Alice  said.  "They  can  use  me  all  they  want  if  it  means  there's  not 
going  to  be  a  war." 

"The  Communists  are  for  peace  today,"  Archer  said.  "Tomorrow  they're 
just  as  likely  to  be  for  war." 

"All  right,"  Alice  said,  stonily.  "Tomorrow  I  won't  let  them  use  me.  Today 
I  will." 

Archer  shrugged.  "OK,"  he  said.  "I  know  how  you  feel."  He  took  his  pipe 
from  his  pocket  and  filled  it  from  his  pouch. 

"You  think  I'm  wrong,  don't  you,  Clement?"  Alice  asked,  her  voice  plead- 
ing and  hesitant  again. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  Archer  said,  feeling  that  the  question  was  too  com- 
plex to  answer  in  one  afternoon.  He  stood  up,  holding  the  pipe  in  his  hand. 
"I  have  to  go  now,"  he  said. 

Alice  stood  too.  "Clement,"  she  said,  "what  will  I  do  if  they  won't  let  me 
work?  How  will  I  live?  How  will  Ralph  live?"  She  looked  haggard  and  old, 
standing  close  to  him,  peering  wildly  into  his  eyes,  her  curls  silly  and  out  of 
place  over  her  drawn  face. 

"Don't  worry,"  Archer  said,  because  he  had  to  say  something,  but  know- 
ing as  he  said  it  that  it  was  foolish. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  them  fire  me,  Clement?"  Her  hands  clutched  fiercely 
at  his  shoulders.  Her  hands  were  large  and  very  strong  and  he  could  feel 
the  nails  biting  in  through  the  cloth. 

Archer  took  a  deep  breath.  "I'm  on  your  side,  Alice,"  he  said.  "I  want  you 
to  know  that/' 

"Are  you  going  to  let  them  fire  me?"  Alice  asked,  ignoring  his  answer. 

Archer  put  his  arms  around  her.  She  was  shivering,  and  he  could  feel  the 
small,  sweeping  spasms  going  through  her  body.  She  wasn't  crying.  Her 

18         FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


body  was  thick  and  corseted  and  the  material  of  the  dress  felt  sleazy  under 
his  hands. 

"Clement,"  she  whispered  despairingly,  "are  you  going  to  let  them  fire  me?" 

Archer  kissed  her  cheek,  holding  her  close.  Her  skin  felt  harsh  against  his 
lips,  "No,"  he  said.  "I  promise  you." 

She  clutched  him  convulsively  for  a  second.  Then  she  pulled  away.  She 
still  wasn't  crying.  Her  lips  were  quivering,  but  there  were  no  tears. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  *Tm  going  to  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am,  Clement." 
She  touched  the  pipe  in  his  hand.  'Tm  so  glad,"  she  said,  "you  still  like  this 
pipe." 

"What?"  Archer  began,  looking  down  at  the  pipe.  It  was  an  old  one  that 
he  had  picked  off  his  desk  that  morning  because  it  had  no  ashes  in  it  from 
the  night  before.  Then  he  remembered,  Alice  had  given  it  to  him  as  a  gift 
after  he  had  given  her  a  job  on  his  first  program,  back  in  the  years  of  the  war. 
It  was  a  straight-grain  briar  and  he  knew  it  must  have  been  very  expensive. 
It  was  a  handsome  pipe,  but  for  some  reason  it  never  drew  well  and  he 
rarely  smoked  it.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it's  one  of  my  favorites." 


Questions 

To  which  of  the  three  main  areas  of 
intellectual  enterprise,  if  any,  does 
"Purge  of  Performers"  belong?  Justify 
your  classification  of  it.  What  does  your 
classification  indicate  about  a  suitable 
way  of  reading  it? 

2.  Find    passages    in    the    two    ex- 
cerpts given  here  which  convey  similar 
facts.  What  contrasts  are  there  between 
the  ways  the  facts  are  conveyed  to  the 
reader  in  the  two  excerpts?  How  are 
these  contrasts  related  to  Joseph  Wood 
Krutch's  statement  that  when  we  read 
literature   "we   are   not   only   learning 
about  people,  places,  and  manners  of 
living  of  which  we  are  ignorant,  but 
learning  about  them  by  what  seems  ac- 
tual experience"? 

3.  How  is  "Purge  of  Performers"  or- 
ganized? Why  is  such  an  organization 
appropriate  for  it?  "Alice  Weller"  has  a 


chronological,  i.e.,  a  time,  organization. 
Why  is  this  an  appropriate  organization? 
Why,  in  particular,  should  the  section 
start  with  a  description  of  the  apart- 
ment house  and  end  with  Archers 
leaving? 

4.  How  many  details,  comparatively, 
do  the  two  passages  cause  you  to  visu- 
alize (i.e.,  to  see  as  if  you  were  looking 
at  actual  people  and  events)?  How 
many  individuals,  comparatively,  do  you 
come  to  know  well  as  a  result  of  read- 
ing the  two  passages?  Discuss  the  ac- 
curacy of  the  following  statement  by 
E.  M.  Forster: 

Human  intercourse,  as  soon  as  we 
look  at  it  for  its  own  sake  and  not  as  a 
social  adjunct,  is  seen  to  be  haunted  by 
a  specter.  We  cannot  understand  each 
other,  except  in  a  rough  and  ready  way; 
we  cannot  reveal  ourselves,  even  when 
we  want  to;  what  we  call  intimacy  is 


ALICE    WELLER 


19 


only  a  makeshift;  perfect  knowledge  is 
an  illusion  But  in  the  novel  we  can 
know  people  perfectly,  and,  apart  from 
the  general  pleasure  of  reading,  we  can 
find  a  compensation  for  their  dimness 
in  life.  In  this,  fiction  is  truer  than  his- 
tory, because  it  goes  beyond  the  evi- 
dence, and  each  of  us  knows  from  his 
own  experience  that  there  is  something 
beyond  the  evidence.  .  .  . 

5.  In  which  passage  are  judgments 
made  of  man's  actions  and  attributes— 


i.e.,  are  some  actions  and  attributes 
made  to  seem  admiiable,  some  repre- 
hensible? What,  so  far  as  the  passages 
show,  is  (a)  Newswcek's  feeling  about 
Miss  Muir?  (b)  Shaw's  feeling  about 
Mrs.  Weller?  What  do  you  feel  about 
the  actresses  as  you  read  each  passage? 
Account  for  your  emotional  reactions. 
6.  Discuss  the  difference  between  the 
kinds  of  language  used  in  the  two  pas- 
sages. How  is  this  difference,  in  your 
opinion,  related  to  the  contrasting  aims 
and  methods  of  the  two  writers? 


Riot  in  Rome 


o  far,  the  contrasts  you  have  found 
between  factual  writing  and  imaginative 
writing  have  been  relatively  easy  ones 
to  formulate  because  the  factual  pas- 
sages involved  have  been  "purely"  fac- 
tual. We  all  know,  however,  that  some 
factual  works,  unlike  dispassionate  trea- 
tises in  the  natural  sciences  and  the 
social  sciences,  have  aims  and  appeals 
in  some  ivays  like  those  of  literature.  In 
particular,  histories  and  biographies  in 
the  field  of  the  humanities  are  likely  to 
offer  us  entertainment,  excitement,  and 
vivid  depictions  of  the  characters  and 
actions  of  individuals.  How  do  such 
icritings  as  these  contrast  with  stories, 
plays,  and  poems? 

To  answer  this  question— and  to  add 
to  your  conclusions  about  the  aims  and 
methods  of  imaginative  works— we  now 
ask  you  to  contrast  a  passage  from  The 
Life  of  Brutus  by  the  famous  Greek 
biographer,  Plutarch,  with  a  passage 
from  Shakespeare  s  drama,  Julius 
Caesar.  Your  contrast  should  help  you 


reach  valuable  conclusions  because  (a) 
both  the  passages  concern  the  same 
characters  and  practically  the  same 
events,  and  (b)  both  selections  are  by 
masters,  and  differences,  therefore,  will 
not  result  from  the  ineptitude  of  either 
author. 

If,  as  we  hope,  you  have  read  Julius 
Caesar,  you  will  recall  what  happened 
before  these  passages  begin:  Jidius 
Caesar,  having  won  fame  as  a  military 
leader  and  a  governor,  attained  the 
height  of  his  glory  in  44  B.C.,  when  he 
was  made  dictator  of  Rome  "for  life." 
Some  Romans  became  fearful  that  lie 
had  won  too  much  power  and  that  he 
coveted  more.  A  group  therefore  con- 
spired against  him,  led  by  Brutus,  a 
high-minded  but  somewhat  impractical 
idealist.  On  March  15,  the  conspirators 
slew  Caesar.  Most  of  the  conspirators 
wanted  to  slay  Antony  also,  but  they 
were  dissuaded  by  Brutus.  Both  pas- 
sages begin  with  a  meeting  of  the  con- 
spiratars  following  the  assassination. 


20 


FICTION   VERSUS    FACT 


PLUTARCH 


from  The  Life  of  Brutus 


WHEN  this  was  done,  they  came  to  talk  of  Caesar's  will  and  testament, 
and  of  his  funerals  and  tomb.  Then  Antonius  thinking  good  his  testa- 
rnent  should  be  read  openly,  and  also  that  his  body  should  be  honourably 
buried,  and  not  in  hugger-mugger,  lest  the  people  might  thereby  take  occa- 
sion to  be  worse  offended  if  they  did  otherwise:  Cassius  stoutly  spake 
igainst  it. 

But  Brutus  went  with  the  motion,  and  agreed  unto  it:  wherein  it  seemeth 
le  committed  a  second  fault.  For  the  first  fault  he  did  was,  when  he  would 
lot  consent  to  his  fellow-conspirators,  that  Antonius  should  be  slain.  And 
therefore  he  was  justly  accused,  that  thereby  he  had  saved  and  strengthened 
i  strong  and  grievous  enemy  of  their  conspiracy.  The  second  fault  was,  when 
le  agreed  that  Caesar's  funerals  should  be  as  Antonius  would  have  them: 
:he  which  indeed  marred  all.  For  first  of  all,  when  Caesar's  testament  was 
~>penly  read  among  them,  whereby  it  appeared  that  he  bequeathed  unto 
3very  citizen  of  Rome,  seventy-five  drachmas  a  man,  and  that  he  left  his 
gardens  and  arbours  unto  the  people,  which  he  had  on  this  side  of  the  river 
jf  Tiber,  in  the  place  where  now  the  temple  of  Fortune  is  built:  the  people 
then  loved  him,  and  were  marvellous  sorry  for  him. 

Afterwards  when  Caesar's  body  was  brought  into  the  market-place,  An- 
"onius  making  his  funeral  oration  in  praise  of  the  dead,  according  to  the 
incient  custom  of  Rome,  and  perceiving  that  his  words  moved  the  common 
Deople  to  compassion:  he  framed  his  eloquence  to  make  their  hearts  yearn 
:he  more,  and  taking  Caesar's  gown  all  bloody  in  his  hand,  he  laid  it  open 
"o  the  sight  of  them  all,  shewing  what  a  number  of  cuts  and  holes  it  had 
.ipon  it. 

Therewithal  the  people  fell  presently  into  such  a  rage  and  mutiny,  that 
here  was  no  more  order  kept  amongst  the  common  people.  For  some  of  them 
:ried  out,  Kill  the  murtherers:  others  plucked  up  forms,  tables,  and  stalls 
ibout  the  market-place,  as  they  had  clone  before  at  the  funerals  of  Clodius, 
ind  having  laid  them  all  on  a  heap  together,  they  set  them  on  fire,  and  there- 
upon did  put  the  body  of  Caesar,  and  burnt  it  in  the  midst  of  the  most  holy 
Dlaces.  And  furthermore,  when  the  fire  was  thoroughly  kindled,  some  here, 
;ome  there,  took  burning  firebrands,  and  ran  with  them  to  the  murderers' 
mouses  that  had  killed  him,  to  set  them  afire.  Howbeit  the  conspirators,  fore- 
seeing the  danger  before,  had  wisely  provided  for  themselves  and  fled. 


THE    LIFE   OF    BRUTUS         21 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 

from  The  Tragedy  of  Julius  Caesar 

Act  III,  Scene  i.  Rome.  Before  the  Capitol. 

(Enter  a  SERVANT) 

BRUTUS.  Soft!  who  comes  here?  A  friend  of  Antony's. 

SERVANT.  Thus,  Brutus,  did  my  master  bid  me  kneel; 

Thus  did  Mark  Antony  bid  me  fall  down; 

And,  being  prostrate,  thus  he  bade  me  say:  i<*5 

Brutus  is  noble,  wise,  valiant,  and  honest; 

Caesar  was  mighty,  bold,  royal,  and  loving; 

Say  I  love  Brutus,  and  I  honor  him; 

Say  I  fear'd  Caesar,  honor'd  him,  and  lov'd  him. 

If  Brutus  will  vouchsafe  that  Antony  X3o 

May  safely  come  to  him,  and  be  resolv'd 

How  Caesar  hath  deserv'd  to  lie  in  death, 

Mark  Antony  shall  not  love  Csesar  dead 

So  well  as  Brutus  living;  but  will  follow 

The  fortunes  and  affairs  of  noble  Brutus  135 

Thorough  the  hazards  of  this  untrod  state 

With  all  true  faith.  So  says  my  master  Antony. 
BRUTUS.  Thy  master  is  a  wise  and  valiant  Roman; 

I  never  thought  him  worse. 

Tell  him,  so  please  him  come  unto  this  place,  M° 

He  shall  be  satisfied,  and,  by  my  honor, 

Depart  untouch'd. 

SERVANT.  I'll  fetch  him  presently.  (Exit) 

BRUTUS.  I  know  that  we  shall  have  him  well  to  friend. 
CASSIUS.  I  wish  we  may,  but  yet  have  I  a  mind 

That  fears  him  much,  and  my  misgiving  still  145 

Falls  shrewdly  to  the  purpose. 
(Re-enter  ANTONY) 

BRUTUS.  But  here  comes  Antony.  Welcome,  Mark  Antonyl 
ANTONY.  O  mighty  Caesar!  dost  thou  lie  so  low? 


122.  Soft!  an  interjection  meaning  "Wait!"  126.  honest,  honorable.  131.  be  resolv'd, 
have  his  doubts  dispelled.  136.  Thorough,  a  dissyllabic  form  of  "through."  140.  so  please 
him,  if  it  please  him.  142.  presently,  immediately.  143.  to  friend,  as  a  friend.  145.  still, 
always.  146.  shrewdly,  mischievously.  Hence  the  meaning  is  "When  I  have  misgivings, 
they  always  turn  out  to  be  mischievously  correct" 


22 


FICTION   VERSUS   FACT 


Are  all  thy  conquests,  glories,  triumphs,  spoils, 

Shrunk  to  this  little  measure?  Fare  thee  well!  150 

I  know  not,  gentlemen,  what  you  intend, 

Who  else  must  be  let  blood,  who  else  is  rank; 

If  I  myself,  there  is  no  hour  so  fit 

As  Caesar's  death's  hour,  nor  no  instrument 

Of  half  that  worth  as  those  your  swords,  made  rich  155 

With  the  most  noble  blood  of  all  this  world. 

I  do  beseech  ye,  if  you  bear  me  hard, 

Now,  whilst  your  purpled  hands  do  reek  and  smoke, 

Fulfil  your  pleasure.  Live  a  thousand  years, 

I  shall  not  find  myself  so  apt  to  die;  160 

No  place  will  please  me  so,  no  mean  of  death, 

As  here  by  Caesar,  and  by  you  cut  off, 

The  choice  and  master  spirits  of  this  age. 
BRUTUS.  O  Antony,  beg  not  your  death  of  us. 

Though  now  we  must  appear  bloody  and  cruel,  165 

As,  by  our  hands  and  this  our  present  act, 

You  see  we  do,  yet  see  you  but  our  hands 

And  this  the  bleeding  business  they  have  done. 

Our  hearts  you  see  not;  they  are  pitiful; 

And  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome—  170 

As  fire  drives  out  fire,  so  pity  pity- 
Hath  done  this  deed  on  Caesar.  For  your  part, 

To  you  our  swords  have  leaden  points,  Mark  Antony: 

Our  arms,  in  strength  of  malice,  and  our  hearts 

Of  brothers'  temper,  do  receive  you  in  175 

With  all  kind  love,  good  thoughts,  and  reverence. 
CASSIUS.  Your  voice  shall  be  as  strong  as  any  man's 

In  the  disposing  of  new  dignities. 
BRUTUS.  Only  be  patient  till  we  have  appeas'd 

The  multitude,  beside  themselves  with  fear,  180 

And  then  we  will  deliver  you  the  cause 

Why  I,  that  did  love  Caesar  when  I  struck  him, 

Have  thus  proceeded. 
ANTONY.  I  doubt  not  of  your  wisdom. 


152.  let  blood,  bled.  An  allusion  to  "bleeding"  as  a  remedy  for  illness,  rank,  diseased 
from  repletion.  The  remedy  was  blood-letting.  157.  bear  me  hard,  bear  a  grudge  against 
me.  158.  purpled  hands,  blood-covered  hands.  159.  Live,  if  I  live.  160.  apt,  ready.  161. 
mean,  means.  162.  by  C&sar,  beside  Caesar.  174.  in  strength  of  malice,  violent  in  enmity. 
178.  dignities,  offices.  181.  deliver,  report 

THE  TRAGEDY   OF  JULIUS   CAESAR        23 


Let  each  man  render  me  his  bloody  hand. 

First,  Marcus  Brutus,  will  I  shake  with  you;  185 

Next,  Caius  Cassius,  do  I  take  your  hand; 

Now,  Decius  Brutus,  yours;  now  yours,  Metellus; 

Yours,  Cinna;  and,  my  valiant  Casca,  yours; 

Though  last,  not  least  in  love,  yours,  good  Trebonius. 

Gentlemen  all,— alas,  what  shall  I  say?  190 

My  credit  now  stands  on  such  slippery  ground 

That  one  of  two  bad  ways  you  must  conceit  me, 

Either  a  coward  or  a  flatterer. 

That  I  did  love  thee,  Caesar,  O,  'tis  true; 

If  then  thy  spirit  look  upon  us  now,  195 

Shall  it  not  grieve  thee  dearer  than  thy  death, 

To  see  thy  Antony  making  his  peace, 

Shaking  the  bloody  fingers  of  thy  foes, 

Most  noble!  in  the  presence  of  thy  corse? 

Had  I  as  many  eyes  as  thou  hast  wounds,  ^oo 

Weeping  as  fast  as  they  stream  forth  thy  blood, 

It  would  become  me  better  than  to  close 

In  terms  of  friendship  with  thine  enemies. 

Pardon  me,  Julius!  Here  wast  thou  bay'd,  brave  hart; 

Here  didst  thou  fall;  and  here  thy  hunters  stand,  205 

Sign'd  in  thy  spoil,  and  crimson'd  in  thy  Lethe. 

O  world,  thou  wast  the  forest  to  this  hart; 

And  this,  indeed,  O  world,  the  heart  of  thee. 

How  like  a  deer,  strucken  by  many  princes, 

Dost  thou  here  lie!  210 

CASSIUS.  Mark  Anthony,— 

ANTONY.  Pardon  me,  Caius  Cassius. 

The  enemies  of  Caesar  shall  say  this; 
Then,  in  a  friend,  it  is  cold  modesty. 
CASSIUS.  I  blame  you  not  for  praising  Cassar  so; 

But  what  compact  mean  you  to  have  with  us?  215 

Will  you  be  prick'cl  in  number  of  our  friends; 

Or  shall  we  on,  and  not  depend  on  you? 
ANTONY.  Therefore  I  took  your  hands,  but  was  indeed 


191.  credit,  honor.  192.  conceit,  believe.  196.  dearer,  more  keenly.  202.  close,  compro- 
mise. 204.  bay'd,  brought  to  bay.  hart ,  a  stag  ( a  pun  upon  "heart"  and  "hart"  is  involved ) . 
206.  Sign'd  in,  marked  with  the  signs  of.  Lethe,  oblivion,  hence,  death.  213.  modesty, 
moderation.  215.  compact,  agreement.  216.  prick'd,  marked. 

24        FICTION   VERSUS    FACT 


Sway'd  from  the  point,  by  looking  down  on  Caesar. 

Friends  am  I  with  you  all  and  love  you  all,  220 

Upon  this  hope,  that  you  shall  give  me  reasons 

Why  and  wherein  Caesar  was  dangerous. 
BRUTUS.  Or  else  were  this  a  savage  spectacle. 

Our  reasons  are  so  full  of  good  regard 

That  were  you,  Antony,  the  son  of  Ca3sar,  225 

You  should  be  satisfied. 
ANTONY.  That's  all  I  seek; 

And  am,  moreover,  suitor  that  I  may 

Produce  his  body  to  the  market-place; 

And  in  the  pulpit,  as  becomes  a  friend, 

Speak  in  the  order  of  his  funeral.  230 

BRUTUS.  You  shall,  Mark  Antony. 
CASSIUS.  Brutus,  a  word  with  you. 

(Aside  to  BRUTUS,)  You  know  not  what  you  do.  Do  not  consent 

That  Antony  speak  in  his  funeral. 

Know  you  how  much  the  people  may  be  mov'd 

By  that  which  he  will  utter? 
BRUTUS.  By  your  pardon.  235 

I  will  myself  into  the  pulpit  first, 

And  show  the  reason  of  our  Caesar's  death. 

What  Antony  shall  speak,  I  will  protest 

lie  speaks  by  leave  and  by  permission, 

And  that  we  are  contented  Caesar  shall  240 

Have  all  true  rites  and  lawful  ceremonies. 

It  shall  advantage  more  than  do  us  wrong. 
CASSIUS.  I  know  not  what  may  fall;  I  like  it  not. 
BRUTUS.  Mark  Antony,  here,  take  you  Caesar's  body. 

You  shall  not  in  your  funeral  speech  blame  us,  245 

But  speak  all  good  you  can  devise  of  Caesar, 

And  say  you  clo't  by  our  permission; 

Else  shall  you  not  have  any  hand  at  all 

About  his  funeral.  And  you  shall  speak 

In  the  same  pulpit  whereto  I  am  going,  250 

After  my  speech  is  ended. 
ANTONY.  Be  it  so. 

I  do  desire  no  more. 


224.  full .  .  .  regard,  worthy  of  approval,  well  considered.  228.  Produce,  bring  forward. 
230.  order,  course.  238.  protest,  make  known.  242.  advantage,  benefit,  243.  jail,  beiall. 

THE    TRAGEDY    OF    JULIUS    CAESAR         25 


BRUTUS.  Prepare  the  body  then,  and  follow  us.  (Exeunt  all  but  ANTONY) 
ANTONY.  O,  pardon  me,  thou  bleeding  piece  of  earth, 

That  I  am  meek  and  gentle  with  these  butchers  I  255 

Thou  art  the  ruins  of  the  noblest  man 

That  ever  lived  in  the  tide  of  times. 

Woe  to  the  hand  that  shed  this  costly  blood! 

Over  thy  wounds  now  do  I  prophesy, 

Which,  like  dumb  mouths,  do  ope  their  ruby  lips,  260 

To  beg  the  voice  and  utterance  of  my  tongue: 

A  curse  shall  light  upon  the  limbs  of  men; 

Domestic  fury  and  fierce  civil  strife 

Shall  cumber  all  the  parts  of  Italy; 

Blood  and  destruction  shall  be  so  in  use  265 

And  dreadful  objects  so  familiar 

That  mothers  shall  but  smile  when  they  behold 

Their  infants  quartered  with  the  hands  of  war; 

All  pity  chok'd  with  custom  of  fell  deeds; 

And  Caesar's  spirit,  ranging  for  revenge,  270 

With  Ate  by  his  side  come  hot  from  hell, 

Shall  in  these  confines  with  a  monarch's  voice 

Cry  "Havoc,"  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war 

That  this  foul  deed  shall  smell  above  the  earth 

With  carrion  men,  groaning  for  burial.  275 

(Enter  OCTAVIUS'  SERVANT) 

You  serve  Octavius  Caesar,  do  you  not? 
SERVANT.  I  do,  Mark  Antony. 

ANTONY.  Caesar  did  write  for  him  to  come  to  Rome. 
SERVANT.  He  did  receive  his  letters,  and  is  coming; 

And  bid  me  say  to  you  by  word  of  mouth—  280 

O  Caesar!—  (Seeing  the  body) 
ANTONY.  Thy  heart  is  big;  get  thee  apart  and  weep. 

Passion,  I  see,  is  catching;  for  mine  eyes, 

Seeing  those  beads  of  sorrow  stand  in  thine, 

Began  to  water.  Is  thy  master  coming?  285 

SERVANT.  He  lies  to-night  within  seven  leagues  of  Rome. 
ANTONY.  Post  back  with  speed  and  tell  him  what  hath  chanc'd. 


257.  tide  of  times,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  ages.  264.  cumber,  encumber,  burden. 
266.  objects,  sights.  268.  quarter' d,  slaughtered.  269.  fell,  cruel.  271.  Ate,  goddess  of 
vengeance.  272.  confines,  regions.  273.  "Havoc,"  a  cry  which  meant  "Kill  without  quar- 
ter." let  slip,  unleash.  274.  That,  so  that.  275.  carrion,  dead  and  putrefying.  283.  Passion, 
sorrow.  286.  lies,  is  camped. 

26         FJCTieN    VERSUS    FACT 


Here  is  a  mourning  Rome,  a  dangerous  Rome, 

No  Rome  of  safety  for  Octavius  yet; 

Hie  hence,  and  tell  him  so.  Yet,  stay  a  while;  290 

Thou  shalt  not  back  till  I  have  borne  this  corse 

Into  the  market-place.  There  shall  I  try, 

In  my  oration,  how  the  people  take 

The  cruel  issue  of  these  bloody  men; 

According  to  the  which,  thou  shalt  discourse  295 

To  young  Octavius  of  the  state  of  things. 

Lend  me  your  hand.  (Exeunt  with  Caesars  body) 


Scene  n.  Rome.  The  Forum. 

(Enter  BRUTUS  and  CASSIUS,  with  the  PLEBEIANS) 
PLEBEIANS.  We  will  be  satisfied!  Let  us  be  satisfied! 
BRUTUS.  Then  follow  me,  and  give  me  audience,  friends. 

Cassius,  go  you  into  the  other  street, 

And  part  the  numbers. 

Those  that  will  hear  me  speak,  let  'em  stay  here; 

Those  that  will  follow  Cassius,  go  with  him; 

And  public  reasons  shall  be  rendered 

Of  Caesar's  death. 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  I  will  hear  Brutus  speak. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  I  will  hear  Cassius;  and  compare  their  reasons, 
When  severally  we  hear  them  rendered. 

(Exit  CASSIUS,  with  some  of  the  PLEBEIANS.  BRUTUS  goes  into  the  pulpit) 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  The  noble  Brutus  is  ascended;  silence! 
BRUTUS.  Be  patient  till  the  last. 

Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovers!  hear  me  for  my  cause,  and  be 
silent,  that  you  may  hear;  believe  me  for  mine  honor,  and  have 
respect  to  mine  honor,  that  you  may  believe;  censure  me  in  your 
wisdom,  and  awake  your  senses,  that  you  may  the  better  judge.  If 
there  be  any  in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend  of  Caesar's,  to  him  I 
say,  that  Brutus'  love  to  Caesar  was  no  less  than  his.  If  then  that  friend 
demand  why  Brutus  rose  against  Cresar,  this  is  my  answer:  Not  that 
I  lov'd  Caesar  less,  but  that  I  lov'd  Rome  more.  Had  you  rather  Caesar 
were  living  and  die  all  slaves,  than  that  Caesar  were  dead,  to  live  all 


292.  try,  experiment  to  discover.  294.  issue,  deed.  295.  the  which,  public  sentiment. 
ACT  in,  SCENE  n.  1.  satisfied,  completely  informed.  4.  part  the  numbers,  divide  the  crowd. 
10.  severally,  individually.  17.  censure,  judge.  18.  senses,  intellectual  powers. 

THE   TRAGEDY    OF   JULIUS    CAESAR         27 


free-men?  As  Caesar  lov'd  me,  I  weep  for  him;  as  he  was  fortunate,  I 
rejoice  at  it;  as  he  was  valiant,  I  honor  him;  but,  as  he  was  ambitious, 
I  slew  him.  There  is  tears  for  his  love;  joy  for  his  fortune;  honor  for 
his  valor;  and  death  for  his  ambition.  Who  is  here  so  base  that  would 
be  a  bondman?  If  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here 
so  rude  that  would  not  be  a  Roman?  If  any,  speak;  for  him  have  I 
offended.  Who  is  here  so  vile  that  will  not  love  his  country?  If  any, 
speak;  for  him  have  I  offended.  I  pause  for  a  reply.  37 

ALL.  None,  Brutus,  none. 

BRUTUS.  Then  none  have  I  offended.  I  have  done  no  more  to  Caesar  than 
you  shall  do  to  Brutus.  The  question  of  his  death  is  enroll'd  in  the 
Capitol;  his  glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was  worthy,  nor  his 
offences  enforc'd,  for  which  he  suffered  death.  44 

(Enter  ANTONY  and  others,  with  Csesars  body) 

Here  comes  his  body,  mourn'd  by  Mark  Antony;  who,  though  he  had 
no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  receive  the  benefit  of  his  dying,  a  place  in 
the  commonwealth;  as  which  of  you  shall  not?  With  this  I  depart, 
that,  as  I  slew  my  best  lover  for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have  the  same 
dagger  for  myself,  when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need  my  death. 

ALL.  Live,  Brutus!  live,  live!  53 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  Bring  him  with  triumph  home  unto  his  house. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Give  him  a  statue  with  his  ancestors.  55 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  Let  him  be  Ca3sar. 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  Caesar's  better  parts 
Shall  be  crown'd  in  Brutus. 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  Well  bring  him  to  his  house 
With  shouts  and  clamors. 

BRUTUS.  My  countrymen,— 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Peace,  silence!  Brutus  speaks. 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  Peace,  hoi 

BRUTUS.  Good  countrymen,  let  me  depart  alone,  60 

And,  for  my  sake,  stay  here  with  Antony. 

Do  grace  to  Caesar's  corpse,  and  grace  his  speech 

Tending  to  Caesar's  glories,  which  Mark  Antony, 

By  our  permission,  is  allow'd  to  make. 

I  do  entreat  you,  not  a  man  depart  65 

Save  I  alone,  till  Antony  have  spoke.  (Exit) 
1.  PLEBEIAN.  Stay,  ho!  and  let  us  hear  Mark  Antony. 


34.  rude,  boorish.  41.  question  of  .  .  .  enroll'd.  The  reasons  for  his  death  are  recorded. 
42.  extenuated,  understated.  43.  enforc'd,  exaggerated. 


28 


FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


3.  PLEBEIAN.  Let  him  go  up  into  the  public  chair; 
We'll  hear  him.  Noble  Antony,  go  up. 

ANTONY.  For  Brutus'  sake,  I  am  beholding  to  you.  (Goes  into  the  pulpit)    70 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  What  does  he  say  of  Brutus? 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  He  says,  for  Brutus'  sake, 
He  finds  himself  beholding  to  us  all. 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  'Twere  best  he  speak  no  harm  of  Brutus  here. 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  This  Caesar  was  a  tyrant. 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  Nay,  that's  certain: 

We  are  blest  that  Rome  is  rid  of  him.  75 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Peace!  let  us  hear  what  Antony  can  say. 
ANTONY.  You  gentle  Romans,— 

ALL.  Peace,  ho!  let  us  hear  him. 

ANTONY.  Friends,  Romans,  countrymen,  lend  me  your  ears! 

I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 

The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them;  80 

The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones. 

So  let  it  be  with  Caesar.  The  noble  Brutus 

Hath  told  you  Caesar  was  ambitious; 

If  it  were  so,  it  was  a  grievous  fault, 

And  grievously  hath  Caesar  answer 'd  it.  85 

Here,  under  leave  of  Brutus  and  the  rest 

( For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man; 

So  are  they  all,  all  honorable  men), 

Come  I  to  speak  in  Caesar's  funeral. 

He  was  my  friend,  faithful  and  just  to  me;  9<> 

But  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious, 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome, 

Whose  ransoms  did  the  general  coffers  fill; 

Did  this  in  Caesar  seem  ambitious?  95 

When  that  the  poor  have  cried,  Caesar  hath  wept; 

Ambition  should  be  made  of  sterner  stuff. 

Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious, 

And  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

You  all  did  see  that  on  the  Lupercal  100 

I  thrice  presented  him  a  kingly  crown, 

Which  he  did  thrice  refuse.  Was  this  ambition? 


70.  beholding,  beholden.  85.  answer  d  it,  paid  for  it.  90.  just,  exact  and  punctual 
94.  general  coffers,  public  treasury. 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  JULIUS  CAESAR        29 


Yet  Brutus  says  he  was  ambitious, 

And,  sure,  he  is  an  honorable  man. 

I  speak  not  to  disprove  what  Brutus  spoke,  105 

But  here  I  am  to  speak  what  I  do  know. 

You  all  did  love  him  once,  not  without  cause; 

What  cause  withholds  you  then  to  mourn  for  him? 

0  judgement!  thou  art  fled  to  brutish  beasts, 

And  men  have  lost  their  reason!  Bear  with  me;  no 

My  heart  is  in  the  coffin  there  with  Caesar, 
And  I  must  pause  till  it  come  back  to  me. 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  Methinks  there  is  much  reason  in  his  sayings. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  If  thou  consider  rightly  of  the  matter, 
Caesar  has  had  great  wrong. 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  Has  he  not,  masters?  115 

1  fear  there  will  a  worse  come  in  his  place. 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  Mark'd  ye  his  words?  He  would  not  take  the  crown; 
Therefore  'tis  certain  he  was  not  ambitious. 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  If  it  be  found  so,  some  will  dear  abide  it. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Poor  soul!  his  eyes  are  red  as  fire  with  weeping.  120 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  There's  not  a  nobler  man  in  Rome  than  Antony. 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  Now  mark  him,  he  begins  again  to  speak. 
ANTONY.  But  yesterday  the  word  of  Caesar  might 

Have  stood  against  the  world.  Now  lies  he  there, 

And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence.  125 

0  masters,  if  I  were  dispos'd  to  stir 
Your  hearts  and  minds  to  mutiny  and  rage, 

1  should  do  Brutus  wrong,  and  Cassius  wrong, 
Who,  you  all  know,  are  honorable  men. 

I  will  not  do  them  wrong;  I  rather  choose  130 

To  wrong  the  dead,  to  wrong  myself  and  you, 

Than  I  will  wrong  such  honorable  men. 

But  here's  a  parchment  with  the  seal  of  Caesar; 

I  found  it  in  his  closet;  'tis  his  will. 

Let  but  the  commons  hear  this  testament—  135 

Which  (pardon  me)  I  do  not  mean  to  read— 

And  they  would  go  and  kiss  dead  Caesar's  wounds 

And  dip  their  napkins  in  his  sacred  blood, 

Yea,  beg  a  hair  of  him  for  memory, 


119.  dear  abide  it,  pay  dearly  for  it.  125.  to  do,  as  to  do.  134.  closet,  private  room 
135.  commons,  common  people.  138.  napkins,  handkerchiefs. 


30        FICTION    VERSUS   FACT 


And,  dying,  mention  it  within  their  wills,  140 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 

Unto  their  issue. 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  Well  hear  the  will.  Read  it,  Mark  Antony. 
ALL.  The  will,  the  will!  we  will  hear  Caesar's  will. 
ANTONY.  Have  patience,  gentle  friends,  I  must  not  read  it;  145 

It  is  not  meet  you  know  how  Caesar  lov'd  you. 

You  are  not  wood,  you  are  not  stones,  but  men: 

And,  being  men,  hearing  the  will  of  Caesar, 

It  will  inflame  you,  it  will  make  you  mad. 

Tis  good  you  know  not  that  you  are  his  heirs;  *5o 

For,  if  you  should,  O,  what  would  come  of  itl 
4.  PLEBEIAN.  Read  the  will;  we'll  hear  it,  Antony. 

You  shall  read  us  the  will,  Caesar's  will. 
ANTONY.  Will  you  be  patient?  Will  you  stay  a  while? 

I  have  o'ershot  myself  to  tell  you  of  it.  155 

I  fear  I  wrong  the  honorable  men 

Whose  daggers  have  stabb'd  Caesar;  I  do  fear  it. 
4.  PLEBEIAN.  They  were  traitors;  honorable  menl 
ALL.  The  will!  the  testament! 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  They  were  villains,  murderers.  The  will!  read  the  will.          160 
ANTONY.  You  will  compel  me,  then,  to  read  the  will? 

Then  make  a  ring  about  the  corpse  of  Caesar, 

And  let  me  show  you  him  that  made  the  will. 

Shall  I  descend?  and  will  you  give  me  leave? 
ALL.  Come  down.  165 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Descend. 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  You  shall  have  leave. 
(ANTONY  comes  down  from  the  pulpit) 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  A  ring;  stand  round. 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  Stand  from  the  hearse,  stand  from  the  body. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Room  for  Antony,  most  noble  Antony.  170 
ANTONY.  Nay,  press  not  so  upon  me;  stand  far  off. 

ALL.  Stand  back;  room;  bear  back! 

ANTONY.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now. 

You  all  do  know  this  mantle;  I  remember 

The  first  time  ever  Caesar  put  it  on.  175 

'Twas  on  a  summer's  evening,  in  his  tent. 

That  day  he  overcame  the  Nervii. 


169.  hearse,  bier. 

THE   TRAGEDY    OF   JULIUS   CAESAR         31 


Look,  in  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dagger  through; 

See  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made; 

Through  this  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabb'd,  180 

And  as  he  pluck'd  his  cursed  steel  away, 

Mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it, 

As  rushing  out  of  doors,  to  be  resolv'd 

If  Brutus  so  unkindly  knock'd,  or  no; 

For  Brutus,  as  you  know,  was  Caesar's  angel.  l85 

Judge,  O  you  gods,  how  dearly  Caesar  lov'd  him! 

This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all; 

For  when  the  noble  Caesar  saw  him  stab, 

Ingratitude,  more  strong  than  traitors'  arms, 

Quite  vanquish'd  him.  Then  burst  his  mighty  heart,  190 

And,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face, 

Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's  statue, 

Which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  Caesar  fell. 

O,  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen! 

Then  I,  and  you,  and  all  of  us  fell  down,  195 

Whilst  bloody  treason  flourished  over  us. 

O,  now  you  weep,  and  I  perceive  you  feel 

The  dint  of  pity.  These  are  gracious  drops. 

Kind  souls,  what,  weep  you  when  you  but  behold 

Our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded?  Look  you  here:  (Lifting  Cirsar's  nicintle) 

Here  is  himself,  marr'd,  as  you  see,  with  traitors.  201 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  O  piteous  spectacle! 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  O  noble  Caesar! 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  O  woeful  day! 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  O  traitors,  villains!  205 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  O  most  bloody  sight! 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  We  will  be  reveng'd! 

ALL.  Revenge!  About! 

Seek!  Burn!  Fire!  Kill!  Slay! 

Let  not  a  traitor  live! 
ANTONY.  Stay,  countrymen.  210 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  Peace  there!  hear  the  noble  Antony. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  We'll  hear  him,  we'll  follow  him,  we'll  die  with  him. 
ANTONY.  Good  friends,  sweet  friends,  let  me  not  stir  you  up 

To  such  a  sudden  flood  of  mutiny.  215 


179.  envious,  malicious.  183.  resolvd,  assured.  185.  angel,  guardian  spirit.  198.  dint, 
impact.  215.  mutiny,  disorder. 

32         FICTION    VERSUS    FACT 


They  that  have  done  this  deed  are  honorable. 
What  private  griefs  they  have,  alas,  I  know  not, 
That  made  them  do  it;  they  are  wise  and  honorable, 
And  will,  no  doubt,  with  reasons  answer  you. 

I  come  not,  friends,  to  steal  away  your  hearts.  220 

1  am  no  orator,  as  Brutus  is; 
But,  as  you  know  me  all,  a  plain  blunt  man 
That  love  my  friend;  and  that  they  know  full  well 
That  gave  me  public  leave  to  speak  of  him; 

For  I  have  neither  wit,  nor  words,  nor  worth,  225 

Action,  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech 
To  stir  men's  blood;  I  only  speak  right  on. 
I  tell  you  that  which  you  yourselves  do  know; 
Show  you  sweet  Caesar's  wounds,  poor,  poor,  dumb  mouths. 
And  bid  them  speak  for  me.  But  were  I  Brutus,  230 

And  Brutus  Antony,  there  were  an  Antony 
Would  ruffle  up  your  spirits,  and  put  a  tongue 
In  every  wound  of  Caesar,  that  should  move 
The  stones  of  Rome  to  rise  and  mutiny. 
ALL.  We'll  mutiny.  235 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  We'll  burn  the  house  of  Brutus! 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  Away,  then!  come,  seek  the  conspirators. 

ANTONY.  Yet  hear  me,  countrymen;  yet  hear  me  speak. 

ALL.  Peace,  ho!  hear  Antony,  most  noble  Antony! 

ANTONY.  Why,  friends,  you  go  to  do  you  know  not  what.  240 

Wherein  hath  Caesar  thus  deserv'd  your  loves? 

Alas,  you  know  not;  I  must  tell  you,  then. 

You  have  forgot  the  will  I  told  you  of. 
ALL.  Most  true.  The  will!  Let's  stay  and  hear  the  will. 
ANTONY.  Here  is  the  will,  and  under  Caesar's  seal.  245 

To  every  Roman  citizen  he  gives, 

To  every  several  man,  seventy-five  drachmas. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Most  noble  Caesar!  We'll  revenge  his  death. 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  O  royal  Caesar! 

ANTONY.  Hear  me  with  patience.  250 

ALL.  Peace,  ho! 

ANTONY.  Moreover,  he  hath  left  you  all  his  walks, 


225.  wit,  intelligence.  226.  Action,  gesture,  utterance,  good  delivery.  232.  ruffle  up, 
arouse.  247.  drachmas,  Roman  coins,  each  worth  only  about  nineteen  cents,  but  with  a 
high  purchasing  power. 

THE    TRAGEDY    OF   JULIUS    CAESAR         33 


His  private  arbors  and  new-planted  orchards, 
On  this  side  Tiber;  he  hath  left  them  you, 
And  to  your  heirs  forever,  common  pleasures, 
To  walk  abroad,  and  recreate  yourselves. 
Here  was  a  Caesar!  When  comes  such  another? 

1.  PLEBEIAN.  Never,  never!  Come,  away,  away! 
Well  burn  his  body  in  the  holy  place, 

And  with  the  brands  fire  the  traitors'  houses. 
Take  up  the  body. 

2.  PLEBEIAN.  Go  fetch  fire! 

3.  PLEBEIAN.  Pluck  down  benches! 

4.  PLEBEIAN.  Pluck  down  forms,  windows,  anything! 
(Exeunt  PLEBEIANS  with  the  body) 

ANTONY.  Now  let  it  work.  Mischief,  thou  art  afoot. 
Take  thou  what  course  thou  wilt! 


255 


260 


265 


253.  orchards,  gardens.  255.  common  pleasures,  parks.  264.  forms,  long  benches. 


Questions 

STATE  as  specifically  as  you  can  the 
purposes  of  a  typical  biographer. 
To  what  extent  does  Plutarch  achieve 
these  purposes?  Can  you  find,  in  this 
passage,  any  support  for  the  claim  of 
some  that  Plutarch  was  one  of  the 
"great"  biographers? 

2.  (a)  Plutarch  says  that  Antony,  in 
his  talk  with  the  conspirators,  urged 
that  Caesar's  will  be  made  public.  He 
also  indicates  that  the  will  was  read  be- 
fore the  funeral  address  was  delivered. 
What  purposes  of  biography  required 
that  he  set  down  these  details? 

(b)  Shakespeare,  by  contrast,  in- 
cludes no  mention  of  the  will  in  An- 
tony's conversation  with  the  conspira- 
tors. Furthermore,  he  shows  Antony 
first  making  public  the  contents  of  the 
will  at  the  time  when  he  delivers  his 
funeral  address.  What  purposes  of 
drama—as  distinguished  from  the  pur- 
poses of  biography— justified  these  ma- 
nipulations? 


3.  Plutarch  does  not  quote  directly 
the  remarks  of  any  of  the  characters; 
Shakespeare    quotes    all    their    words 
throughout.    Considering   the    different 
aims  of  the  two  authors,  how  may  this 
difference  be  justified?  (We  don't  want 
this    answer:    You    don't    have    a    play 
unless  people  talk.)  Note,  for  instance, 
the  protests  of  Cassius-III,  i,  144-146, 
211,  214-217,  232-235,  243. 

4.  Contrast  the  language  employed 
by  the  two  authors.  How  are  the  differ- 
ences  you   find   related   to   the   differ- 
ences between  their  aims? 

5.  Here  are  a  few  passages  in  the 
drama  which   parallel   nothing  in   the 
biography  and  which,  therefore,  Shake- 
speare apparently  invented.   How  did 
the  invention  and  handling  of  each  pas- 
sage contribute  to  the  drama— in  other 
words,  what  justified  his  inventing  the 
happenings? 

(a)  Antony's  servant  conveys  An- 
tony's regards  and  exacts  a  promise  that 
Antony  will  not  be  harmed  by  the  con- 
spirators (III,  i,  123-137).  It  may  be 


34 


FICTION   VERSUS   FACT 


helpful    to    compare    Antony's    speech 
(III,  i,  151-163). 

(b)  Antony  addresses  the  dead  Cae- 
sar (III,  i,  148-150,  194-210,  254-275), 
converses  with  Oetavius'  servant  (III,  i, 
276-296),  and  comments  upon  the  re- 
sults of  his  funeral  address  (III,  ii,  265- 
266). 

(c)  Brutus  makes  a  speech  and  the 
populace   reacts   to   it    (III,   ii,    1-76). 
Contrast  Antony's  speech  and  the  pub- 
lic reaction. 

(d)  Antony  not  only  shows  Caesar's 
gown  and  the  "number  of  cuts  and  holes 
it  had  upon  it";  he  points  out  exactly 
which  hole  was  made  by  each  of  the 
conspirators   (III,  ii,  178-190). 

6.  (a)  Granville  Barker  classifies 
Shakespeare's  Brutus,  Cassius,  and  An- 
tony, respectively,  as  "the  idealist,  the 
egoist,  and  the  opportunist."  He  says 
that  "the  contrast  between  them,  the 
action  and  reaction  of  one  upon  the 
other,  is  most  carefully  contrived."  Are 
his  statements  about  these  men  and  the 
contrast  between  them  justified  by  this 
scene?  Contrast  the  way  Plutarch  por- 
trays them  in  his  biography,  and  explain 
why  his  treatment  has  to  be  different. 

(b)  E.  K.  Chambers  sees  the  con- 
flict between  Brutus  and  Antony  as 
"righteousness  massed  against  efficiency 


and  showing  itself  clearly  impotent  in 
the  unequal  contest."  "Had  we  only  to 
do  with  the  fate  of  individuals,"  he 
continues,  "it  might  pass.  But  the  selec- 
tion of  the  artist  makes  the  puppets 
more  than  individuals.  They  stand  for 
spiritual  forces,  and  in  the  spiritual 
order  the  triumph  of  efficiency  over 
righteousness  is  tragic  stuff."  What  does 
he  mean?  How  valid  is  the  claim  as  a 
statement  about  the  play?  As  a  state- 
ment about  Plutarch's  biography?  What 
does  your  consideration  of  play  and  bi- 
ography in  this  light  suggest  about  the 
aims  and  methods  of  imaginative  litera- 
ture? 

7.  Why  is  it  more  difficult  to  formu- 
late differences  between  Plutarch's  bi- 
ography and  Shakespeare's  scenes  than 
between  (a)  Romer  and  Melville,   (b) 
Hohman  and  Melville,   (c)   Newsweek 
and  Shaw? 

8.  On  the  basis  of  your  reading  so 
far,   what   generalizations    are   possible 
about  (a)  aims  and  methods  of  authors 
of  imaginative  works?  (b)  the  values  to 
the  reader  of  imaginative  writing? 

9.  What  do  your  generalizations  im- 
ply about  an  appropriate  way  to  read 
fiction,  drama,  and  poetry  as  contrasted 
with  an  appropriate  way  to  read  factual 
works? 


THE   TRAGEDY   OP   JTJUUS    CAESAB         35 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 

Happenings 


YOUR  contrasts  between  factual  writ- 
ing arid  imaginative  writing  have 
shown  you  what  the  latter,  in  some  in- 
stances at  least,  may  do.  As  you  read 
other  imaginative  works,  you  will,  of 
course,  enlarge  your  list  of  possible 
achievements.  Just  now  it  is  enough  to 
say  that  typical  imaginative  writing  may 
effectively  show  human  feelings,  mo- 
tives, actions,  and  experience;  that  such 
writing  may  embody  an  emotional  in- 
terpretation—the author's  interpretation 
—of  life;  and  that  imaginative  writing, 
therefore,  may  affect  not  only  the 
thoughts  but  also  the  feelings  of  the 
reader. 

How  does  an  author  shape  his  writ- 
ings so  they  will  do  these  things?— that 
is  the  next  question  for  you  to  consider. 
The  world,  as  we  know  it,  is  a  collection 
of  varied  scenes  thronging  with  multi- 
tudes of  people  whose  characters  and 
actions  vary  greatly.  The  author,  look- 
ing at  the  world  in  his  own  individual 
way,  is  eager  to  represent  and  interpret 
it  in  a  story,  a  drama,  or  a  poem.  How 
will  he  go  about  his  task? 

He  will,  of  course,  select  characters, 
happenings,  and  scenes.  Suppose  that 
he  decides  that  he  will  write  about  one 
man  of  the  many  he  knows  in  life  and 
in  books:  suppose  that  he  decides  to 
write  about  Andrew  Jackson.  A  scien- 
tific biographer  of  Jackson  might  feel 
impelled  to  set  down  every  detail  about 
Jackson  ascertainable  from  birth  to 
death.  The  imaginative  author,  by  con- 
trast, might  treat  only  a  few  hours  in 
Jackson's  life  (as  Vachel  Lindsay  did  in 


his  poem,  "Old,  Old,  Old  Andrew  Jack- 
son"). And  certainly  the  imaginative 
writer  would  include  only  those  details, 
real  and  imagined,  which  he  thought 
significant  for  his  representation  and  in- 
terpretation. Every  imaginative  author 
thus  selects  and  arranges  details,  and 
uses  words  as  well  as  he  can,  to  com- 
municate his  insights  to  the  reader.  He 
strives  to  make  all  the  elements  in  his 
work,  all  his  technical  procechnes,  con- 
tribute to  his  saying  what  he  has  to  say. 
Your  pin  pose  as  you  study  the  rest  of 
this  section  is  to  learn  about  the  man- 
ner of  the  author— the  selection,  the  ar- 
rangement, and  the  handling  of  the  mat- 
ter of  life  in  fiction,  drama,  and  poetry. 
In  other  words  you  will  be  studying 
the  craftsmanship  used  in  managing 
important  elements  in  imaginative  lit- 
erature. The  elements  to  be  studied  will 
include  Happenings,  Characters,  Set- 
ting, Language,  Tone,  and  Meaning. 

Selection  and  arrangement  of 
happenings 

THE  happenings  in  an  imaginative 
work  ordinarily  are  not  chosen  or 
set  down  in  an  aimless  and  unthinking 
fashion.  Rarely  does  a  storyteller  follow 
a  character  from  his  birth  to  his  death: 
usually  he  follows  him  through  only  a 
few  years,  days,  or  even  minutes.  And 
even  when  his  narrative  covers  a  brief 
period,  the  author  usually  leaves  out 
many  details.  Probably  very  few  authors 
would  say,  for  instance:  "Pete  awoke  at 
seven,  yawned,  scratched  his  nose, 
cleared  his  throat,  decided  that  he  must 


36 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 


get  up,  crawled  out  of  the  left  side  of 
bed,  donned  his  slippers,  went  to  the 
closet  and  got  his  bathrobe,  went  to 
the  bathroom,  took  a  shower,  shaved, 
returned  to  the  bedroom,  dressed  .  .  ," 
and  so  on  interminably.  A  much  wiser 
author  quite  possibly  might  skip  all 
these  dull  and  meaningless  details  and 
simply  write,  "Next  morning  Pete,  at  the 
office,  began  work  on  the  big  deal/' 

A  moment's  examination  of  almost 
any  imaginative  work  will  show  that  the 
author  has  taken  for  granted  some  inci- 
dents, merely  referred  to  others,  and  re- 
counted still  others  in  great  detail.  Often 
authors  take  still  other  liberties  and  ar- 
range occurrences  in  orders  which  do 
not  follow  the  order  of  time.  For  in- 
stance, an  author  may  outline  his  whole 
story  and  then  go  back  to  the  start  and 
cover  the  same  time  span  for  a  second 
time;  or  he  may  confine  his  narrative  to 
a  single  scene  and  outline  what  has  gone 
before  and  imply  what  will  follow. 

Such  omissions,  simplifications,  and 
manipulations  are  justified  if  they  help 
the  author  create  a  work  with  more 
form,  and  therefore  with  more  articu- 
lated meaning  and  impact,  than  life  has. 
When  an  author  selects  and  arranges 
happenings  so  that  every  gesture,  every 
fleeting  thought,  every  movement,  and 
every  deed  has  been  related  to  a  per- 
ceivable scheme  or  pattern,  he  has  made 
a  good  start  toward  expressing  such  an 
articulated  meaning.  (The  pattern  itself, 
quite  often,  will  have  an  implied  mean- 
ing. )  And  when  he  has  so  handled  other 
elements  in  the  story— character  and  set- 
ting, for  instance— as  to  make  them,  too, 
contribute  their  share  to  the  whole 
work,  the  artist  will  have  achieved  his 


aim. 


How,  then,  may  an  author  select  and 
arrange  happenings  so  that  they  will  fol- 


low such  a  pattern?  He  may  "plot"  his 
narrative  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it 
both  complete  and  economical.  His 
"plot,"  as  some  critics  call  a  patterned 
series  of  interrelated  happenings,  will 
be  complete  if  it  tells  one  story  from 
beginning  to  end.  The  completeness  will 
be  perceivable  if  the  happenings  add  up 
to  a  single  significant  change  or  lack  of 
change,  and  if  reasons  may  be  found  for 
the  narrative's  beginning,  developing, 
and  ending  exactly  as  it  does.  The  ac- 
count will  be  economical  if,  as  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  has  put  it  in  describing  a  per- 
fect plot,  "no  part  can  be  displaced 
without  ruin  to  the  whole."  Aristotle, 
who,  though  a  philosopher,  had  a  good 
deal  of  common  sense,  suggested  long 
ago  that  a  patterned  narrative— a  plot— 
"must  represent  one  action,  a  complete 
whole,  with  its  several  incidents  so 
closely  connected  that  the  transposal  or 
withdrawal  of  any  one  of  them  will  dis- 
join and  dislocate  the  whole." 

Patterns  of  action 

Ar  author  may  create  such  a  unified 
work  in  various  ways.  A  detective 
story  offers  a  completed  line  of  action 
when  it  shows  a  brilliant  sleuth  who  has 
been  confronted  with  a  problem  work- 
ing out  a  solution.  The  pattern  properly 
starts  with  the  problem  and  the  detec- 
tive, the  development  properly  consists 
of  a  growing  comprehension  of  the  solu- 
tion, and  a  proper  ending  is  the  solution 
of  the  problem.  Another  unified  story 
may  trace  the  growing  love  of  a  char- 
acter for  another  from  its  beginning  to 
an  ending  wherein  the  character's  great 
love  is  proved  beyond  a  doubt.  Still  an- 
other complete  story— a  typical  one  by 
Poe,  say— may  tell  of  a  graduated  devel- 
opment of  some  emotion,  terror  perhaps, 
which  ends  when  the  emotion  reaches  a 


MATTER   AND   MANNER        37 


crescendo.  In  still  another  unified  story, 
an  ambitious  character  may  decide  to 
reach  some  goal,  he  may  then  strive  to 
reach  it,  and  the  story  may  conclude 
when  the  goal  is  reached.  Thus  happen- 
ings which  add  up  to  a  completely  de- 
veloped knowledge,  a  completely  devel- 
oped attitude,  a  completely  developed 
emotion,  or  a  completely  developed 
achievement,  may  be  complete  and  eco- 
nomical wholes.  A  scheme  of  this  sort 
might  be  pictured  thus:^-^"^  The  ris- 
ing line  would  represent  a  graduated 
change. 

Another  type  of  story  might  tell  of  a 
character  or  situation  which  does  not 
change.  Suppose  the  leading  character 
is  a  rascal  at  the  start  of  the  story,  that 
most  of  the  happenings  consist  of  peo- 
ple's trying  to  convert  him,  and  that,  at 
the  end,  he  continues  to  be  a  reprobate. 
The  significant  fact  would  be  that  the 
character  remains  the  same,  and  per- 
haps the  picture  would  be  this  one: 

Still  another  type  of  unified  narrative 
might,  by  contrast,  be  pictured  thus: 
/^""^  Such  a  "two  part"  or  "complex" 
narrative  would  involve  a  reversal. 
There  is  such  a  reversal  in  the  scenes 
from  Julius  Caesar  (pp.  22-34) :  dur- 
ing the  first  (rising)  part  of  the  action, 
Brutus  wins  over  the  mob,  then  comes 
a  turning  point,  or  climax,  and  during 
the  second  (falling)  part  of  the  action, 
Antony,  Brutus'  rival,  wins  the  mob's 
approval.  In  another  such  schematized 
narrative,  after  a  character  has  been  de- 
ceived for  a  time,  he  may  catch  a 
glimpse  of  truth,  and  from  that  time  on 
his  comprehension  may  grow.  In  still 
another,  an  emotion  may  change:  terror, 
say,  may  be  supplanted  by  bravery.  Or 
a  character,  after  progressing  toward 
his  goal,  may  fail.  Such  complex  devel- 


opments would  contrast  with  the  simple 
development  of  an  attitude,  or  knowl- 
edge, or  emotion,  or  achievement,  de- 
scribed a  couple  of  paragraphs  ago.  The 
counterpart  of  the  reprobate  story  dis- 
cussed above  would,  of  course,  be  a 
narrative  in  which  a  character  under- 
goes conversion. 

Conflict 

AL  three  kinds  of  action  patterns, 
more  often  than  not,  will  involve 
one  or  more  conflicts,  contests  between 
opposing  forces— man  versus  nature, 
perhaps,  man  versus  society,  man  versus 
"late."  Or  the  conflict  may  be  an  "in- 
ternal" one— between  two  parts  of  a 
man's  nature.  In  the  simple  scheme,  one 
force  will  consistently  move  toward  vic- 
tory; in  the  "unchanging"  scheme,  a 
stubborn  force  will  successfully  resist 
change;  in  the  complex  scheme,  one 
force  will  win  for  a  time,  and  then  the 
opposing  force  will  gain  the  upper  hand 
and  go  on  to  triumph. 

In  many  narratives,  not  one  but  sev- 
eral strands  such  as  these  are  followed 
to  completion.  In  Steinbeck's  The 
Grapes  of  Wrath,  for  instance,  the 
characters  battle  against  an  economic 
situation  and  are  rather  consistently  de- 
feated; they  triumph  over  the  obstacles 
of  nature  as  they  make  their  way  to 
California;  and  they  gradually  compre- 
hend their  problem  and  its  solution. 

An  imaginative  writer  who  deals  with 
happenings,  then,  copes  with  the  prob- 
lem of  finding  some  complete  and  eco- 
nomic scheme  for  plotting  and  relating 
his  incidents.  A  careful  reader  has  the 
task  of  seeing  what  the  happenings  in  a 
narrative  are  and  how  the  author  gives— 
or  tails  to  give— unity  to  the  pattern  of 
action. 


38        MATTER   AND   MANNER 


$+>  This  is  a  simple  account  in  verse  of  the  exciting  and  sad  adventures  of  the 

woman  Frankie  and  the  man  who  "done 
her  wrong."  It  has  been  memorized  and 
sung  by  thousands  of  people,  both  edu- 
cated and  uneducated,  who  are  evi- 
dently enthralled  by  the  story  and  the 
way  it  is  told.  Who  wrote  the  first  ver- 
sion (about  1888),  nobody  knows,  and 
nobody  knows  how  the  words  went  in 
that  first  version  because  people  have 
sung  it  from  memory  and  some  have 

TTI  l    •  consciously  or  unconsciously  changed 

JL  1  clIllvlC  it.  This  does  not  mean—  as  the  reader 

will  see—  that  the  account  in  the  form 
presented  below  is  not  well  handled. 


I 
cHlCl 


FRANKIE  and  Johnny  were  lovers,  O,  how  that  couple  could  love. 
Swore  to  be  true  to  each  other,  true  as  the  stars  above. 
He  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong. 

Frankie  she  was  his  woman,  everybody  knows. 

She  spent  one  hundred  dollars  for  a  suit  of  Johnny's  clothes.  5 

He  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong. 

Frankie  and  Johnny  went  walking,  Johnny  in  his  bran'  new  suit, 
"O  good  Lawd,"  says  Frankie,  "but  don't  my  Johnnie  look  cute?" 
He  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong. 

Frankie  went  down  to  Memphis;  she  went  on  the  evening  train.  10 

She  paid  one  hundred  dollars  for  Johnny  a  watch  and  chain. 
He  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong. 

Frankie  went  down  to  the  corner,  to  buy  a  glass  of  beer; 

She  says  to  the  bartender,  "Has  my  loving  man  been  here? 

He  is  my  man;  he  wouldn't  do  me  wrong."  15 

"Ain't  going  to  tell  you  no  story,  ain't  going  to  tell  you  no  lie, 
I  seen  your  man  'bout  an  hour  ago  with  a  girl  named  Alice  Fry. 
If  he's  your  man,  he's  doing  you  wrong." 

Frankie  went  back  to  the  hotel,  she  didn't  go  there  for  fun, 

FRANKIE    AND   JOHNNY        39 


Under  her  long  red  kimono  she  toted  a  forty-four  gun.  20 

He  was  her  man,  he  was  doing  her  wrong. 

Frankie  went  down  to  the  hotel,  looked  in  the  window  so  high, 
There  was  her  lovin'  Johnny  a-lovin'  up  Alice  Fry; 
He  was  her  man,  he  was  doing  her  wrong. 

Frankie  threw  back  her  kimono;  took  out  the  old  forty-four;  25 

Roota-toot-toot,  three  times  she  shot,  right  through  that  hotel  door. 
She  shot  her  man,  'cause  he  done  her  wrong. 

Johnny  grabbed  off  his  Stetson.  "O  good  Lawd,  Frankie,  don't  shoot." 

But  Frankie  put  her  finger  on  the  trigger,  and  the  gun  went  roota-toot-toot. 

He  was  her  man,  but  she  shot  him  down.  30 

"Roll  me  over  easy,  roll  me  over  slow, 

Roll  me  over  easy,  boys,  'cause  my  wounds  is  hurting  me  so, 

I  was  her  man,  but  I  done  her  wrong/' 

With  the  first  shot  Johnny  staggered;  with  the  second  shot  he  fell; 

When  the  third  bullet  hit  him,  there  was  a  new  man's  face  in  hell.  35 

He  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong. 

"Oh,  bring  on  your  rubber-tired  hearses,  bring  on  your  rubber-tired  hacks, 
They're  takin'  Johnny  to  the  buryin'  groun'  but  they'll  never  bring  him  back. 
He  was  my  man,  but  he  done  me  wrong." 

jj  .  series  of  scenes.  How  many  scenes  are 

Happenings  there?  How  can  you  accoiml  for  the 

Do  the  happenings  in  this  narrative  relative  length  of  the  development  of 

have   a    unified  pattern?   If  not,  each?  Is  the  omission  of  some  events 

prove  that  they  do  not.  If  so,  state  the  justified  or  unjustified? 
exact  nature   of  the  unity  and  justify  4.  Which  of  the  following  does  John- 

your  answer  by  referring  to  the  text.  ny  have:  vanity,  good  taste,  impeccable 

2.  What  do  the  repetitions  and  the  manners,   fickleness,   complete   lack  of 
variations  in  the  final  lines  of  all  the  moral  sense,  gratitude?  Point  out  pas- 
stanzas  accomplish  in  the  telling  of  the  sages  which  lead  you  to  draw  your  con- 
story?  Precisely  how?  elusions  about  him.  How  do  his  qualities 

3.  Lines  1-12  set  forth  the  situation  make  possible  some  of  the  happenings? 
and  acquaint  us  with  each  of  the  lovers.  What  kind  of  person  is  Frankie?  Re- 
How  do  they  do  this?  Thereafter,  the  late  her  qualities  to  the  events  in  the 
rest  of  the  narrative  is  presented  in  a  poem. 

40         MATTER    AND    MANNER 


5.  Are    some    stanzas    unnecessary? 
Would  you  suggest  rearranging  any  of 
the  stanzas?  Why  or  why  not? 

6.  One  version  of  the  song  adds  the 
following  four  stanzas  to  the  stanzas 
we  have  given: 

The  judge  he  said  to  the  jury,  "It's  plain 
as  plain  can  be. 

/'his  woman  shot  her  man,  so  it's  mur- 
der in  the  second  degree. 

He  was  her  man,  though  he  done  her 
wrong." 

Now  it  wasn't  murder  in  the  second 
degree,  it  wasn't  murder  in  the 
third. 

Frankie  simply  dropped  her  man,  like 
a  hunter  drops  a  bird. 

He  was  her  man,  but  he  done  her  wrong. 

"Oh,  put  me  in  that  dungeon.  Oh,  put 
me  in  that  cell. 


Put  me  where  the  northeast  wind  blows 
from  the  southwest  corner  of  hell. 

I  shot  my  man  'cause  he  done  me 
wrong." 

Frankie  walked  up  to  the  scaffold,  calm 

as  a  girl  could  be, 
She  turned  her  eyes  to  heaven  and  said, 

"Good  Lord,  I'm  coming  to  thee. 
He  was  my  man,  and  I  done  him  wrong." 

How  would  the  addition  of  these  stanzas 
change  the  whole  nature  of  the  narra- 
tive? Would  the  new  pattern  be  a  uni- 
fied one?  How  might  Frankie's  remark 
in  the  final  line  be  justified  as  the  culmi- 
nation of  the  development  which  these 
stanzas  trace? 

7.  In  your  opinion,  do  the  happen- 
ings in  this  poem  by  themselves  account 
for  its  continued  fascination?  If  not,  how 
would  you  account  for  the  popularity 
of  "Frankie  and  Johnny"? 


FRANKIE    AND    JOHNNY         41 


$*»  Lord  Dunsany  by  his  own  account  has  devoted  ninety-seven  per  cent  of  his 

life  to  athletic  activities  and  only  three 
per  cent  to  writing.  Included  in  the 
"athletic  activities"  was  his  service  in 
the  Boer  War  and  World  War  I.  Al- 

LORD  DUNSANY  .,          7    ,  .  .x.  .77 

though  his  writing  seemingly  has  occu- 
pied a  small  part  of  his  time,  he  has 

A*     1    ,  been  a  prolific  author  of  plays  and  short 

illy  fit  stories.  The  combination  of  melodrama 

•  and  fantasy  in  this  play,  his  most  fa- 

clt    clH    Hill  mous,  is  found  in  many  of  his  works. 


CHARACTERS 

A.  E.  SCOTT-FORTESCUE  (THE  TOFF)  1    a  dilapidated  gentleman 

WILLIAM  JONES  (  BILL  ) 

ALBERT  THOMAS  r    merchant  sailors 

JACOB  SMITH  (SNIGGERS) 
1ST  PRIEST  OF  KLESH 
2ND  PRIEST  OF  KLESH 

3RD  PRIEST  OF  KLESH 
KLESH 

The  Curtain  rises  on  a  room  in  an  inn.  SNIGGERS  and  BILL  are  talking.  THE 
TOFF  is  reading  a  paper.  ALBERT  sits  a  little  apart. 

SNIGGERS.  What's  his  idea,  I  wonder? 

BILL.  I  don't  know. 

SNIGGERS.  And  how  much  longer  will  he  keep  us  here? 

BILL.  We've  been  here  three  days. 

SNIGGERS.  And  'aven't  seen  a  soul. 

BILL.  And  a  pretty  penny  it  cost  us  when  he  rented  the  pub. 

SNIGGERS.  'Ow  long  did  'e  rent  the  pub  for? 

BILL.  You  never  know  with  him. 

SNIGGERS.  It's  lonely  enough. 

BILL.  'Ow  long  did  you  rent  the  pub  for,  Toffy? 

(THE  TOFF  continues  to  read  a  sporting  paper;  he  takes  no  notice  of  what 

is  said) 

SNIGGERS.  'E's  such  a  toff. 
BILL.  Yet  Vs  clever,  no  mistake. 
SNIGGERS.  Those  clever  ones  are  the  beggars  to  make  a  muddle.  Their  plans 

From  Plays  of  Gods  and  Men,  by  Lord  Dunsany.  Courtesy  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons. 

42        MATTER   AND    MANNER 


are  clever  enough,  but  they  don't  work,  and  then  they  make  a  mess  of 

things  much  worse  than  you  or  me. 
BILL.  Ahl 

SNIGGERS.  I  don't  like  this  place. 
BILL.  Why  not? 

SNIGGERS.  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it. 
BILL.  He's  keeping  us  here  because  here  those  niggers  can't  find  us.  The  three 

heathen  priests  what  was  looking  for  us  so.  But  we  want  to  go  and  sell  our 

ruby  soon. 

ALBERT.  There's  no  sense  in  it. 
BILL.  Why  not,  Albert? 

ALBERT.  Because  I  gave  those  black  devils  the  slip  in  Hull. 
BILL.  You  give  'em  the  slip,  Albert? 
ALBERT.  The  slip,  all  three  of  them.  The  fellows  with  the  gold  spots  on  their 

foreheads.  I  had  the  ruby  then,  and  I  give  them  the  slip  in  Hull. 
BILL.  How  did  you  do  it,  Albert? 

ALBERT.  I  had  the  ruby  and  they  were  following  me  .  . . 
BILL.  Who  told  them  you  had  the  ruby?  You  didn't  show  it? 
ALBERT.  No  ...  But  they  kind  of  know. 
SNIGGERS.  They  kind  of  know,  Albert? 
ALBERT.  Yes,  they  know  if  you've  got  it.  Well,  they  sort  of  mouched  after  me, 

and  I  tells  a  policeman  and  he  says,  O  they  were  only  three  poor  niggers 

and  they  wouldn't  hurt  me.  Ugh!  When  I  thought  of  what  they  did  in 

Malta  to  poor  old  Jim. 

BILL.  Yes,  and  to  George  in  Bombay  before  we  started. 
SNIGGERS.  Ugh! 

BILL.  Why  didn't  you  give  'em  in  charge? 
ALBERT.  What  about  the  ruby,  Bill? 
BILL.  Ah! 
ALBERT.  Well,  I  did  better  than  that.  I  walks  up  and  down  through  Hull.  I 

walks  slow  enough.  And  then  I  turns  a  corner  and  I  runs.  I  never  sees  a 

corner  but  I  turns  it.  But  sometimes  I  let  a  corner  pass  just  to  fool  them. 

I  twists  about  like  a  hare.  Then  I  sits  down  and  waits.  No  priests. 
SNIGGERS.  What? 
ALBERT.  No  heathen  black  devils  with  gold  spots  on  their  face.  I  give  'em 

the  slip. 

BILL.  Well  done,  Albert. 

SNIGGERS  (after  a  sigh  of  content).  Why  didn't  you  tell  us? 
ALBERT.  'Cause  'e  won't  let  you  speak.  'E's  got  'is  plans  and  'e  thinks  we're 

silly  folk.  Things  must  be  done  'is  way.  And  all  the  time  I've  give  'em  the 

slip.  Might  'ave  'ad  one  o'  them  crooked  knives  in  him  before  now  but  for 

me  who  give  'em  the  slip  in  Hull. 

A    NIGHT    AT    AN    INN         43 


BILL.  Well  done,  Albert. 

SNIGGERS.  Do  you  hear  that,  Toffy?  Albert  has  give  'em  the  slip. 

THE  TOFF.  Yes,  I  hear. 

SNIGGERS.  Well,  what  do  you  say  to  that? 

THE  TOFF.  O  . . .  Well  done,  Albert. 

ALBERT.  And  what  a'  you  going  to  do? 

THE  TOFF.  Going  to  wait. 

ALBERT.  Don't  seem  to  know  what  Vs  waiting  for. 

SNIGGERS.  It's  a  nasty  place. 

ALBERT.  It's  getting  silly,  Bill.  Our  money's  gone  and  we  want  to  sell  the  ruby. 

Let's  get  on  to  a  town. 
BELL.  But  'e  won't  come. 
ALBERT.  Then  we'll  leave  him. 

SNIGGERS.  We'll  be  all  right  if  we  keep  away  from  Hull. 
ALBERT.  We'll  go  to  London. 
BELL.  But  'e  must  'ave  'is  share. 
SNIGGERS.  All  right.  Only  let's  go.  (To  THE  TOFF)  We're  going,  do  you  hear? 

Give  us  the  ruby. 
THE  TOFF.  Certainly. 
(He  gives  them  a  ruby  from  his  waistcoat  pocket:  it  is  the  size  of  a  small 

hens  egg.  He  goes  on  reading  his  paper) 
ALBERT.  Come  on,  Sniggers.  (Exeunt  ALBERT  and  SNIGGERS) 
BELL.  Good-bye,  old  man.  We'll  give  you  your  fair  share,  but  there's  nothing 

to  do  here,  no  girls,  no  halls,  and  we  must  sell  the  ruby. 
THE  TOFF.  I'm  not  a  fool,  Bill. 
BILL.  No,  no,  of  course  not.  Of  course  you  ain't,  and  you've  helped  us  a  lot. 

Good-bye.  You'll  say  good-bye? 
THE  TOFF.  Oh,  yes.  Good-bye. 
(Still  reads  paper.  Exit  BILL.  THE  TOFF  puts  a  revolver  on  the  table  beskle  him 

and  goes  on  with  his  paper) 

SNIGGERS  (out  of  breath).  We've  come  back,  Toffy. 
THE  TOFF.  So  you  have. 
ALBERT.  Toffy—how  did  they  get  here? 
THE  TOFF.  They  walked,  of  course. 
ALBERT.  But  it's  eighty  miles. 
SNIGGERS.  Did  you  know  they  were  here,  Toffy? 
THE  TOFF.  Expected  them  about  now. 
ALBERT.  Eighty  miles. 
BILL.  Toffy,  old  man— what  are  we  to  do? 
THE  TOFF.  Ask  Albert. 


44 


MATTER    AND    MANNER 


BILL.  If  they  can  do  things  like  this  there's  no  one  can  save  us  but  you,  Toffy 
—I  always  knew  you  were  a  clever  one.  We  won't  be  fools  any  more.  We'll 
obey  you,  Toffy. 

THE  TOFF.  You're  brave  enough  and  strong  enough.  There  isn't  many  that 
would  steal  a  ruby  eye  out  of  an  idol's  head,  and  such  an  idol  as  that  was  to 
look  at,  and  on  such  a  night.  You're  brave  enough,  Bill.  But  you're  all  three 
of  you  fools.  Jim  would  have  none  of  my  plans  and  where's  Jim?  And 
George.  What  did  they  do  to  him? 

SNIGGERS.  Don't,  Toffy! 

THE  TOFF.  Well,  then,  your  strength  is  no  use  to  you.  You  want  cleverness; 
or  they'll  have  you  the  way  that  they  had  George  and  Jim. 

ALL.  Ugh! 

THE  TOFF.  Those  black  priests  would  follow  you  round  the  world  in  circles, 
year  after  year,  till  they  got  the  idol's  eye.  And  if  we  died  with  it  they'd 
follow  our  grandchildren.  That  fool  thinks  he  can  escape  men  like  that  by 
running  round  three  streets  in  the  town  of  Hull. 

ALBERT.  God's  truth,  you  'aven't  escaped  them,  because  they're  'ere. 

THE  TOFF.  So  I  Supposed. 
ALBERT.  YOU  SUppOSedl 

THE  TOFF.  Yes,  I  believe  there's  no  announcement  in  the  Society  papers.  But 
I  took  this  country  seat  especially  to  receive  them.  There's  plenty  of  room 
if  you  dig;  it  is  pleasantly  situated  and  what  is  most  important  it  is  in  a 
very  quiet  neighbourhood.  So  I  am  at  home  to  them  this  afternoon. 

BILL.  Well,  you're  a  deep  one. 

THE  TOFF.  And  remember  you've  only  my  wits  between  you  and  death,  and 
don't  put  your  futile  plans  against  those  of  an  educated  gentleman. 

ALBERT.  If  you're  a  gentleman,  why  don't  you  go  about  among  gentlemen 
instead  of  the  likes  of  us? 

THE  TOFF.  Because  I  was  too  clever  for  them  as  I  am  too  clever  for  you. 

ALBERT.  Too  clever  for  them? 

THE  TOFF.  I  never  lost  a  game  of  cards  in  my  life. 

BILL.  You  never  lost  a  game? 

THE  TOFF.  Not  when  there  was  money  on  it. 

BILL.  Well,  well. 

THE  TOFF.  Have  a  game  of  poker? 

ALL.  No,  thanks. 

THE  TOFF.  Then  do  as  you're  told. 

BILL.  All  right,  Toffy. 

SNIGGERS.  I  saw  something  just  then.  Hadn't  we  better  draw  the  curtains? 

THE  TOFF.  NO. 

A    NIGHT    AT   AN   INN        45 


SNIGGERS.  What? 

THE  TOFF.  Don't  draw  the  curtains. 

SNIGGERS.  O  all  right. 

BILL.  But  Toffy,  they  can  see  us.  One  doesn't  let  the  enemy  do  that.  I  don't 

see  why . . . 

THE  TOFF.  No,  of  course  you  don't. 
BILL.  O  all  right,  Toffy.  (All  begin  to  pull  out  revolvers) 
THE  TOFF  (putting  his  own  away).  No  revolvers,  please. 
ALBERT.  Why  not? 
THE  TOFF.  Because  I  don't  want  any  noise  at  my  party.  We  might  get  guests 

that  hadn't  been  invited.  Knives  are  a  different  matter. 
(All  draw  knives.  THE  TOFF  signs  to  them  not  to  draw  them  yet.  TOFFY  has 

already  taken  back  his  ruby) 
BILL.  I  think  they're  coming,  Toffy. 
THE  TOFF.  Not  yet. 
ALBERT.  When  will  they  come? 

THE  TOFF.  When  I  am  quite  ready  to  receive  them.  Not  before. 
SNIGGERS.  I  should  like  to  get  this  over. 
THE  TOFF.  Should  you?  Then  we'll  have  them  now. 

SNIGGERS.  NOW? 

THE  TOFF.  Yes.  Listen  to  me.  You  shall  do  as  you  see  me  do.  You  will  all  pre- 
tend to  go  out.  I'll  show  you  how.  I've  got  the  ruby.  When  they  see  me 
alone  they  will  come  for  their  idol's  eye. 

BILL.  How  can  they  tell  like  this  which  of  us  has  it? 

THE  TOFF.  I  confess  I  don't  know,  but  they  seem  to. 

SNIGGERS.  What  will  you  do  when  they  come  in? 

THE  TOFF.  I  shall  do  nothing. 

SNIGGERS.  What? 

THE  TOFF.  They  will  creep  up  behind  me.  Then  my  friends,  Sniggers  and 
Bill  and  Albert,  who  gave  them  the  slip,  will  do  what  they  can. 

BILL.  All  right,  Toffy.  Trust  us. 

THE  TOFF.  If  you're  a  little  slow  you  will  see  enacted  the  cheerful  spectacle 
that  accompanied  the  demise  of  Jim. 

SNIGGERS.  Don't,  Toffy.  We'll  be  there  all  right. 

THE  TOFF.  Very  well.  Now  watch  me.  (He  goes  past  the  windows  to  the 
inner  door  R.;  he  opens  it  inwards.  Then  under  cover  of  the  open  door  he 
slips  down  on  his  knee  and  closes  it,  remaining  on  the  inside,  appearing  to 
have  gone  out.  He  signs  to  the  others  who  understand.  Then  he  appears 
to  re-enter  in  the  same  manner)  Now,  I  shall  sit  with  my  back  to  the  door. 
You  go  out  one  by  one  so  far  as  our  friends  can  make  out.  Crouch  very  low 


46 


MATTER   AND    MANNER 


to  be  on  the  safe  side.  They  mustn't  see  you  through  the  window.  (BILL 
makes  his  sham  exit)  Remember,  no  revolvers.  The  police  are,  I  believe, 
proverbially  inquisitive. 

(The  other  two  follow  BILL.  All  three  are  now  crouching  inside  the  door  R. 
THE  TOFF  puts  the  ruby  beside  him  on  the  table.  He  lights  a  cigarette.  The 
door  in  back  opens  so  slowly  that  you  can  hardly  say  at  what  moment  it 
began.  THE  TOFF  picks  up  his  paper.  A  NATIVE  OF  INDIA  wriggles  along  the 
floor  ever  so  slowly,  seeking  cover  from  chairs.  He  moves  L.  where  THE 
TOFF  is.  The  three  sailors  are  R.  SNIGGERS  and  ALBERT  lean  forward.  BILL'S 
arm  keeps  them  back.  An  armchair  had  better  conceal  them  from  the 
INDIAN.  The  black  PRIEST  nears  THE  TOFF.  BELL  watches  to  see  if  any  more 
are  coming.  Then  he  leaps  forward  alone  [he  has  taken  his  boots  off]  and 
knifes  the  PRIEST.  The  PRIEST  tries  to  shout  but  BILL'S  left  hand  is  over  his 
mouth.  THE  TOFF  continues  to  read  his  sporting  paper.  He  never  looks 
round) 

BILL  (sotto  voce).  There's  only  one,  Toffy.  What  shall  we  do? 

THE  TOFF  (without  turning  his  head).  Only  one? 

BILL.  Yes. 

THE  TOFF.  Wait  a  moment.  Let  me  think.  (Still  apparently  absorbed  in  his 
paper)  Ah,  yes.  You  go  back,  Bill.  We  must  attract  another  guest.  Now 
are  you  ready? 

BELL.  Yes. 

THE  TOFF.  All  right.  You  shall  now  see  my  demise  at  my  Yorkshire  residence. 
You  must  receive  guests  for  me.  (He  leaps  up  in  full  view  of  the  window, 
flings  up  both  arms  and  falls  on  the  floor  near  the  dead  PRIEST.)  Now  be 
ready.  (His  eyes  close) 

(There  is  a  long  pause.  Again  the  door  opens,  very,  very  slowly.  Another 
PRIEST  creeps  in.  He  has  three  golden  spots  upon  his  forehead.  He  looks 
round,  then  he  creeps  up  to  his  companion  and  turns  him  over  and  looks 
inside  each  of  his  clenched  hands.  Then  he  looks  at  the  recumbent  TOFF. 
Then  he  creeps  towards  him.  BELL  slips  after  him  and  knifes  him  like  the 
other  with  his  left  hand  over  his  mouth) 

BELL  (sotto  voce).  WeVe  only  got  two,  Toffy. 

THE  TOFF.  Still  another. 

BILL.  What'll  we  do? 

THE  TOFF  (sitting  up).  Hum. 

BELL.  This  is  the  best  way,  much. 

THE  TOFF.  Out  of  the  question.  Never  play  the  same  game  twice. 

BILL.  Why  not,  Toffy? 

THE  TOFF.  Doesn't  work  if  you  do. 

A   NIGHT   AT    AN    INN        47 


BILL.  Well? 

THE  TOFF.  1  have  it,  Albert.  You  will  now  walk  into  the  room.  I  showed  you 
how  to  do  it. 

ALBERT.  Yes. 

THE  TOFF.  Just  run  over  here  and  have  a  fight  at  this  window  with  these  two 
men. 

ALBERT.  But  they're 

THE  TOFF.  Yes,  they're  dead,  my  perspicuous  Albert.  But  Bill  and  I  are  going 
to  resuscitate  them — Come  on.  (BILL  picks  up  a  body  under  the  arms) 
That's  right,  Bill.  (Does  the  same)  Come  and  help  us,  Sniggers.  (SNIGGERS 
comes)  Keep  low,  keep  low.  Wave  their  arms  about,  Sniggers.  Don't  show 
yourself.  Now,  Albert,  over  you  go.  Our  Albert  is  slain.  Back  you  get,  Bill. 
Back,  Sniggers.  Still,  Albert.  Mustn't  move  when  he  comes.  Not  a  muscle. 

(A  face  appears  at  the  window  and  staijs  for  some  time.  Then  the  door  opens 
and  looking  craftily  round  the  third  PRIEST  enters.  He  looks  at  his  com- 
panions' bodies  and  turns  round.  He  suspects  something.  He  takes  up  one 
of  the  knives  and  with  a  knife  in  each  hand  he  puts  his  back  to  the  wall. 
He  looks  to  the  left  and  right) 

THE  TOFF.  Come  on,  Bill.  (The  PRIEST  rushes  to  the  door.  THE  TOFF  knifes  the 
last  PRIEST  from  behind)  A  good  day's  work,  my  friends. 

BILL.  Well  done,  Toffy.  Oh,  you  are  a  deep  one. 

ALBERT.  A  deep  one  if  ever  there  was  one. 

SNIGGERS.  There  ain't  any  more,  Bill,  are  there? 

THE  TOFF.  No  more  in  the  world,  my  friend. 

BILL.  Aye,  that's  all  there  are.  There  were  only  three  in  the  temple.  Three 
priests  and  their  beastly  idol. 

ALBERT.  What  is  it  worth,  Toffy?  Is  it  worth  a  thousand  pounds? 

THE  TOFF.  It's  worth  all  they've  got  in  the  shop.  Worth  just  whatever  we  like 
to  ask  for  it. 

ALBERT.  Then  we're  millionaires,  now. 

THE  TOFF.  Yes,  and  what  is  more  important,  we  no  longer  have  any  heirs. 

BILL.  We'll  have  to  sell  it  now. 

ALBERT.  That  won't  be  easy.  It's  a  pity  it  isn't  small  and  we  had  half  a  dozen. 
Hadn't  the  idol  any  other  on  him? 

BILL.  No,  he  was  green  jade  all  over  and  only  had  this  one  eye.  He  had  it  in 
the  middle  of  his  forehead,  and  was  a  long  sight  uglier  than  anything  else 
in  the  world. 

SNIGGERS.  I'm  sure  we  ought  all  to  be  very  grateful  to  Toffy. 

BILL.  And  indeed  we  ought. 

ALBERT.  If  it  hadn't  'ave  been  for  him 

BILL.  Yes,  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been  for  old  Toffy  . . . 

SNIGGERS.  He's  a  deep  one. 

48        MATTER    AND    MANNER 


THE  TOFF.  Well,  you  see,  T  just  have  a  knack  of  foreseeing  things. 

SNIGGERS.  I  should  think  you  did. 

BELL.  Why,  I  don't  suppose  anything  happens  that  our  Toff  doesn't  foresee. 

Does  it,  Toffy? 

THE  TOFF.  Well,  I  don't  think  it  does,  Bill.  I  don't  think  it  often  does. 
BILL.  Life  is  no  more  than  just  a  game  of  cards  to  our  old  Toff. 
THE  TOFF.  Well,  we've  taken  these  fellows'  trick. 

SNIGGERS  (going  to  the  window).  It  wouldn't  do  for  any  one  to  see  them. 
THE  TOFF.  O  nobody  will  come  this  way.  We're  all  alone  on  a  moor. 
BILL.  Where  'will  we  put  them? 

THE  TOFF.  Bury  them  in  the  cellar,  but  there's  no  hurry. 
BILL.  And  what  then,  Toffy? 
THE  TOFF.  Why,  then  we'll  go  to  London  arid  upset  the  ruby  business.  We 

have  really  come  through  this  job  very  nicely. 
BILL.  I  think  the  first  thing  that  we  ought  to  do  is  to  give  a  little  supper  to 

old  Toffy.  We'll  bury  these  fellows  to-night. 
ALBERT.  Yes,  let's. 
SNIGGERS.  The  very  thing. 
BILL.  And  we'll  all  drink  his  health. 

ALBERT.  Good  old  Toffy. 

SNIGGERS.  He  ought  to  have  been  a  general  or  a  premier.  (They  get  bottles 

from  cupboard.,  etc.) 

THE  TOFF.  Well,  we've  earned  our  bit  of  a  supper.  (They  sit  down) 
BILL  (glass  in  hand).  Here's  to  old  Toffy  who  guessed  everything. 

ALBERT  AND  SNIGGERS.  Good  old  Toffy. 

BELL.  Toffy  who  saved  our  lives  and  made  our  fortunes. 

ALBERT  AND  SNIGGERS.  Hear.  Hear. 

THE  TOFF.  And  here's  to  Bill  who  saved  me  twice  to-night. 

BILL.  Couldn't  have  done  it  but  for  your  cleverness,  Toffy. 

SNIGGERS.  Hear,  hear.  Hear,  hear. 

ALBERT.  He  foresees  everything. 

BILL.  A  speech,  Toffy.  A  speech  from  our  general. 

ALL.  Yes,  a  speech. 

SNIGGERS.  A  speech. 

THE  TOFF.  Well,  get  me  some  water.  This  whiskey's  too  much  for  my  head, 

and  I  must  keep  it  clear  till  our  friends  are  safe  in  the  cellar. 
BILL.  Water.  Yes,  of  course.  Get  him  some  water,  Sniggers. 
SNIGGERS.  We  don't  use  water  here.  Where  shall  I  get  it? 
BILL.  Outside  in  the  garden.  (Exit  SNIGGERS) 
ALBERT.  Here's  to  fortune. 
BILL.  Here's  to  Albert  Thomas  Esquire. 
ALBERT.  And  William  Jones  Esquire.  (Reenter  SNIGGERS  terrified) 

A  NIGHT    AT    AN    INN        49 


THE  TOFF.  Hullo,  here's  Jacob  Smith  Esquire,  J.  P.,  alias  Sniggers,  back  again. 

SNIGGERS.  Toffy,  I've  been  a  thinking  about  my  share  in  that  ruby.  I  don't 
want  it,  Toffy,  I  don't  want  it. 

THE  TOFF.  Nonsense,  Sniggers,  nonsense. 

SNIGGERS.  You  shall  have  it,  Toffy,  you  shall  have  it  yourself,  only  say  Snig- 
gers has  no  share  in  this  'ere  ruby.  Say  it,  Toffy,  say  it. 

BILL.  Want  to  turn  informer,  Sniggers? 

SNIGGERS.  No,  no.  Only  I  don't  want  the  ruby,  Toffy  . . . 

THE  TOFF.  No  more  nonsense,  Sniggers;  we're  all  in  together  in  this.  If  one 
hangs  we  all  hang;  but  they  won't  outwit  me.  Besides,  it's  not  a  hanging 
affair;  they  had  their  knives. 

SNIGGERS.  Toffy,  Toffy,  I  always  treated  you  fair,  Toffy.  I  was  always  one  to 
say,  Give  Toffy  a  chance.  Take  back  my  share,  Toffy. 

THE  TOFF.  What's  the  matter?  What  are  you  driving  at? 

SNIGGERS.  Take  it  back,  Toffy. 

THE  TOFF.  Answer  me;  what  are  you  up  to? 

SNIGGERS.  I  don't  want  my  share  any  more. 

BELL.  Have  you  seen  the  police?  (ALBERT  pulls  out  his  knife) 

THE  TOFF.  No,  no  knives,  Albert. 

ALBERT.  What  then? 

THE  TOFF.  The  honest  truth  in  open  court,  barring  the  ruby.  We  were  at- 
tacked. 

SNIGGERS.  There's  no  police. 

THE  TOFF.  Well,  then,  what's  the  matter? 

BILL.  Out  with  it. 

SNIGGERS.  I  swear  to  God  . . . 

ALBERT.  Well? 

THE  TOFF.  Don't  interrupt. 

SNIGGERS.  I  swear  I  saw  something  what  I  didn't  like. 

THE  TOFF.  What  you  didn't  like? 

SNIGGERS  (in  tears).  O  Toffy,  Toffy,  take  it  back.  Take  my  share.  Say  you 

take  it. 

THE  TOFF.  What  has  he  seen? 
(Dead  silence  only  broken  by  SNIGGERS'  sobs.  Then  stony  steps  are  heard. 

Enter  a  hideous  IDOL.  It  is  blind  and  gropes  its  way.  It  gropes  its  way  to 

the  ruby  and  picks  it  up  and  screws  it  into  a  socket  in  the  forehead. 

SNIGGERS  still  weeps  softly;  the  rest  stare  in  horror.  The  IDOL  steps  out,  not 

groping.  Its  steps  move  off,  then  stop) 
THE  TOFF.  O  great  heavens! 

ALBERT  (in  a  childish,  plaintive  voice).  What  is  it,  Toffy? 
BILL.  Albert,  it  is  that  obscene  idol  (in  a  whisper)  come  from  India. 

50         MATTER    AND    MANNER 


ALBERT.  It  is  gone. 

BILL.  It  has  taken  its  eye. 

SNIGGERS.  We  are  saved. 

OFF,  A  VOICE  (with  outlandish  accent).  Meestaire  William  Jones,  Able  Sea- 
man. 

(THE  TOFF  has  never  spoken,  never  moved.  He  only  gazes  stupidly  in  honor) 

BILL.  Albert,  Albert,  what  is  this?  (He  rises  and  walks  out.  One  moan  is 
heard.  SNIGGERS  goes  to  window.  He  jails  back  sickly) 

ALBERT  (in  a  whisper).  What  has  happened? 

SNIGGERS.  I  have  seen  it.  I  have  seen  it.  O  I  have  seen  it.  (He  returns  to  table) 

THE  TOFF  (laying  his  hand  very  gently  on  SNIGGERS'  arm,  speaking  softly  and 
winningly).  What  was  it,  Sniggers? 

SNIGGERS.  I  have  seen  it. 

ALBERT.  What? 

SNIGGERS.  O! 

VOICE.  Meestaire  Albert  Thomas,  Able  Seaman. 

ALBERT.  Must  I  go,  Toffy?  Toffy,  must  I  go? 

SNIGGERS  (clutching  him).  Don't  move. 

ALBERT  (going).  Toffy,  Toffy.  (Exit) 

VOICE.  Meestaire  Jacob  Smith,  Able  Seaman. 

SNIGGERS.  I  can't  go,  Toffy.  I  can't  go.  I  can't  do  it.  (He  goes) 

VOICE.  Meestaire  Arnold  Everett  Scott-Fortescue,  late  Esquire,  Able  Seaman. 

THE  TOFF.  I  did  not  foresee  it.  (Exit) 


Happenings 

WHAT  has  happened  before  the  cur- 
tain rises?  How  are  we  informed 
of  the  preceding  action?  How  is  this  ac- 
tion important  to  the  play? 

2.  At  what  point  does  the  "reversal" 
occur?  State  the  nature  of  the  action 
before  and  after  this  point.  What  prepa- 
ration has  there  been  for  the  reversal? 

3.  Before  the  priests  enter,  how  do 
the  words  and  actions  of  the  other  char- 
acters show  (a)  their  fear,  (b)  the  like- 
lihood of  their  fear? 

4.  What  qualities  do  the  Toff  and  his 
followers  have  which  make   possible 


their  victory  over  the  priests?  What 
qualities  does  the  god  have  which  ac- 
count for  his  eventual  triumph?  How 
are  these  qualities  shown? 

5.  Why  should  the  Toff  and  his  fol- 
lowers be  called  off  the  stage,  one  by 
one,  in  the  order  in  which  they  are 
called?  What  is  shown  by  their  way  of 
going? 

6.  Suggest  the  exact  nature  of  the 
setting,  the  lighting,  the  costuming,  and 
the  acting  which  you  believe  would  be 
best  for  this  play.  Support  your  sugges- 
tions with  references  to  the  text. 

7.  Compare  this  pattern  of  happen- 
ings with  that  of  "Frankie  and  Johnny." 


A   NIGHT   AT   AN    INN        51 


Characters 


THE  problems  of  personality  and  the 
human  emotions  are  usually  dealt 
with  deeply  and  in  detail  in  imaginative 
writings.  Hence  one  reason  for  the  fas- 
cination of  such  writings  is  that,  in 
them,  most  readers  may  meet  many 
kinds  of  people  unfamiliar  to  them  in 
life.  Again,  they  may  come  to  know 
even  familiar  kinds  of  characters  more 
intimately  in  books  than  they  do  in  ac- 
tuality. Knowing  of  people's  interest 
in  human  nature,  and  fascinated  them- 
selves by  it,  authors  as  a  rule  make  per- 
sonalities—characters—their qualities  and 
feelings,  important  elements  in  their 
works. 

So  important  is  personality  in  fiction, 
drama,  and  poetry  that  a  character  or 
an  emotion  at  times  may  suffice  to  give 
a  work  its  essential  unity.  Some  novels, 
stories,  and  plays  in  which  the  happen- 
ings are  not  patterned  but  miscellaneous 
may  be  unified  because  one  great  char- 
acter appears  throughout  (Gil  Bias,  for 
instance).  Some  character  sketches  are 
unified,  despite  the  fact  that  they  pre- 
sent no  happenings  in  detail,  because 
they  offer  insights  concerning  charac- 
ters. And  many  lyrical  poems,  although 
they  record  no  happenings,  are  unified 
by  the  expression  of  an  emotion  and— 
to  some  extent— the  personality  experi- 
encing the  emotion.  (For  example,  see 
Keats'  "Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,"  p.  769.) 
In  many  imaginative  works,  therefore, 
the  writer  takes  care  to  show  the  reader 
what  the  character  is— his  qualities,  his 
likes  and  dislikes,  how  he  lives  and 
what  he  does.  The  sum  total  of  such 
traits  is  the  character.  Characterization 


is  the  technique  used  by  the  writer  to 
make  these  qualities  known. 

Personality  of  the  character 

THE  reader  who  studies  characters 
and  characterization  in  a  work 
should  ask  and  answer  three  questions. 
The  first  is:  What  are  the  qualities— the 
characteristics— of  the  characters  in  the 
work?  The  reader,  in  other  words,  has 
the  problem  of  describing  the  person- 
ality of  each  of  the  figures,  major  or 
minor,  who  appear  in  the  work.  Some 
characters,  of  course,  will  be  nothing 
more  than  isolated  traits  or  types  or, 
perhaps,  representatives  of  professions 
(e.g.,  a  jealous  man,  a  lover  of  sports,  a 
housemaid).  Otheis  will  be  more  com- 
plex, and  several  adjectives  will  be 
needed  to  describe  them.  If  characters 
have  several  traits,  the  reader  needs  to 
see  not  only  what  those  traits  are  but 
also  how  they  are  related.  In  some 
characters,  all  other  traits  will  be  sub- 
ordinated to  one  dominating  motive, 
drive,  or  passion  (e.g.,  Macbeth,  or 
Ahab  in  Moby  Dick) .  Some  will  have 
qualities  which  contend  for  mastery; 
and  their  contending  drives  or  motives 
may  result  from  a  single  characteristic, 
or  one  contending  drive  may  result  from 
another.  Some  characters  will  be,  essen- 
tially, contending  drives-personalities 
which  threaten  to  split  under  trying  cir- 
cumstances (Hamlet,  for  example). 
Whatever  the  traits  or  combinations  of 
traits,  the  reader  needs  to  discern  what 
they  are  and  what  they  cause  the  char- 
acters to  like  and  dislike,  to  want  to  do 
and  to  shrink  from  doing. 


52 


MATTER    AND    MANNER 


Indications  of  personality 

A  SECOND  question  with  which  the 
reader  copes  is:  How  has  the  work 
indicated  these  qualities?  For  the  author 
must,  obviously,  have  the  technical  skill 
required  to  acquaint  us  with  his  crea- 
tions, and  if  he  is  not  to  be  obvious  or 
monotonous,  he  will  vary  his  methods. 
He  may,  for  instance,  describe  a  person 
in  such  a  way  as  to  indicate  that  he  is 
arrogant  or  intelligent,  or  that  he  dis- 
likes capitalists  and  likes  women.  The 
character's  features,  his  dress,  his  ges- 
tures, the  timbre  and  inflections  of  his 
voice,  his  facial  expressions— all  or  any 
of  these  may  be  so  delineated  as  to  show 
us  what  he  is.  Or  an  author  may  char- 
acterize by  direct  statement:  "Jones,  of 
course,  was  an  utter  fool."  He  may  in- 
dicate a  character's  traits  by  picturing 
his  surroundings:  "He  lived  in  a  huge 
and  showy  mansion,  which  was  cared 
for  by  armies  of  servants."  He  may  con- 
vey to  us  what  a  character  is  like  by 
quoting  his  dialogue:  both  what  he  says 
and  the  kind  of  words  in  which  he  ex- 
presses himself  will  offer  clues.  He  may 
tell  us  the  character's  thoughts,  or  he 
may  give  us  the  opinions  of  others  about 
him.  He  may  show  us  a  trait  by  show- 
ing us  an  action.  Often  he  will  use  not 
one  but  a  combination  of  these  methods 
to  acquaint  us  with  a  character.  And  we 
as  readers  should  note  what  methods  an 
author  uses  to  indicate  what  his  charac- 
ters are  like. 

Function  of  the  characters 
and  characterization 

A  THIRD    question    about   characters 
and   characterization  with  which 
the  reader  is  concerned  is:   What  is 
their  function  in  the  work?  For  they 
may  be  related  to  the  happenings,  to 


life,  and  to  the  interpretation  of  life 
which  a  work  provides. 

Unlike  a  painter  or  sculptor,  the  au- 
thor—in most  works— will  not  show  his 
people  frozen  in  one  position.  In  imagi- 
native writings,  characters  do  things. 
They  are  intimately  related  to  the  pat- 
terns of  happenings  which  you  con- 
sidered in  the  last  series  of  exercises. 
Interrelationships  between  happenings 
almost  always  come  about  as  a  result  of 
characters— because  authors  and  readers 
logically  relate  certain  kinds  of  charac- 
ters in  certain  situations  with  certain 
actions.  If,  for  instance,  an  author  in- 
troduces a  dishonest  character,  and  then 
shows  him,  when  tempted,  lying  to  his 
mother,  cheating  in  an  examination,  and 
deceiving  his  sweetheart,  we  say  that  it 
is  "logical"  for  such  a  character,  when 
tempted,  to  do  such  things.  Our  experi- 
ence with  similar  individuals,  in  life,  has 
shown  us  that  such  actions  are  logically 
probable.  A  characterization,  therefore, 
may  prepare  for  a  particular  action. 
Sometimes  such  preparation  will  be 
pretty  simple:  if  the  character's  only 
chore  is  to  say,  "Tea  is  served,  madam," 
it  will  be  enough  for  the  author  simply 
to  indicate  that  he  is  a  butler.  If,  by 
contrast,  the  character  is  to  be  shown 
vacillating  between  kind  acts  and  cruel 
ones,  the  author  will  need  to  equip  him 
with  traits  which  prepare  for  such 
vacillations. 

Again,  a  characterization  may  pre- 
pare for  a  change— a  reversal—- which  is 
at  the  heart  of  a  pattern  of  happenings. 
Here  is  a  play  about  Jane  Roe,  who 
loves  her  husband  in  Act  I  and  who 
deliberately  scalds  the  poor  man  with  a 
pot  of  boiling  tea  in  Act  III.  She  may 
be  given  qualities  which  motivate  both 
actions— the  loving  and  the  scalding— at 
the  proper  moments  in  the  play.  It  will 


MATTER   AND   MANNER        53 


be  important  for  the  reader  lo  see  exact- 
ly how  the  author's  portrayal  prepares 
or  fails  to  prepare  for  her  changing  be- 
havior. 

In  some  works,  a  character  may  offer 
signs  of  the  progress  and  the  completion 
of  the  narrative  pattern.  Often  the  "ex- 
haustion," so  to  speak,  of  possible  ac- 
tions for  characters  accompanies  the 
working  out  of  such  a  pattern.  In  such 
works,  as  Elizabeth  Bowen  has  said: 

Characters  ....  promote,  by  showing, 
the  advance  of  the  plot.  How?  By  the 
advances,  from  act  to  act,  in  their  action. 
By  their  showing  (by  emotional  and 
physical  changes)  the  effects  both  of  ac- 
tion and  the  passage  of  time.  The  dim- 
inution of  the  character's  alternatives 
shows  ....  advance— by  the  end  of  the 
novel  the  character's  alternatives,  many 
at  the  beginning,  have  been  reduced 

to  almost  none the  character  has, 

like  the  silkworm  at  work  on  the  cocoon, 

spun    itself    out Throughout    the 

novel,  each  character  is  expending  po- 
tentiality. 

Her  remarks,  of  course,  hold  good  for 
short  stories,  plays,  and  narrative  poems, 
as  well  as  for  novels. 

Some  qualities  will  be  given  to  char- 
acters, on  occasion,  merely  to  make 
them  "lifelike.''  Aware  that  readers  can- 
not become  interested  in  mere  puppets 
on  a  string  put  through  their  paces  by 
their  creator,  an  author  often  endows 
his  figures  with  traits  which  have  no 
relationship  to  the  happenings  but 
which  make  them  seem  real.  Of  course, 
in  a  work  containing  several  characters, 
the  minor  characters  may  do  perfectly 
well  if  they  are  not  unlifelike;  and  in  a 
work  which  has  action  or  setting  suffi- 
ciently exciting,  characters  may  be 


shown  who  have  very  few  lifelike  traits. 
Often,  however,  an  author  will  take 
pains  to  give  his  creatures  qualities 
which  give  the  impression  of  life—and 
the  reader  should  note  that  the  charac- 
terization has  this  function. 

Finally,  some  characters  may  be  given 
some  traits  which  make  them  attractive 
or  unattractive  to  the  reader— better 
than  the  reader,  like  the  reader,  or 
worse  than  the  reader.  Such  traits  prac- 
tically always  will  be  assigned  to  the 
protagonist  (hero  or  heroine)  and  the 
antagonist  (villain)  —if  there  is  one. 
Enough  universal  and  enough  specific 
traits  will  be  assigned  to  them  so  that 
the  reader  will  follow  with  interest  their 
trials  and  their  tribulations,  their  tri- 
umphs and  their  joys,  and  so  that  he 
will  feel  that  there  is  meaning  in  their 
defeats  or  their  triumphs.  The  physical 
aspects  of  the  characters,  their  moral 
codes,  their  philosophies,  their  associa- 
tions with  good  or  bad  friends,  the  way 
other  characters  feel  about  them,  all  will 
offer  clues  to  the  attitude  readers  are 
expected  to  adopt  toward  them.  Note, 
for  instance,  how  Stevenson  shows  the 
nature  of  the  infamous  Mr.  Hyde: 

Mr.  Hyde  was  pale  and  dwarfish,  he 
gave  an  impression  of  deformity  with- 
out any  nameable  malformation,  he  had 
a  displeasing  smile,  he  had  borne  him- 
self to  the  lawyer  with  a  sort  of  murder- 
ous mixture  of  timidity  and  boldness, 
and  he  spoke  with  a  husky,  whispering 
and  somewhat  broken  voice;  all  these 
were  points  against  him,  but  not  all  of 
these  together  could  explain  the  hither- 
to unknown  disgust,  loathing  and  fear 
with  which  Mr.  Utterson  regarded  him. 
"There  must  be  something  else/'  said 
the  perplexed  gentleman.  "There  is 
something  more,  if  I  could  find  a  name 


54 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 


for  it.  God  bless  me,  the  man  seems  also  helps   the  author  give  his   work 

hardly  human/  Something  trogiodytic,  meanings.  The  nature  of  these  qualities 

shall  we  say? or  is  it  the  mere  radi-  will  help  him  show  the  reader  how  he  is 

ance  of  a  foul  soul  that  thus  transpires  interpreting  the  people  and  the  events 

through,  and  transfigures,  its  clay  con-  which  his  story,  his  drama,  or  his  poem 

tincnt?  The  last,  I  think,  for,  O  my  portrays. 

poor  old  Harry  Jetyll,  if  I  ever  read  The  reader,  then,  who  intelligently 

Satan's  signature  upon  a  face,  it  is  on  studies  the  characters  and  the  charac- 

that  of  your  new  friend."— The  Strange  terization  in  an  imaginative  work  will 

Case  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  notice  what  the  characters  are  like,  how 

the  author  reveals  those  qualities,  and 

Not  only  does  the  endowment  of  char-  what  function  each  detail  performs.  The 

acters  with  sympathetic  or  unsympa-  following  passages  are  to  be  read  with 

thetic   qualities  interest  the  reader;   it  these  ideas  in  mind. 


Lewis'  novel  Babbitt  was  a  best  seller  during  the  year  of  its  appear- 
ance, 1922.  Thousands  of  readers  easily  read  it,  understood  it,  and  attacked  or 
defended  it.  Its  very  popularity  indicates  that  it  was  not  a  particularly  subtle  book. 
Nor  was  the  characterization  in  this  novel  very  subtle.  Lewis  tended  to  show  the 
qualities  of  his  characters  so  clearly  that  even  the  most  casual  reader  would  notice 
what  they  were,  and  he  did  not  endow  the  people  in  his  narrative  with  very 

large  assortments  of  traits. 

All  this  doesn't  mean  that  Lewis  nec- 
essarily is  a  bad  writer.  He  was  preach- 
ing  a  sermon  against  the  businessman, 
the  Rotarian,  of  the  day,  and  he  wanted 

SINCLAIR  LEWIS  thousands  of  people  to  hear  and  under- 

stand what  he  had  to  say.  Oversubtlety 
in  a  work  addressed  to  a  large  audience 
would,  of  course,  defeat  his  purposes. 
Lewis  showed  real  skill  in  finding  and 
9  •  *  using  a  number  of  characterizing  meth- 

Viol  to  ods  to  make  the  figures  in  his  narrative 

TJ*       i  crystal  clear.  Witness  the  way  this  ex- 

JLj3.tflOrnC  cerpt  shows  us  Eathorne  and  Babbitt. 

THERE  ARE  but  three  or  four  old  houses  in  Floral  Heights,  and  in  Floral 
Heights  an  old  house  is  one  which  was  built  before  1880.  The  largest 
of  these  is  the  residence  of  William  Washington  Eathorne,  president  of  the 
First  State  Bank. 


From  Babbitt,  by  Sinclair  Lewis.  Copyright,  1922,  by  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Company,  Inc. 

BABBITT   VISITS    EATHORNE        55 


The  Eathorne  Mansion  preserves  the  memory  of  the  "nice  parts"  of  Zenith 
as  they  appeared  from  1860  to  1900.  It  is  a  red  brick  immensity  with  gray 
sandstone  lintels  and  a  roof  of  slate  in  courses  of  red,  green,  and  dyspeptic 
yellow.  There  are  two  anemic  towers,  one  roofed  with  copper,  the  other 
crowned  with  castiron  ferns.  The  porch  is  like  an  open  tomb;  it  is  supported 
by  squat  granite  pillars  above  which  hang  frozen  cascades  of  brick.  At  one 
side  of  the  house  is  a  huge  stained-glass  window  in  the  shape  of  a  keyhole. 

But  the  house  has  an  effect  not  at  all  humorous.  It  embodies  the  heavy  dig- 
nity of  those  Victorian  financiers  who  ruled  the  generation  between  the 
pioneers  and  the  brisk  "sales-engineers"  and  created  a  somber  oligarchy  by 
gaining  control  of  banks,  mills,  land,  railroads,  mines.  Out  of  the  dozen  con- 
tradictory Zeniths  which  together  make  up  the  true  and  complete  Zenith, 
none  is  so  powerful  and  enduring  yet  none  so  unfamiliar  to  the  citizens  as 
the  small,  still,  dry,  polite,  cruel  Zenith  of  the  William  Eathornes;  and  for 
that  tiny  hierarchy  the  other  Zeniths  unwittingly  labor  and  insignificantly 
die. 

Most  of  the  castles  of  the  testy  Victorian  tetrarchs  are  gone  now  or  decayed 
into  boarding-houses,  but  the  Eathorne  Mansion  remains  virtuous  and  aloof, 
reminiscent  of  London,  Back  Bay,  Rittenhouse  Square.  Its  marble  steps  are 
scrubbed  daily,  the  brass  plate  is  reverently  polished,  and  the  lace  curtains 
are  as  prim  and  superior  as  William  Washington  Eathorne  himself. 

With  a  certain  awe  Babbitt  and  Chum  Frink  called  on  Eathorne  for  a 
meeting  of  the  Sunday  School  Advisory  Committee;  with  uneasy  stillness 
they  followed  a  uniformed  maid  through  catacombs  of  reception-rooms  to 
the  library.  It  was  as  unmistakably  the  library  of  a  solid  old  banker  as  Ea- 
thorne's  side-whiskers  were  the  side-whiskers  of  a  solid  old  banker.  The  books 
were  most  of  them  Standard  Sets,  with  the  correct  and  traditional  touch  of 
dim  blue,  dim  gold,  and  glossy  calf-skin.  The  fire  was  exactly  correct  and 
traditional;  a  small,  quiet,  steady  fire,  reflected  by  polished  fire-irons.  The 
oak  desk  was  dark  and  old  and  altogether  perfect;  the  chairs  were  gently 
supercilious. 

Eathorne's  inquiries  as  to  the  healths  of  Mrs.  Babbitt,  Miss  Babbitt,  and 
the  Other  Children  were  softly  paternal,  but  Babbitt  had  nothing  with  which 
to  answer  him.  It  was  indecent  to  think  of  using  the  "How's  tricks,  ole 
socks?"  which  gratified  Vergil  Gunch  and  Frink  and  Howard  Littlefield— 
men  who  till  now  had  seemed  successful  and  urbane.  Babbitt  and  Frink  sat 
politely,  and  politely  did  Eathorne  observe,  opening  his  thin  lips  just  wide 
enough  to  dismiss  the  words,  "Gentlemen,  before  we  begin  our  conference 
—you  may  have  felt  the  cold  in  coming  here— so  good  of  you  to  save  an  old 
man  the  journey— shall  we  perhaps  have  a  whisky  toddy?" 

So  well  trained  was  Babbitt  in  all  the  conversation  that  befits  a  Good 
Fellow  that  he  almost  disgraced  himself  with  "Rather  than  make  trouble, 

56         MATTER    AND    MANNER 


and  always  providin'  there  ain't  any  enforcement  officers  hiding  in  the  waste- 
basket—"  The  words  died  choking  in  his  throat.  He  bowed  in  flustered 
obedience.  So  did  Chum  Frink. 

Eathorne  rang  for  the  maid. 

The  modern  and  luxurious  Babbitt  had  never  seen  anyone  ring  for  a 
servant  in  a  private  house,  except  during  meals.  Himself,  in  hotels,  had  rung 
for  bell-boys,  but  in  the  house  you  didn't  hurt  Matilda's  feelings;  you  went 
out  in  the  hall  and  shouted  for  her.  Nor  had  he,  since  prohibition,  known 
any  one  to  be  casual  about  drinking.  It  was  extraordinary  merely  to  sip  his 
tocldy  and  not  cry,  "Oh,  maaaaan,  this  hits  me  right  where  I  live!"  And  al- 
ways, with  the  ecstasy  of  youth  meeting  greatness,  he  marveled,  "That  little 
fuzzy-face  there,  why,  he  could  make  me  or  break  me!  If  he  told  my  banker 
to  call  my  loans—!  Cosh!  That  quarter-sized  squirt!  And  looking  like  he 
hadn't  got  a  single  bit  of  hustle  to  him!  I  wonder—  Do  we  Boosters  throw  too 
many  fits  about  pep?" 

From  this  thought  he  shuddered  away,  and  listened  devoutly  to  Eathorne's 
ideas  on  the  advancement  of  the  Sunday  School,  which  were  very  clear  and 
very  bad. 

Diffidently  Babbitt  outlined  his  own  suggestions: 

"I  think  if  you  analyze  the  needs  of  the  school,  in  fact,  going  right  at  it  as 
if  it  was  a  merchandizing  problem,  of  course  the  one  basic  and  fundamental 
need  is  growth.  I  presume  we're  all  agreed  we  won't  be  satisfied  till  we  build 
up  the  biggest  darn  Sunday  School  in  the  whole  state,  so  the  Chatham  Road 
Presbyterian  won't  have  to  take  anything  off  anybody.  Now  about  jazzing  up 
the  campaign  for  prospects:  they've  already  used  contesting  teams,  and 
given  prizes  to  the  kids  that  bring  in  the  most  members.  And  they  made  a 
mistake  there:  the  prizes  were  a  lot  of  folderols  and  doodads  like  poetry 
books  and  illustrated  Testaments,  instead  of  something  a  real  live  kid  would 
want  to  work  for,  like  real  cash  or  a  speedometer  for  his  motorcycle.  Course 
I  suppose  it's  all  fine  and  dandy  to  illustrate  the  lessons  with  these  decorated 
bookmarks  and  blackboard  drawings  and  so  on,  but  when  it  comes  down  to 
real  he-hustling,  getting  out  and  drumming  up  customers— or  members,  I 
mean,  why,  you  got  to  make  it  worth  a  fellow's  while. 

"Now,  I  want  to  propose  two  stunts:  First,  divide  the  Sunday  School  into 
four  armies,  depending  on  age.  Everybody  gets  a  military  rank  in  his  own 
army  according  to  how  many  members  he  brings  in,  and  the  duffers  that  lie 
down  on  us  and  don't  bring  in  any,  they  remain  privates.  The  pastor  and 
superintendent  rank  as  generals.  And  everybody  has  got  to  give  salutes  and 
all  the  rest  of  that  junk,  just  like  a  regular  army,  to  make  'em  feel  it's  worth 
while  to  get  rank. 

"Then,  second:  Course  the  school  has  its  advertising  committee,  but,  Lord, 
nobody  ever  really  works  good— nobody  works  well  just  for  the  love  of  it. 

BABBITT    VISITS    EATHORNE         57 


The  thing  to  do  is  to  be  practical  and  up-to-date,  and  hire  a  real  paid  press- 
agent  for  the  Sunday  School— some  newspaper  fellow  who  can  give  part  of 
his  time." 

"Sure,  you  bet!"  said  Chum  Frink. 

"Think  of  the  nice  juicy  bits  he  could  get  in!"  Babbitt  crowed.  "Not  only 
the  big,  salient,  vital  facts,  about  how  fast  the  Sunday  School— and  the  collec- 
tion—is growing,  but  a  lot  of  humorous  gossip  and  kidding;  about  how  some 
blowhard  fell  down  on  his  pledge  to  get  new  members,  or  the  good  time  the 
Sacred  Trinity  class  of  girls  had  at  their  wieniewurst  party.  And  on  the  side, 
if  he  had  time,  the  press-agent  might  even  boost  the  lessons  themselves— do 
a  little  advertising  for  all  the  Sunday  Schools  in  town,  in  fact.  No  use  being 
hoggish  toward  the  rest  of  'em,  providing  we  can  keep  the  bulge  on  'em  in 
membership.  Frinstance,  he  might  get  the  papers  to—  Course  I  haven't  got 
a  literary  training  like  Frink  here,  and  I'm  just  guessing  how  the  pieces  ought 
to  be  written,  but  take  frinstance,  suppose  the  week's  lesson  is  about  Jacob; 
well,  the  press-agent  might  get  in  something  that  would  have  a  fine  moral, 
and  yet  with  a  trick  headline  that'd  get  folks  to  read  it— say  like:  Jake  Fooh 
the  Old  Man;  Makes  Getaway  with  Girl  and  Bankroll.  See  how  I  mean? 
That'd  get  their  interest!  Now,  course,  Mr.  Eathorne,  you're  conservative, 
and  maybe  you  feel  these  stunts  would  be  undignified,  but  honestly,  I  be- 
lieve they'd  bring  home  the  bacon." 

Eathorne  folded  his  hands  on  his  comfortable  little  belly  and  purred  like 
an  aged  pussy: 

"May  I  say,  first,  that  I  have  been  very  much  pleased  by  your  analysis  of 
the  situation,  Mr.  Babbitt.  As  you  surmise,  it's  necessary  in  My  Position  to  be 
conservative,  and  perhaps  endeavor  to  maintain  a  certain  standard  of  dig- 
nity. Yet  I  think  you'll  find  me  somewhat  progressive.  In  our  bank,  for  ex- 
ample, I  hope  I  may  say  that  we  have  as  modern  a  method  of  publicity  and 
advertising  as  any  in  the  city.  Yes,  I  fancy  you'll  find  us  oldsters  quite  cogni- 
zant of  the  shifting  spiritual  values  of  the  age.  Yes,  oh  yes.  And  so,  in  fact, 
it  pleases  me  to  be  able  to  say  that  though  personally  I  might  prefer  the 
sterner  Presbyterianism  of  an  earlier  era—" 

Babbitt  finally  gathered  that  Eathorne  was  willing. 

Chum  Frink  suggested  as  part-time  press-agent  one  Kenneth  Escott,  re- 
porter on  the  Advocate-Times. 

They  parted  on  a  high  plane  of  amity  and  Christian  helpfulness. 

Babbitt  did  not  drive  home,  but  toward  the  center  of  the  city.  He  wished 
to  be  by  himself  and  exult  over  the  beauty  of  intimacy  with  William  Wash- 
ington Eathorne. 


58         MATTER   AND   MANNER 


Characters  and  happenings 

EXACTLY  how  are  the  general  state- 
ments (opening  4  pars.)  about  the 
exterior  of  the  "Mansion"  and  the  par- 
ticular details  about  its  appearance  val- 
uable in  introducing  Eathorne?  What 
do  the  following  words  suggest  about 
the  kind  of  person  living  in  the  house: 
"immensity,"  "anemic,"  "open  tomb," 
"frozen  cascades"? 

2.  (Par.  4)  What  is  meant  by  "remi- 
niscent of  London,  Back  Bay,  Kitten- 
house  Square"?  How  is  the  caretaking 
of  the  mansion  related  to  Eathorne? 

3.  (Par.  5)  What  is  the  value  of  the 
word    "catacombs"    for    characterizing 
Eathorne?  ( See  "foil  character"  in  Glos- 
sary of  Critical  Terms.)   What  is  con- 
tributed by  the  details  concerning  his 
books,  his  fire,  his  desk,  his  chairs? 

4.  (Par.  6  and  following)  What  kind 
of  person  is  Babbitt?  How  is  his  nature 
shown?    How    does    bringing    together 
Eathorne  and  Babbitt  help   show  the 
qualities  of  both?  What  is  gained  by 
telling    Babbitt's    thoughts    during    the 
visit  and  the  interview? 

5.  (Par.  8  and  following)  Character- 
ize the  way  Babbitt  talks,  the  way  his 
host  talks.  What  is  achieved,  then,  by 
quoting  both  of  them?  Why  are  the  quo- 
tations from  Babbitt's  remarks  properly 
longer  than  those  from  Eathorne's  re- 
marks? 

6.  How    complete    a    description    of 
the   appearance   of   Eathorne   may   be 
based  upon  details  in  this  passage?  Is 
he  old  or  young,  large  or  small,  smooth- 


shaven  or  be  whiskered?  Wnat  is  his  pos- 
ture during  the  interview?  What  is  the 
value  of  having  the  details  distributed, 
instead  of  concentrated  in  one  para- 
graph? 

7.  Summarize  everything  that  may 
be  said  abo^t  Eathorne's  character  after 
a  careful  study  of  this  passage.  Also,  list 
all  the  methods  whereby  Lewis  has  set 
forth  his  character. 

8.  How,  exactly,  would  you  classify 
Eathorne?  Is  he  a  "type"  character  or 
is  he  highly  individualized?  Is  he  simple 
or  complex? 

9.  How  lifelike  are  these  characters? 
Which  would  you  classify  as  attractive, 
unattractive,    a    mixture?    Why?    How 
does  the  author  make  them  so? 

10.  How    probable    would   you    say 
each  of  the  following  actions  is  for  Bab- 
bitt, as  shown  here?  Give  reasons  for 
your  answers. 

(a)  He  refuses  to  join  a  Good  Citi- 
zens' League  which  has  been  founded 
to  battle  against  "the  Red  Menace." 

(b)  He  draws  up  a  better  plan  for  a 
membership   campaign   than   Eathorne 
does. 

(c)  He  changes  an  attitude  when  he 
learns  that  Eathorne  disapproves. 

(d)  He  approves  when  his  son  de- 
cides not  to  go  to  college  but,  instead, 
to  work  in  a  factory. 

11.  Contrast    the    characters    and 
characterizations    here    with    those    in 
"Frankie  and  Johnny"  (p.  39)   and  "A 
Night  at  an  Inn"  (p.  42).  Relate  these 
contrasts  to  those  between  happenings 
when  the  selections  are  compared. 


BABBITT    VISITS    EATHORNE 


59 


£*»  In  a  picture  gallery  on  an  upper  floor  of  a  mansion  in  Ferrara,  two  men  are 
talking.  One  is  the  duke,  the  owner  of  the  mansion.  The  other  is  an  envoy  of 
a  count  whose  daughter  the  duke  is  about  to  marry.   The  pair  seat  them- 
selves  before  a  portrait  of  the  dukes  deceased  wife,  and  the  poem  tells  what 
the  duke  says  about  the  painting,  his  "last  duchess"  and  the  forthcoming  mar- 
riage. (Any  words  which  may  have  been 
uttered  by  the  envoy  are  not  recorded, 
but  at  one  point  the  duke  refers  to  an 
expression  he  notices  on  the  envoy's 
face.)  We  learn  about  two  characters — 
one  directly,  one  indirectly.  The  things 
the  duke  says  and  the  way  he  says  them 
both  characterize  him  and  unfold  a  re- 
vealing story  about  Jiim.  What  lie  says 
about  his  dead  wife  familiarizes  us  with 
her,  and  in  the  end  tlie  duke  draws  a 
picture  of  her  which  is  much  more  fa- 
vorable than  he  suspects.  Every  word  of 

ROBERT     BROWNING  *7lfe  P°?m  fe  ?*"**?  ,«**  tmjMcotions: 

as  William  Lyon  Phelps  has  said,   'The 
whole  poem  contains  only  fifty-six  lines, 

%1         ,  but  it  could  easily  be  expanded  into  a 

Idol  three-volume   novel!9   As   a  result,   of 

I          i  course,  the  reader  should  carefully  con- 

ClUCllCSS  sider  every  word  and  what  it  implies. 


Ferrara 

THAT'S  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive;  I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now:  Fra  Pandolf  s  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?  I  said  5 

"Fra  Pandolf  by  design,  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  ( since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I )  co 

And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.  Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps  15 

60         MATTER    AND    MANNER 


Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "Her  mantle  laps 

Over  my  Lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat";  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough  20 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.  She  had 

A  heart . . .  how  shall  I  say?  . . .  too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whatever 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  'twas  all  one!  My  favor  at  her  breast,  25 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace— all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech,  30 

Or  blush,  at  least.  She  thanked  men,— good;  but  thanked 

Somehow  ...  I  know  not  how  ...  as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.  Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?  Even  had  you  skill  35 

In  speech— (which  I  have  not)— to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say  "Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark"— and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set  40 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

—E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping,  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.  Oh,  Sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?  This  grew;  I  gave  commands;  45 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.  There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.  Will't  please  you  rise?  We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.  I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  Master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence  50 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.  Nay,  we'll  go 

Together  down,  Sir!  Notice  Neptune,  though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity,  55 

Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me. 

MY    LAST   DUCHESS         61 


Characters  and  happenings 

THE  word  "last"  in  line  1  should  be 
stressed.  What  does  the  stress  indi- 
cate about  the  duke's  attitude  toward 
his  late  wife? 

2.  The  "Fra"  in  line  3  is  a  "brother" 
—a  monk.  "I  said  'Fra  Pandolf  by  de- 
sign," says  the  duke.  What  is  suggested 
by  this  emphasis  on  the  religious  nature 
of  the  painter  in  the  speech  to  the  en- 
voy? What  is  the  reader  to  deduce  from 
these  facts:    (a)   even  a  monk  was  al- 
lowed only  one  day  to  paint  the  portrait, 

(b)  only  the  duke  puts  by  the  curtain 
which   ordinarily   covers   the   painting, 

(c)  the  duke  carefully  quotes    (11.16- 
19)    what  he  believes  the  monk  said 
while  painting. 

3.  In  lines  22-34,  the  duke  offers  ex- 
amples to  show  that  his  wife  "had  a 
heart ...  too  soon  made  glad."  What  do 
the  examples  indicate  about  her  likings? 
Do  the  examples  justify  a  critic's  sugges- 
tion that  "she  was  one  of  those  lovely 
women  whose  kindness  and  responsive- 
ness are  as  natural  as  sunlight"?  Why 
or  why  not? 

4.  Precisely  what  does  the  duke  seem 
to  feel  was  wrong  with  the  responsive- 
ness of  his  former  wife?  What  does  the 
nature  of  his  displeasure  show  about  his 
character? 

5.  Why— according   to   lines   34-43— 


did  the  duke  never  reveal  his  displeas- 
ure to  the  woman?  What  does  his  justi- 
fication of  his  silence  show  about  him? 

6.  Says  line  45:  "I  gave  commands." 
What  were  the  commands?  (A  knowl- 
edge of  the  history  of  Ferrara  may  help 
answer  this,  if  considered  in  connection 
with  the  rather  grim  line  which  follows: 
"Then   all   smiles   stopped   together.") 
How  does  your  knowledge  of  the  char- 
acter justify  your  interpretation? 

7.  What  is  to  be  learned  about  the 
duke  from  his  remarks  (11.  48-53)  con- 
cerning the  dowry  and  his  love  for  the 
count's  daughter? 

8.  Since  a  duke  was  supposed  to  walk 
before  a  commoner,  why  did  the  duke 
say,  "Nay,  we'll  go  together  down,  Sir!" 

9.  Why,  as  the  poem  closes,  does  the 
duke   call    attention   to   the   particular 
piece   of   statuary   mentioned   in   lines 
54-56?  What  bearing  does  his  singling 
out  of  this  work  of  art  have  upon  this 
question:   What  were  the  motives  for 
the  whole  conversation  here  recorded? 
Was  the  duke  trying  to  tell  the  envoy 
something  indirectly? 

10.  Summarize  what  you  have  learned 
about  the  characters  of  the  duke  and 
the  duchess.  Generalize  about  the  meth- 
ods of  characterization  in  the  poem. 

11.  Contrast  the   methods   and   the 
functions  of  characterization  here  with 
those  in  "Babbitt  Visits  Eathorne"  (p.  55). 


62 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 


£*»  A  practicing  physician  and  writer,  Anton  Chekhov  was  a  keen  and  sympathetic 

observer  of  the  nineteenth-century  Rus- 
sian people.  Although  their  frustration 
and  sense  of  futility  pervade  his  literary 

ANTON   CHEKHOV  WOrk>    H   is  reli™ed   %    ™'«»   and   ten~ 

derlij  humorous  interpretations  of  char- 
acter. Often  the  people  of  his  plays  and 

rril  short  stories  get  nothing  done,  but  they 

JL  HC    S\VcHl  feel  much  and  talk  at  great  length,  as 

does  the  old  actor  in  the  following 
short  drama. 


song 


CHARACTERS 

VASILI  SVIETLOVIDOFF,  a  comedian,  68  years  old 
NIKITA  iv AN  ITCH,  a  prompter,  an  old  man 

The  scene  is  laid  on  the  stage  of  a  country  theatre,  at  night,  after  the  play, 
To  the  right  a  row  of  rough,  unpainted  doors  leading  into  the  dressing* 
rooms.  To  the  left  and  in  the  background  the  stage  is  encumbered  with 
all  sorts  of  rubbish.  In  the  middle  of  the  stage  is  an  overturned  stool. 

SVIETLOVIDOFF  (with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  comes  out  of  a  dressing-room  and 
laughs).  Well,  well,  this  is  funny!  Here's  a  good  joke!  I  fell  asleep  in  my 
dressing-room  when  the  play  was  over,  and  there  I  was  calmly  snoring 
after  everybody  else  had  left  the  theatre.  Ah!  I'm  a  foolish  old  man,  a  poor 
old  dodderer!  I  have  been  drinking  again,  and  so  I  fell  asleep  in  there, 
sitting  up.  That  was  clever!  Good  tor  you,  old  boy!  (Calls)  Yegorka!  Pet- 
rushka!  Where  the  devil  are  you?  Petrushka!  The  scoundrels  must  be 
asleep,  and  an  earthquake  wouldn't  wake  them  now!  Yegorka!  (Picks  up 
the  stool,  sits  down,  and  puts  the  candle  on  the  floor)  Not  a  sound!  Only 
echoes  answer  me.  I  gave  Yegorka  and  Petrushka  each  a  tip  to-day,  and 
now  they  have  disappeared  without  leaving  a  trace  behind  them.  The 
rascals  have  gone  off  and  have  probably  locked  up  the  theatre.  (Turns  his 
head  about)  I'm  drunk!  Ugh!  The  play  tonight  was  for  my  benefit,  and  it 
is  disgusting  to  think  how  much  beer  and  wine  I  have  poured  down  my 
throat  in  honour  of  the  occasion.  Gracious!  My  body  is  burning  all  over, 
and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  twenty  tongues  in  my  mouth.  It  is  horrid!  Idiotic! 
This  poor  old  sinner  is  drunk  again,  and  doesn't  even  know  what  he  has 

From  Plays  by  Anton  Tchekoff,  translated  by  Marian  Fell.    Used  by  permission  of  the 
publishers,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

THE   SWAN    SONG         63 


been  celebrating!  Ugh!  My  head  is  splitting,  1  am  shivering  all  over,  and 
I  feel  as  dark  and  cold  inside  as  a  cellar!  Even  if  I  don't  mind  ruining  my 
health,  I  ought  at  least  to  remember  my  age,  old  idiot  that  I  am!  Yes,  my 
old  age!  It's  no  use!  I  can  play  the  fool,  and  brag,  and  pretend  to  be 
young,  but  my  life  is  really  over  now,  I  kiss  my  hand  to  the  sixty-eight 
years  that  have  gone  by;  I'll  never  see  them  again!  I  have  drained  the 
bottle,  only  a  few  little  drops  are  left  at  the  bottom,  nothing  but  the  dregs. 
Yes,  yes,  that's  the  case,  Vasili,  old  boy.  The  time  has  come  for  you  to  re- 
hearse the  part  of  a  mummy,  whether  you  like  it  or  not.  Death  is  on  its  way 
to  you.  (Stares  ahead  of  him)  It  is  strange,  though,  that  I  have  been  on  the 
stage  now  for  forty-five  years,  and  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  a  thea- 
tre at  night,  after  the  lights  have  been  put  out.  The  first  time.  (Walks  up 
to  the  foot-lights)  How  dark  it  is!  I  can't  see  a  thing.  Oh,  yes,  I  can  just 
make  out  the  prompter's  box,  and  his  desk;  the  rest  is  in  pitch  darkness, 
a  black,  bottomless  pit,  like  a  grave,  in  which  death  itself  might  be  hiding. 

.  .  .  Brr How  cold  it  is!  The  wind  blows  out  of  the  empty  theatre  as 

though  out  of  a  stone  flue.  What  a  place  for  ghosts!  The  shivers  are  run- 
ning up  and  down  my  back.  (Calls)  Yegor ka!  Petrushka!  Where  are  you 
both?  What  on  eaith  makes  me  think  of  such  gruesome  things  here?  I  must 
give  up  drinking;  I'm  an  old  man,  I  shan't  live  much  longer.  At  sixty-eight 
people  go  to  church  and  prepare  for  death,  but  here  I  am— heavens!  A 
profane  old  drunkard  in  this  iool's  dress— I'm  simply  not  fit  to  look  at.  I 
must  go  and  change  it  at  once. . . .  This  is  a  dreadful  place,  I  should  die 
of  fright  sitting  here  all  night.  (Goes  toward  his  dressing-room;  at  the 
same  time  NIKITA  IVANITCH  in  a  long  white  coat  comes  out  of  the  dressing- 
room  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  stage.  SVIETLOVIDOFF  sees  IVANITCH— shrieks 
with  terror  and  steps  back)  Who  are  you?  What?  What  do  you  want? 
(Stamps  his  foot)  Who  are  you? 

IVANITCH.  It  is  I,  sir. 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  Who  are  you? 

IVANITCH  (comes  slowly  toward  him).  It  is  I,  sir,  the  prompter,  Nikita 
Ivanitch.  It  is  I,  master,  it  is  I! 

SVIETLOVIDOFF  (sinks  helplessly  onto  the  stool,  breathes  heavily  and  trembles 
violently).  Heavens!  Who  are  you?  It  is  you  .  . .  you  Nikitushka?  What . . . 
what  are  you  doing  here? 

IVANITCH.  I  spend  my  nights  here  in  the  dressing-rooms.  Only  please  be 
good  enough  not  to  tell  Alexi  Fomitch,  sir.  I  have  nowhere  else  to  spend 
the  night;  indeed,  I  haven't. 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  Ah!  It  is  you,  Nikitushka,  is  it?  Just  think,  the  audience  called 
me  out  sixteen  times;  they  brought  me  three  wreaths  and  lots  of  other 
things,  too;  they  were  all  wild  with  enthusiasm,  and  yet  not  a  soul  came 

64         MATTEH    AND    MANNER 


when  it  was  all  over  to  wake  the  poor,  drunken  old  man  and  take  him 
home.  And  I  am  an  old  man,  Nikitushka!  I  am  sixty-eight  years  old,  and 
I  am  ill.  I  haven't  the  heart  left  to  go  on.  (Falls  on  IVANITCH'S  neck  and 
weeps)  Don't  go  away,  Nikitushka;  I  am  old  and  helpless,  and  I  feel  it  is 
time  for  me  to  die.  Oh,  it  is  dreadful,  dreadful! 

rvANiTCH  (tenderly  and  respectfully).  Dear  master!  It  is  time  for  you  to  go 
home,  sir! 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  I  won't  go  home;  I  have  no  home— none!— none!— none! 

JVANITCH.  Oh,  dear!  Have  you  forgotten  where  you  live? 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  I  won't  go  there.  I  won't!  I  am  all  alone  there.  I  have  nobody, 
Nikitushka!  No  wife— no  children.  I  am  like  the  wind  blowing  across  the 
lonely  fields.  I  shall  die,  and  no  one  will  remember  me.  It  is  awful  to  be 
alone— no  one  to  cheer  me,  no  one  to  caress  me,  no  one  to  help  me  to  bed 
when  I  am  drunk.  Whom  do  I  belong  to?  Who  needs  me?  Who  loves  me? 
Not  a  soul,  Nikitushka. 

IVANITCH  (weeping).  Your  audience  loves  you,  master. 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  My  audience  has  gone  home.  They  are  all  asleep,  and  have 
forgotten  their  old  clown.  No,  nobody  needs  me,  nobody  loves  me;  I  have 
no  wife,  no  children. 

IVANITCH.  Oh,  dear,  Oh,  dear!  Don't  be  so  unhappy  about  it. 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  But  I  am  a  man,  I  am  still  alive.  Warm,  red  blood  is  tingling 
in  my  veins,  the  blood  of  noble  ancestors.  I  am  an  aristocrat,  Nikitushka; 
I  served  in  the  army,  in  the  artillery,  before  I  fell  as  low  as  this,  and 
what  a  fine  young  chap  I  was!  Handsome,  daring,  eager!  Where  has  it  all 
gone?  What  has  become  of  those  old  days?  There's  the  pit  that  has  swal- 
lowed them  all!  I  remember  it  all  now.  Forty-five  years  of  my  life  lie 
buried  there,  and  what  a  life,  Nikitushka!  I  can  see  it  as  clearly  as  I  see 
your  face:  the  ecstasy  of  youth,  faith,  passion,  the  love  of  women- 
women,  Nikitushka! 

IVANITCH.  It  is  time  you  went  to  sleep,  sir. 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  When  I  first  went  on  the  stage,  in  the  first  glow  of  passionate 
youth,  I  remember  a  woman  loved  me  for  my  acting.  She  was  beautiful, 
graceful  as  a  poplar,  young,  innocent,  pure,  and  radiant  as  a  summer 
dawn.  Her  smile  could  charm  away  the  darkest  night.  I  remember,  I  stood 
before  her  once,  as  I  am  now  standing  before  you.  She  had  never  seemed 
so  lovely  to  me  as  she  did  then,  and  she  spoke  to  me  so  with  her  eyes- 
such  a  look!  I  shall  never  forget  it,  no,  not  even  in  the  grave;  so  tender,  so 
soft,  so  deep,  so  bright  and  young!  Enraptured,  intoxicated,  I  fell  on  my 
knees  before  her,  I  begged  for  my  happiness,  and  she  said:  "Give  up  the 
stage!"  Give  up  the  stage!  Do  you  understand?  She  could  love  an  actor, 
but  marry  him— never!  I  was  acting  that  day,  I  remember— I  had  a  foolish, 

THE   SWAN    SONG        65 


clown's  part,  and  as  I  acted,  I  felt  my  eyes  being  opened;  I  saw  that  the 
worship  of  the  art  I  had  held  so  sacred  was  a  delusion  and  an  empty 
dream;  that  I  was  a  slave,  a  fool,  the  plaything  of  the  idleness  of 
strangers.  I  understood  my  audience  at  last,  and  since  that  day  I  have  not 
believed  in  their  applause,  or  in  their  wreaths,  or  in  their  enthusiasm. 
Yes,  Nikitushka!  The  people  applaud  me,  they  buy  my  photograph,  but 
I  am  a  stranger  to  them.  They  don't  know  me,  I  am  as  the  dirt  beneath 
their  feet.  They  are  willing  enough  to  meet  me . . .  but  allow  a  daughter 
or  a  sister  to  marry  me,  an  outcast,  neverl  I  have  no  faith  in  them,  (sinks 
onto  stool)  no  faith  in  them. 

IVANITCH.  Oh,  sir!  you  look  dreadfully  pale,  you  frighten  me  to  death!  Come, 
go  home,  have  mercy  on  me! 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  I  saw  through  it  all  that  day,  and  the  knowledge  was  dearly 
bought.  Nikitushka!  After  that . . .  when  that  girl . . .  well,  I  began  to  wan- 
der aimlessly  about,  living  from  day  to  day  without  looking  ahead.  I  took 
the  parts  of  buffoons  and  low  comedians,  letting  my  mind  go  to  wreck. 
Ah!  but  I  was  a  great  artist  once,  till  little  by  little  I  threw  away  my  tal- 
ents, played  the  motley  fool,  lost  my  looks,  lost  the  power  of  expressing 
myself,  and  became  in  the  end  a  Merry  Andrew  instead  of  a  man.  I  have 
been  swallowed  up  in  that  great  black  pit.  I  never  felt  it  before,  but  to- 
night, when  I  woke  up,  I  looked  back,  and  there  behind  me  lay  sixty-eight 
years.  I  have  just  found  out  what  it  is  to  be  old!  It  is  all  over  . . .  (sobs)  . . . 
all  over. 

IVANITCH.  There,  there,  dear  master!  Be  quiet . . .  gracious!  (Calls)  Petrushka! 
Yegorka! 

SVIETLOVIDOFF.  But  what  a  genius  I  was!  You  cannot  imagine  what  power 
I  had,  what  eloquence;  how  graceful  I  was,  how  tender;  how  many  strings 
(beats  his  breast)  quivered  in  this  breast!  It  chokes  me  to  think  of  it!  Lis- 
ten now,  wait,  let  me  catch  my  breath,  there;  now  listen  to  this: 

"The  shade  of  bloody  Ivan  now  returning 
Fans  through  my  lips  rebellion  to  a  flame, 
I  am  the  dead  Dimitri/  In  the  burning 
Bon's  shall  perish  on  the  throne  I  claim. 
Enough/  The  heir  of  Czars  shall  not  be  seen 
Kneeling  to  yonder  haughty  Polish  Queen/"1 

Is  that  bad,  eh?  (Quickly)  Wait,  now,  here's  something  from  King  Lear. 
The  sky  is  black,  see?  Rain  is  pouring  down,  thunder  roars,  lightning— 
zzz  zzz  zzz— splits  the  whole  sky,  and  then  listen: 


"Boris  Godunov,"  by  Pushkin. 

66        MATTER   AND   MANNER 


"Blow,  winds,  and  crack  your  cheeks/  rage/  blow/ 
You  cataracts  and  hurricanoes,  spout 
Till  you  have  drench'd  our  steeples,  drown'd  the  cocks/ 
You  sulphurous  thought-executing  fires, 
Vaunt-couriers  of  oak-cleaving  thunderbolts, 
Singe  my  white  head/  And  thou,  all-shaking  thunder, 
Strike  flat  the  thick  rotundity  o'  the  world/ 
Crack  nature's  moulds,  all  germens  spill  at  once, 
That  make  ungrateful  man/" 

(Impatiently)  Now,  the  part  of  the  fool  (Stamps  his  foot)  Come  take  the 
fool's  part!  Be  quick,  I  can't  wait! 

IVANITCH  (takes  the  part  of  the  fool).  "O,  Nuncle,  court  holy-water  in  a  dry 
house  is  better  than  this  rain-water  out  o'  door.  Good  Nuncle,  in;  ask  thy 
daughter's  blessing:  here's  a  night  pities  neither  wise  men  nor  fools." 

SVIETLOVIDOFF. 

"Rumble  thy  bellyful/  spit,  fire/  spout,  rain/ 
Nor  rain,  wind,  thunder,  fire,  are  my  daughters; 
I  tax  not  you,  you  elements,  with  unkindness; 
I  never  gave  you  kingdom,  call'd  you  children/' 

Ah!  there  is  strength,  there  is  talent  for  you!  I'm  a  great  artist!  Now,  then, 

here's  something  else  of  the  same  kind,  to  bring  back  my  youth  to  me. 

For  instance,  take  this,  from  Hamlet,  I'll  begin  ...  let  me  see,  how  does  it 

go?  Oh,  yes,  this  is  it.  (Takes  the  part  of  Hamlet)  "O!  the  recorders,  let  me 

see  one.— To  withdraw  with  you.  Why  do  you  go  about  to  recover  the 

wind  of  me,  as  if  you  would  drive  me  into  a  toil?" 

IVANITCH.  "O,  my  lord,  if  my  duty  be  too  bold,  my  love  is  too  unmannerly." 
SVIETLOVIDOFF.  "I  do  not  well  understand  that.  Will  you  play  upon  this  pipe?" 
rvANircH.  "My  lord,  I  cannot." 
SVIETLOVIDOFF.  "I  pray  you." 
IVANITCH.  "Believe  me,  I  cannot." 
SVIETLOVIDOFF.  "I  do  beseech  you." 
IVANITCH.  "I  know  no  touch  of  it,  my  lord." 
SVIETLOVIDOFF.  "  Tis  as  easy  as  lying:  govern  these  ventages  with  your  finger 

and  thumb,  give  it  breath  with  your  mouth,  and  it  will  discourse  most 

eloquent  music.  Look  you,  these  are  the  stops." 
IVANITCH.  "But  these  I  cannot  command  to  any  utterance  of  harmony:  I  have 

not  the  skill." 
SVIETLOVIDOFF.  'Why,  look  you,  how  unworthy  a  thing  you  make  of  me.  You 

would  play  upon  me;  you  would  seem  to  know  my  stops;  you  would  pluck 

THE  SWAN  SONG        67 


out  the  heart  of  my  mystery;  you  would  sound  me  from  my  lowest  note  to 
the  top  of  my  compass;  and  there  is  much  music,  excellent  voice,  in  this 
little  organ,  yet  cannot  you  make  it  speak.  S'blood!  Do  you  think  I  am 
easier  to  be  played  on  than  a  pipe?  Call  me  what  instrument  you  will, 
though  you  can  fret  me,  you  cannot  play  upon  me!"  (Loughs  and  claps) 
Bravo!  Encore!  Bravo!  Where  the  devil  is  there  any  old  age  in  that?  I'm 
not  old,  that  is  all  nonsense,  a  torrent  of  strength  rushes  over  me;  this  is 
life,  freshness,  youth!  Old  age  and  genius  can't  exist  together.  You  seem 
to  be  struck  dumb,  Nikitushka.  Wait  a  second,  let  me  come  to  my  senses 
again.  Oh!  Good  Lord!  Now  then,  listen!  Did  you  ever  hear  such  tender- 
ness, such  music?  Sh!  Softly: 

"The  moon  had  set.  There  was  not  any  light, 
Save  of  the  lonely  legion'd  watch-stars  pale 
In  outer  air,  and  what  by  fits  made  bright 
Hot  oleanders  in  a  rosy  vale 
Searched  by  the  lamping  fly,  whose  little  spark 
Went  in  and  out,  like  passion's  bashful  hope."  x 

(The  noise  of  opening  doors  is  heard)  What's  that? 

IVANITCH.  There  are  Petrushka  and  Yegorka  coming  back.  Yes,  you  have 
genius,  genius,  my  master. 

SVIETLOVIDOFF  (calls,  turning  toward  the  noise).  Come  here  to  me,  boys!  (To 
IVANITGH)  Let  us  go  and  get  dressed.  I'm  not  old!  All  that  is  foolishness, 
nonsense!  (Laughs  gaily)  What  are  you  crying  for?  You  poor  old  granny, 
you,  what's  the  matter  now?  This  won't  do!  There,  there,  this  won't  do 
at  all!  Come,  come,  old  man,  don't  stare  so!  What  makes  you  stare  like 
that?  There,  there!  (Embraces  him  in  tears)  Don't  cry!  Where  there  is  art 
and  genius  there  can  never  be  such  things  as  old  age  or  loneliness  or  sick- 
ness .  .  .  and  death  itself  is  half  .  .  .  (Weeps)  No,  no,  Nikitushka!  It  is  all 
over  for  us  now!  What  sort  of  a  genius  am  I?  I'm  like  a  squeezed  lemon, 
a  cracked  bottle,  and  you— you  are  the  old  rat  of  the  theatre  ...  a 
prompter!  Come  on!  (They  go)  I'm  no  genius,  I'm  only  fit  to  be  in  the 
suite  of  Fortinbras,  and  even  for  that  I  am  too  old  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  Do  you 
remember  those  lines  from  Othello,  Nikitushka? 

"Farewell  the  tranquil  mind/  Farewell  content/ 
Farewell  the  plumed  troop  and  the  big  wars 
That  make  ambition  virtue/  O,  farewell/ 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trump, 
The  spirit-stirring  drum,  th'  car-piercing  fife, 


L  From  Second  Canto  of  Poltava,  by  Pushkin. 

68         MATTER   AND   MANNER 


The  royal  banner,  and  all  quality, 

Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war/" 

IVANITCH.  Oh!  You're  a  genius,  a  genius! 
SVIETLOVIDOFF.  And  again  this: 

"Away/  the  moor  is  darJc  beneath  the  moon, 
Rapid  clouds  have  drunk  the  last  pale  beam  of  even: 
Away/  the  gathering  winds  will  call  the  darkness  soon, 
And  profoundcst  midnight  shroud  the  serene  lights  of 
heaven/' * 

(They  go  out  together,  the  curtain  jails  slowly) 


1  From  The  Mischief  of  Being  Clever,  by  Alexander  Gnboyedov. 


Characters  and  happenings 

OF  the  innumerable  times  when  a 
slice  of  the  life  of  Svietlovidoff 
might  be  pictured  by  the  playwright, 
why  is  this  time  well  chosen  to  reveal 
the  actor's  character? 

2.  What  facts  about  the  old  man  are 
given  in  his  opening  soliloquy?  What 
do  these  facts  show  about  his  personal- 
ity? 

3.  The   only   character   with   whom 
Svietlovidoff  talks  is  Ivanitch.  What  sort 
of    person    is    Ivanitch?    Why,    of    the 
many  characters  to  whom  Svietlovidoff 
might  have  talked,  is  he  well  chosen? 

4.  Construct   as    completely   as   you 
can  the  story  of  the  old  actor's  life  pre- 
vious to  this  occasion.  What  does  your 
biography  indicate  about  his  character? 

5.  "But  what  a  genius  I  was!"  says 
the  old  actor.  What  is  the  evidence  for 


and  against  this  estimate?  What  does 
the  exclamation  reveal? 

6.  What  is  the  nature  of  the  scenes 
from    plays    which    the    old    man   runs 
through?  Why  do  you  think  he  chooses 
these  specific  scenes?  If  you  were  acting 
his   role,   how   would   you   read   these 
passages? 

7.  If  you  were  producing  this  play, 
how  would  you  try  to  make  details  of 
the   scenery,    the    costuming,    and   the 
lighting  contribute  to  the  characteriza- 
tion? To  the  happenings? 

8.  Which  of  the  qualities  of  the  old 
man  motivate  the  happenings?  Do  any 
of  those  given  merely  make  him  lifelike? 

9.  Compare   the   methods    of   char- 
acterization used  here  with  those  used 
by   Shaw  in  "Alice  Weller"    (p.    12). 
How  would  you  relate  the  differences 
between  methods  to  the  differences  be- 
tween apparent  purposes? 


THE   SWAN    SONG 


Setting 


THE  setting  of  "My  Last  Duchess" 
(p.  60)  is  the  picture  gallery  on 
an  upper  floor  of  the  duke's  palace  in 
Ferrara,  Italy,  at  an  unspecified  time. 
That  of  the  chapter  from  Babbitt  (p. 
55)  is,  at  first,  Eathorne's  mansion,  and 
later,  the  streets  of  Zenith,  in  the  1920's. 
That  of  Act  III,  Scene  i,  of  Julius  Caesar 
(p.  22)  is  "Rome.  Before  the  Capitol," 
in  44  B.C.  The  setting  includes  the 
details  of  background  set  forth  in  the 
narrative,  the  drama,  or  the  poem.  Such 
details  may  be  presented  at  length  or 
briefly.  They  may  be  concentrated  at 
one  point  in  the  work  or,  as  is  more  fre- 
quent these  days,  doled  out  bit  by  bit. 
Almost  always  a  consideration  of  the 
employment  of  such  details  will  be  val- 
uable for  the  reader. 

The  reader  of  poetry,  fiction,  or 
drama  will  find  it  illuminating  to  notice 
exactly  how  the  author's  handling  of 
such  details  gives  or  fails  to  give  that 
illusion  of  reality  which  is  indispensable 
if  imaginative  works  are  to  create  inter- 
est and  sympathy.  More  important,  he 
should  consider  whether  the  details  of 
time,  of  place,  of  social  milieu,  of  emo- 
tional atmosphere,  are  functional  or  not 
—that  is,  whether  they  contribute  to  the 
unfolding  of  happenings,  to  the  rep- 
resentation of  character,  and  to  the 
achievement  of  the  work  as  a  whole. 

Setting  as  the  shaper  of  events 

THE  great  novelist  and  critic,  Henry 
James,  once  said  that  he  could  not 
conceive  of  "a  passage  of  description 
that  is  not  in  its  intention  narrative/' 


and  certainly  it  is  clear  that  details  in  a 
scene  may  often  be  vital  circumstances 
in  a  fictional  work  or  in  a  poem  which 
tells  a  story.  The  lay  of  the  land  may 
actually  determine  happenings  in  ac- 
counts of  treasure  hunts  ("The  Gold 
Bug"  and  Treasure  Island),  stories  of 
pursuits  (The  Thirty-nine  Steps),  or  nar- 
ratives of  journeys  (The  Odyssey,  "The 
Midnight  Ride  of  Paul  Revere,"  Huckle- 
berry Finn ) .  At  one  point  in  Les  Miser- 
ables,  Hugo  carefully  describes  the  bat- 
tlefield of  Waterloo;  at  one  point  in 
Henry  Esmond,  Thackeray  tells  of  the 
disposition  of  troops  at  Blenheim:  in 
each  instance  the  data  show  why  a  bat- 
tle had  to  follow  a  predetermined  pat- 
tern. So  important  is  topography  in 
many  detective  stories  that  their  pub- 
lishers often  print  maps  as  frontispieces. 
Not  only  topography  but  also  climate 
and  soil  may  determine  events— as  in 
many  of  Robert  Frost's  New  England 
poems  and  Rdlvaag's  Giants  in  the 
Earth.  In  stories  of  men  in  conflict  with 
nature,  the  setting  itself,  in  a  sense,  be- 
comes a  character— the  antagonist. 

Setting  as  an  adjunct  to  plot  and 
characterization 

EVEN  in  works  wherein  the  setting 
does  not  notably  shape  events,  the 
author— as  the  alert  reader  should  see- 
often  uses  scenes  to  help  tell  his  story. 
In  such  works,  in  other  words,  setting 
becomes  an  adjunct  in  showing  impor- 
tant changes  and  developments.  By  call- 
ing attention  to  the  lengthening  of 
shadows,  or  to  the  coming  of  autumn,  or 


70 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 


to  the  growth  of  weeds  in  a  garden,  an 
author  may  be  showing  the  passage  of 
time.  A  character's  sense  of  novelty  in 
an  unchanged  scene  may  betoken  a 
change  in  the  character  himself.  An  ex- 
ample is  Hawthorne's  passage  about 
Minister  Dimmesdale  in  The  Scarlet 
Letter: 

As  he  drew  near  the  town,  he  took  an 
impression  of  change  from  the  series  of 
familiar  objects. . . .  There,  indeed,  was 
each  former  trace  of  the  street,  as  he 
remembered  it,  and  all  the  peculiarities 
of  the  houses,  with  the  due  multitude  of 
gable-peaks,  and  a  weathercock  at  every 
point  where  his  memory  suggested  one. 
Not  the  less,  however,  came  this  im- 
portunately obtrusive  sense  of  change. 
...  A  similar  impression  struck  him  most 
remarkably,  as  he  passed  under  the  walls 
of  his  own  church.  The  edifice  had  so 
very  strange,  and  yet  so  familiar,  an 
aspect,  that  Mr.  Dimmesdale's  mind  vi- 
brated between  two  ideas;  either  that 
he  had  seen  it  in  a  dream  hitherto,  or 
that  he  was  merely  dreaming  about  it 
now. 

A  character's  sense  of  change  in  a  scene 
which  remains  the  same,  in  another  nar- 
rative, may  show  a  shift  in  thought  and 
feeling:  witness  the  difference  between 
the  initial  description  and  the  final  de- 
scription of  the  same  nighttime  scene 
in  Keats'  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale."  And 
in  still  another  narrative,  an  author 
may  show  the  reader  the  effect  of  a 
happening  by  emphasizing  changes  in 
a  scene—for  instance,  a  decaying  house 
may  indicate  that  the  family  living  in 
it  has  deteriorated  ("The  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher"). 

Scene  is  often  an  adjunct,  not  only 
to  plot,  but  also  to  character  portrayal. 


A  reader  often  comes  to  know  a  char- 
acter by  noticing  how  the  author  de- 
scribes the  character's  dwelling  ("Bab- 
bitt Visits  Eathorne,"  p.  55),  or  by 
considering  how  an  environment  which 
has  been  described  would  be  likely  to 
shape  the  character's  personality.  Not 
only  the  physical  climate  but  also  the 
intellectual  and  moral  climate,  as  re- 
vealed by  the  author,  may  clarify  mo- 
tives and  possible  actions.  The  words 
"Ancien  Regime"  beneath  the  title  in 
Browning's  poem,  "The  Laboratory/' 
help  explain  why  the  heroine  chose  to 
get  revenge  by  poisoning  a  successful 
rival;  and  at  the  start  of  "The  Outcasts 
of  Poker  Flat,"  John  Oakhurst,  gambler, 
notices  "a  change  in  the  moral  atmos- 
phere since  the  preceding  night ...  a 
Sabbath  lull  in  the  air"  which  heralds 
his  ejection,  by  request,  from  the  min- 
ing town.  Again,  the  nature  of  a  char- 
acter may  be  revealed  to  the  reader  by 
the  author's  record  of  what  the  charac- 
ter notices  in  a  scene:  a  businessman 
may  see  a  waterfall  as  a  source  of  power, 
a  painter  may  see  it  as  an  arrangement 
of  colors,  a  poet  may  see  it  as  a  symbol 
expressive  of  some  high  truth. 

The  emotional  quality  of  setting 

SPEAKING  of  one  way  of  writing  a 
story,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  said, 
"You  may  take  a  certain  atmosphere 
and  get  action  and  persons  to  express 
and  realize  it.  I'll  give  you  an  example— 
The  Merry  Men.  There  I  began  with 
the  feeling  of  one  of  those  islands  on 
the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  and  I  gradu- 
ally developed  the  story  to  express  the 
sentiment  with  which  that  coast  affected 
me."  Although  this  recipe  probably  is 
an  unusual  one  for  an  author  to  follow, 
it  does  suggest  one  thing  which  setting 
may  do— in  the  actual  world  or  the 


MATTER   AND   MANNER        71 


world  of  books:  it  may  arouse  emotions.  Judge,  then,  to  what  pitches  of  in- 

In  many  plays  (The  Glass  Menagerie,  to  flamed,  distracted  fury  the  minds  of  the 

cite  a  recent  example),  the  manipula-  whale's  more  desperate  hunters  were  im- 

tion  of  lighting  has  this  effect.  In  many  pelled,  when  amid  the  chips  of  chewed 

stories  and  poems,  the  author  selects  boats,   and   the  sinking  limbs  of  torn 

and  records  certain  details  in  the  land-  comrades,  they  swain  out  of  the  white 

scape  which  body  forth   a  mental  or  curds  of  the  whale's  direful  wrath  into 

emotional  state.  Some  poems  completely  the  serene,  exasperating  sunlight,  that 

communicate  the  thought  and  feeling  smiled  on,  as  if  at  a  birth  or  a  bridal, 
of  a  poet  simply  by  presenting  aspects 

of  a  scene  which  are  appropriate  to  his  All  these  facts  about  the  possible  use- 
attitude.  An  "atmosphere"  thus  created  fulness  of  setting  mean  that  the  reader 
may  correspond  in  its  emotional  "feel"  who  is  interested  in  the  craftsmanship 
to  the  moods  of  the  characters.  Or  it  of  a  work  will  notice  how  the  author's 
may  heighten  the  representation  of  their  management  of  this  element  contributes 
emotions  by  a  contrast.  Consider  the  to  the  telling  of  a  story,  the  representa- 
passage  in  Moby  Dick  which  tells  of  the  tion  of  the  motives  and  actions  of  a  char- 
feelings  of  a  crew  after  their  boats  have  acter,  and  the  emotional  overtones  of 
been  smashed  by  the  whale:  the  work. 


£»»  This  is  a  remarkably  compressed  story  of  revenge  and  of  the  emotions  which 
accompanied  that  revenge.  The  opening  sentence  tells  of  the  vow  of  the  nar- 
rator to  avenge  an  insult.  The  rest  of  the  first  paragraph  tells  what  conditions 

were  to  be  fulfilled  in  order  to  secure 
satisfactory  revenge.  Then  the  rest  of 
the  story  tells  how  the  conditions  were 
fulfilled  and  indicates  how  both  the  nar- 
rator and  his  victim  felt  about  the  hap- 
penings. There  is  relatively  little  char- 

EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE  acterization— only  enough  to  create  sym- 

pathy at  the  start  for  the  narrator  and 
as  the  story  progresses,  for  the  helpless 
victim.  Although  the  details  of  setting 
are  relatively  scant,  careful  study  will 
A  j_  *  1 1  1  show  that  they  were  selected  and  han- 

Amontillado 


r\f 

\JL 


died  with  unusual  skill. 


THE  THOUSAND  injuries  of  Fortunate  I  had  borne  as  I  best  could;  but 
when  he  ventured  upon  insult,  I  vowed  revenge.  You,  who  so  well 
know  the  nature  of  my  soul,  will  not  suppose,  however,  that  I  gave  utterance 
to  a  threat.  At  length  I  would  be  avenged;  this  was  a  point  definitively  set- 
tled; but  the  very  definitiveness  with  which  it  was  resolved  precluded  the 

72        MATTER   AND    MANNER 


idea  of  risk.  I  must  not  only  punish,  but  punish  with  impunity.  A  wrong  is 
unredressed  when  retribution  overtakes  its  redresser.  It  is  equally  unre- 
dressed  when  the  avenger  fails  to  make  himself  felt  as  such  to  him  who  has 
done  the  wrong. 

It  must  be  understood  that  neither  by  word  nor  deed  had  I  given  For- 
tunato  cause  to  doubt  my  good-will.  I  continued,  as  was  my  wont,  to  smile 
in  his  face,  and  he  did  not  perceive  that  my  smile  now  was  at  the  thought 
of  his  immolation. 

He  had  a  weak  point,  this  Fortunato,  although  in  other  regards  he  was  a 
man  to  be  respected  and  even  feared.  He  prided  himself  on  his  connoisseur- 
ship  in  wine.  Few  Italians  have  the  true  virtuoso  spirit.  For  the  most  part 
their  enthusiasm  is  adopted  to  suit  the  time  and  opportunity,  to  practice 
imposture  upon  the  British  and  Austrian  millionaires.  In  painting  and  gem- 
mary  Fortunato,  like  his  countrymen,  was  a  quack;  but  in  the  matter  of  old 
wines  he  was  sincere.  In  this  respect  I  did  not  differ  from  him  materially: 
I  was  skillful  in  the  Italian  vintages  myself,  and  bought  largely  whenever 
I  could. 

It  was  about  dusk  one  evening,  during  the  supreme  madness  of  the  carni- 
val season,  that  I  encountered  my  friend.  He  accosted  me  with  excessive 
warmth,  for  he  had  been  drinking  much.  The  man  wore  motley.  He  had  on  a 
tight-fitting  parti-striped  dress,  and  his  head  was  surmounted  by  the  conical 
cap  and  bells.  I  was  so  pleased  to  see  him  that  I  thought  I  should  never 
have  done  wringing  his  hand. 

I  said  to  him:  "My  dear  Fortunato,  you  are  luckily  met.  How  remarkably 
well  you  are  looking  to-day!  But  I  have  received  a  pipe  of  what  passes  for 
Amontillado,  and  I  have  my  doubts." 

"How?"  said  he.  "Amontillado?  A  pipe?  Impossible!  And  in  the  middle  of 
the  carnival!" 

"I  have  my  doubts,"  I  replied;  "and  I  was  silly  enough  to  pay  the  full 
Amontillado  price  without  consulting  you  in  the  matter.  You  were  not  to  be 
found,  and  I  was  fearful  of  losing  a  bargain." 

"Amontillado!" 

"I  have  my  doubts." 

"Amontillado!" 

"And  I  must  satisfy  them." 

"Amontillado!" 

"As  you  are  engaged,  I  am  on  my  way  to  Luchesi.  If  any  one  has  a  critical 
turn,  it  is  he.  He  will  tell  me—" 

"Luchesi  cannot  tell  Amontillado  from  sherry." 

"And  yet  some  fools  will  have  it  that  his  taste  is  a  match  for  your  own." 

"Come,  let  us  go." 

"Whither?" 

THE   CASK   OF    AMONTILLADO        73 


"To  your  vaults." 

"My  friend,  no;  I  will  not  impose  upon  your  good-nature.  I  perceive  you 
have  an  engagement.  Luchesi— " 

"I  have  no  engagement;  come." 

"My  friend,  no.  It  is  not  the  engagement,  but  the  severe  cold  with  which 
I  perceive  you  are  afflicted.  The  vaults  are  insufferably  damp.  They  are 
incrusted  with  niter." 

"Let  us  go,  nevertheless.  The  cold  is  merely  nothing.  Amontillado!  You 
have  been  imposed  upon.  And  as  for  Luchesi,  he  cannot  distinguish  sherry 
from  Amontillado/' 

Thus  speaking,  Fortunate  possessed  himself  of  my  arm.  Putting  on  a  mask 
of  black  silk,  and  drawing  a  roquelaure  closely  about  my  person,  I  suffered 
him  to  hurry  me  to  my  palazzo. 

There  were  no  attendants  at  home;  they  had  absconded  to  make  merry  in 
honor  of  the  time.  I  had  told  them  that  I  should  not  return  until  the  morning, 
and  had  given  them  explicit  orders  not  to  stir  from  the  house.  These  orders 
were  sufficient,  I  well  knew,  to  insure  their  immediate  disappearance,  one 
and  all,  as  soon  as  my  back  was  turned. 

I  took  from  their  sconces  two  flambeaux,  and,  giving  one  to  Fortunate, 
bowed  him  through  several  suites  of  rooms  to  the  archway  that  led  into  the 
vaults.  I  passed  down  a  long  and  winding  staircase,  requesting  him  to  be 
cautious  as  he  followed.  We  came  at  length  to  the  foot  of  the  descent,  and 
stood  together  on  the  damp  ground  of  the  catacombs  of  the  Montresors. 

The  gait  of  my  friend  was  unsteady,  and  the  bells  upon  his  cap  jingled 
as  he  strode. 

"The  pipe?"  said  he. 

"It  is  farther  on,"  said  I;  "but  observe  the  white  webwork  which  gleams 
from  these  cavern  walls." 

He  turned  towards  me,  and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  two  filmy  orbs  that 
distilled  the  rheum  of  intoxication. 

"Niter?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"Niter,"  I  replied.  "How  long  have  you  had  that  cough?" 

"Ugh!  ugh!  ugh!— ugh!  ugh!  ugh!— ugh!  ugh!  ugh!— ugh!  ugh!  ugh!— ugh! 
ugh!  ugh!" 

My  poor  friend  found  it  impossible  to  reply  for  many  minutes. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"Come,"  I  said,  with  decision,  "we  will  go  back;  your  health  is  precious. 
You  are  rich,  respected,  admired,  beloved;  you  are  happy,  as  once  I  was. 
You  are  a  man  to  be  missed.  For  me  it  is  no  matter.  We  will  go  back;  you 
will  be  ill,  and  I  cannot  be  responsible.  Besides,  there  is  Luchesi—" 

"Enough,"  he  said;  "the  cough  is  a  mere  nothing;  it  will  not  kill  me.  1 
shall  not  die  of  a  cough." 

74        MATTER  AND   MANNER 


"True— true,"  I  replied;  "and,  indeed,  I  had  no  intention  of  alarming  you 
unnecessarily;  but  you  should  use  all  proper  caution.  A  draught  of  this 
Medoc  will  defend  us  from  the  damps." 

Here  I  knocked  off  the  neck  of  a  bottle  which  I  drew  from  a  long  row  of 
its  fellows  that  lay  upon  the  mold. 

"Drink,"  I  said,  presenting  him  the  wine. 

He  raised  it  to  his  lips  with  a  leer.  He  paused  and  nodded  to  me  familiarly, 
while  his  bells  jingled. 

"I  drink,"  he  said,  "to  the  buried  that  repose  around  us." 

"And  I  to  your  long  life." 

He  again  took  my  arm  and  we  proceeded. 

"These  vaults,"  he  said,  "are  extensive." 

"The  Montresors,"  I  replied,  "were  a  great  and  numerous  family." 

"I  forget  your  arms." 

"A  huge  human  foot  d'or,  in  a  field  azure;  the  foot  crushes  a  serpent 
rampant  whose  fangs  are  imbedded  in  the  heel." 

"And  the  motto?" 

"Nemo  me  impune  lacessit.'n 

"Good!"  he  said. 

The  wine  sparkled  in  his  eyes  and  the  bells  jingled.  My  own  fancy  grew 
warm  with  the  Medoc.  We  had  passed  through  walls  of  piled  bones,  with 
casks  and  puncheons  intermingling,  into  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  cata- 
combs. I  paused  again,  and  this  time  I  made  bold  to  seize  Fortunato  by  an 
arm  above  the  elbow. 

"The  niter!"  I  said;  "see,  it  increases.  It  hangs  like  moss  upon  the  vaults. 
We  are  below  the  river's  bed.  The  drops  of  moisture  trickle  among  the 
bones.  Come,  we  will  go  back  ere  it  is  too  late.  Your  cough—" 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said;  "let  us  go  on.  But  first,  another  draught  of  the 
Medoc." 

I  broke  and  reached  him  a  flagon  of  De  Grave.  He  emptied  it  at  a  breath. 
His  eyes  flashed  with  a  fierce  light.  He  laughed  and  threw  the  bottle  upward 
with  a  gesticulation  I  did  not  understand. 

I  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  He  repeated  the  movement— a  grotesque  one. 

"You  do  not  comprehend?"  he  said. 

"Not  I,"  I  replied. 

"Then  you  are  not  of  the  brotherhood." 

"How?" 

"You  are  not  of  the  masons." 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  said;  "yes,  yes." 

"You?  Impossible!  A  mason?" 


1No  one  injures  me  with  impunity. 

THE   CASK   OF    AMONTILLADO        75 


"A  mason,"  I  replied. 

"A  sign/"  he  said. 

"It  is  this,"  I  answered,  producing  a  trowel  from  beneath  the  folds  of  my 
roquelaure. 

"You  jestl"  he  exclaimed,  recoiling  a  few  paces.  "But  let  us  proceed  to  the 
Amontillado." 

"Be  it  so,"  I  said,  replacing  the  tool  beneath  the  cloak,  and  again  offering 
him  my  arm.  He  leaned  upon  it  heavily.  We  continued  our  route  in  search 
of  the  Amontillado.  We  passed  through  a  range  of  low  arches,  descended, 
passed  on,  and,  descending  again,  arrived  at  a  deep  crypt,  in  which  the 
foulness  of  the  air  caused  our  flambeaux  rather  to  glow  than  flame. 

At  the  most  remote  end  of  the  crypt  there  appeared  another  less  spacious. 
Its  walls  had  been  lined  with  human  remains,  piled  to  the  vault  overhead,  in 
the  fashion  of  the  great  catacombs  of  Paris.  Three  sides  of  this  interior  crypt 
were  still  ornamented  in  this  manner.  From  the  fourth  the  bones  had  been 
thrown  down,  and  lay  promiscuously  upon  the  earth,  forming  at  one  point 
a  mound  of  some  size.  Within  the  wall  thus  exposed  by  the  displacing  of  the 
bones  we  perceived  a  still  interior  recess,  in  depth  about  four  feet,  in  width 
three,  in  height  six  or  seven.  It  seemed  to  have  been  constructed  for  no 
especial  use  within  itself,  but  formed  merely  the  interval  between  two  of 
the  colossal  supports  of  the  roof  of  the  catacombs,  and  was  backed  by  one 
of  their  circumscribing  walls  of  solid  granite. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Fortunate,  uplifting  his  dull  torch,  endeavored  to  pry 
into  the  depth  of  the  recess.  Its  termination  the  feeble  light  did  not  enable  us 
to  see. 

"Proceed,"  I  said;  "herein  is  the  Amontillado.  As  for  Luchesi— " 

"He  is  an  ignoramus,"  interrupted  my  friend,  as  he  stepped  unsteadily  for- 
ward, while  I  followed  immediately  at  his  heels.  In  an  instant  he  had  reached 
the  extremity  of  the  niche,  and,  finding  his  progress  arrested  by  the  rock, 
stood  stupidly  bewildered.  A  moment  more  and  I  had  fettered  him  to 
the  granite.  In  its  surface  were  two  iron  staples,  distant  from  each  other 
about  two  feet,  horizontally.  From  one  of  these  depended  a  short  chain, 
from  the  other  a  padlock.  Throwing  the  links  about  his  waist,  it  was  but  the 
work  of  a  few  seconds  to  secure  it.  He  was  too  much  astounded  to  resist. 
Withdrawing  the  key,  I  stepped  back  from  the  recess. 

"Pass  your  hand,"  I  said,  "over  the  wall;  you  cannot  help  feeling  the  niter. 
Indeed  it  is  very  damp.  Once  more  let  me  implore  you  to  return.  No?  Then  1 
must  positively  leave  you.  But  I  must  first  render  you  all  the  little  attentions 
in  my  power." 

"The  Amontillado!"  ejaculated  my  friend,  not  yet  recovered  from  his 
astonishment. 

76        MATTER   AND   MANNER 


"True,"  I  replied:  "the  Amontillado." 

As  I  said  these  words  I  busied  myself  among  the  pile  of  bones  of  which  1 
have  before  spoken.  Throwing  them  aside,  I  soon  uncovered  a  quantity  of 
building  stone  and  mortar.  With  these  materials  and  with  the  aid  of  my 
trowel,  I  began  vigorously  to  wall  up  the  entrance  of  the  niche. 

I  had  scarcely  laid  the  first  tier  of  the  masonry  when  I  discovered  that  the 
intoxication  of  Fortunate  had  in  a  great  measure  worn  off.  The  earliest  indi- 
cation I  had  of  this  was  a  low,  moaning  cry  from  the  depth  of  the  recess.  It 
was  not  the  cry  of  a  drunken  man.  There  was  then  a  long  and  obstinate 
silence.  I  laid  the  second  tier,  and  the  third,  and  the  fourth;  and  then  I  heard 
the  furious  vibrations  of  the  chain.  The  noise  lasted  for  several  minutes, 
during  which,  that  I  might  harken  to  it  with  the  more  satisfaction,  I  ceased 
my  labors  and  sat  down  upon  the  bones.  When  at  last  the  clanking  subsided, 
I  resumed  the  trowel,  and  finished  without  interruption  the  fifth,  the  sixth, 
and  the  seventh  tier.  The  wall  was  now  nearly  upon  a  level  with  my  breast. 
I  again  paused,  and,  holding  the  flambeaux  over  the  masonwork,  threw  a  few 
feeble  rays  upon  the  figure  within. 

A  succession  of  loud  and  shrill  screams,  bursting  suddenly  from  the  throat 
of  the  chained  form,  seemed  to  thrust  me  violently  back.  For  a  brief  moment 
I  hesitated,  I  trembled.  Unsheathing  my  rapier,  I  began  to  grope  with  it 
about  the  recess;  but  the  thought  of  an  instant  reassured  me.  I  placed  my 
hand  upon  the  solid  fabric  of  the  catacombs  and  felt  satisfied.  I  reapproached 
the  wall.  I  replied  to  the  yells  of  him  who  clamored.  I  re-echoed,  I  aided,  I 
surpassed  them  in  volume  and  in  strength.  I  did  this,  and  the  clamorer 
grew  still. 

It  was  now  midnight,  and  my  task  was  drawing  to  a  close.  I  had  completed 
the  eighth,  the  ninth,  and  the  tenth  tier.  I  had  finished  a  portion  of  the  last 
and  the  eleventh;  there  remained  but  a  single  stone  to  be  fitted  and  plastered 
in.  I  struggled  with  its  weight;  I  placed  it  partially  in  its  destined  position. 
But  now  there  came  from  out  the  niche  a  low  laugh  that  erected  the  hairs 
upon  my  head.  It  was  succeeded  by  a  sad  voice,  which  I  had  difficulty  in 
recognizing  as  that  of  the  noble  Fortunate.  The  voice  said: 

"Hal  ha!  ha!— he!  he!— a  very  good  joke  indeed,  an  excellent  jest.  We  will 
have  many  a  rich  laugh  about  it  at  the  palazzo— he!  he!  he!— over  our  wine- 
he!  he!  he!" 

"The  Amontillado!"  I  said. 

"He!  he!  hel— he!  he!  he!— yes,  the  Amontillado.  But  is  it  not  getting  late? 
Will  not  they  be  awaiting  us  at  the  palazzo,— the  £ady  Fortunato  and  the 
rest?  Let  us  be  gone." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "let  us  be  gone." 

"For  the  love  of  God,  Montresorl" 

THE    CASK   OF    AMONTILLADO        77 


"Yes,"  I  said,  "for  the  love  of  God!" 

But  to  these  words  I  barkened  in  vain  for  a  reply.  I  grew  impatient.  I 
called  aloud: 

"Fortunate!" 

No  answer.  I  called  again. 

"Fortunato!" 

No  answer  still.  I  thrust  a  torch  through  the  remaining  aperture  and  let  it 
fall  within.  There  came  forth  in  return  only  a  jingling  of  the  bells.  My  heart 
grew  sick— on  account  of  the  dampness  of  the  catacombs.  I  hastened  to  make 
an  end  of  my  labor.  I  forced  the  last  stone  into  its  position;  I  plastered  it  up. 
Against  the  new  masonry  I  re-erected  the  old  rampart  of  bones.  For  the  half 
of  a  century  no  mortal  has  disturbed  them.  In  pace  requiescat!1 


xMay  he  rest  in  peace. 

Setting,  happenings,  and 
characters 

WHAT  is  the  value,  for  the  story,  of 
presenting  the  first  brief  scene 
(par.  3,  p.  73)  "about  dusk  one  evening, 
during  the  supreme  madness  of  the 
carnival  season"?  Why  is  Fortunato's 
carnival  costume  appropriate  for  this 
story?  In  what  two  ways  does  the  car- 
nival help  make  Montresor's  revenge 
possible? 

2.  In  the  fourth  paragraph  on  page 
74,  the  narrator  first  mentions  the  "in- 
sufferably damp"  vaults  "incrusted  with 
niter."  His  expressed  concern,  of  course, 
is  not  sincerely  felt;  he  is  being  ironic. 
Point  out  other  examples  of  irony— in 
the  contrast  between  the  scenes  outside 
and  inside  the  vaults,  the  names  of  the 
characters,  the  dialogue.  What  quality 
of  Montresor  does  this  irony  underline? 
Why  is  such  underlining  desirable  in 
motivating  the  action? 

3.  A  few  paragraphs  later,  Montresor 
calls  attention  to  "the  white  webwork" 
on  the  walls.  Why,  in  terms  of  the  story, 


should  he  not  talk  instead  of  white 
crystals?  The  white  material  is  identi- 
fied as  "niter."  What  chemical  proper- 
ties and  uses  of  niter  make  continued 
emphasis  upon  it  desirable? 

4.  A  passage  on  page  75  concerns  the 
coat  of  arms  of  the  Montresors.  Why  are 
they    particularly    appropriate    for   the 
family  of  the  character  in  this  story? 

5.  Comment  in  detail  upon  the  value 
for  the  narrative  of  the  elements  in  the 
setting  set  forth  on  pages  75-77. 

6.  Trace  Fortunato's  changing  emo- 
tions from  the  beginning  to  his  final  cry. 
What  is  indicated  by  Montresor's  re- 
mark in  the  last  paragraph,  "My  heart 
grew  sick— on  account  of  the  dampness 
of  the  catacombs"? 

7.  Generalize  about  Foe's  use  of  set- 
ting as  an  adjunct  to  this  narrative. 

8.  What    are    the    characteristics    of 
Montresor  and  Fortunato?  How  are  they 
shown?  How  are  they  related  to  the 
happenings? 

9.  Compare  Foe's  handling  of  set- 
ting with  that  of  Shaw,  page  12;  Dun- 
sany,  page  42;  and  Lewis,  page  55. 


78 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 


£%>  In  this  poem,  one  of  the  finest  by  a  great  nineteenth-century  poet,  almost 

everything  accomplished  is  the  result  of 
the  author's  depiction  of  a  setting.  The 
setting  is  the  English  countryside  in  the 
autumn.  This  scene  changes  in  a  simple 
but  highly  meaningful  fashion  as  the 
poem  moves  through  its  three  brief 

JOHN  KEATS  stanzas.  As  a  result  of  Keats  selection 

and  handling  of  details,  the  setting  sub- 
np  .  t lit  indicates  the  thought  and  the  feeling 

lo  autumn  Jtheo*. 


SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees,  5 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel;  to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease,  10 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind;  13 

Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers; 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook;  ao 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring?  Ay,  where  are  they? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too,— 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day,  25 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

TO   AUTUMN        79 


Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn; 
Hedge-crickets  sing;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


Settings,  happenings,  and 
characters 

WHICH  of  these  words  best  sum- 
marizes the  concept  of  autumn 
chiefly  developed  in  stanza  1:  mists, 
mellow  fruitfulness,  bless?  How  do  the 
verbs  contribute  to  the  expression  of 
this  concept?  What  is  noteworthy  about 
the  verbs?  the  aspects  of  the  scene  em- 
phasized? What  details  do  not  contrib- 
ute to  this  concept? 

2.  Contrast  the  selection  of  details  in 
Keats'  first  stanza  with  the  selection  of 
details  in  this  staaza: 

O  gorgeous  Autumn-tide,  to  thee  I  sing! 
O  thou  art  fairer,  wanner,  far,  I  ween, 
Than  is  the  time  of  blossom-dappled 

Spring, 
Or  Winter  with  red  hearth  and  snowy 

scene. 

Now  meadows  erstwhile  wondrous  green 
Are  dotted  here  and  there  with  rain- 
greyed  corn 

In  shocks,  and  in  between, 
The    ground    is    black.    Against    the 

cloudy  sky, 

Black  trees  lift  shivering  leaves  on  high, 
And  night  brings  frosts  and  chill  is 

every  morn. 
O  Autumn,  drenched  with  color,  thee 

I  sing- 
And  praise  the  fruits  and  leaves  that 

thou  dost  bring. 

3.  What  phase  of  autumn  is  depicted 
tn  stanza  2?  What  chronological  prog- 


ress is  traced  through  these  sets  of  lines: 
12-15,  16-18,  19-20,  21-22?  Suggest  a 
summarizing  word  for  the  phenomena 
described  in  stanza  2. 

4.  Read  line  22  aloud,  and  you  will 
see  that  the  sounds  suggest  weariness. 
Do  other  details  in  the  stanza  also  sug- 
gest weariness?  Be  specific. 

5.  Sum  up  the  contrasts  between  the 
picture  of  autumn  in  stanzas  2  and  3. 

6.  Stanza  3  begins  by  asking  where 
the  songs  of  Spring  are.  How  does  the 
inferred  answer  prepare  for  the  concept 
of  autumn  given  in  this  stanza?  What  is 
this  concept,  and  what  details  enforce 
it? 

7.  How  would  the  substitution  of  the 
following  details  spoil  the  impression  of 
autumn  set  forth  in  stanza  3:   "quick- 
passing"  for  "soft-dying"   (25),  "snarl" 
for  "mourn"  (27),  "music"  for  "treble" 
(31)? 

8.  How  does  the  last  stanza  justify 
these  details  in  stanza  1 :  mists,  conspir- 
ing, think,  clammy? 

9.  What  other  relationships  are  there 
between  the  three  stanzas?  Why  would 
it  be  undesirable  to  change  the  order 
of  the  stanzas? 

10.  What  conclusions  can  you  draw 
from   "To   Autumn"   about   the   poet's 
character?  How  is  it  related  to  what 
happens  in  the  poem? 

11.  Can  you  find  any  meaning  in  this 
poem?  If  so,  state  it,  and  suggest  how 
the  selection  and  handling  of  details  in 
the  setting  contribute  to  it. 


80 


MATTER    AND    MANNER 


Language 


ANGUAGE  used  in  imaginative  works 
bodies  forth  the  happenings,  the 
settings,  and  the  characters;  it  withholds 
or  gives  emphasis,  emotional  coloia- 
tions,  and  interpretations.  Therefore,  the 
reader  does  well  to  notice  how  the 
author's  manner  of  using  words,  phrases, 
sentences,  and  rhythms  relates  to  the 
achievement  of  the  story,  the  drama, 
or  the  poem. 

Words,  happenings,  and  settings 

IN  portraying  either  happenings  or 
settings,  the  author  may  use  lan- 
guage to  convey  emphasis  and  vivid- 
ness, and  to  suggest  emotional  interpre- 
tations. If,  for  instance,  he  tells  us 
merely,  "After  the  three  individuals  de- 
parted, they  encountered  two  other  in- 
dividuals," thereby  he  relegates  this 
happening  to  an  unimportant  place.  The 
account  is  unemphatic  for  two  reasons 
—  (1)  because  it  is  brief,  and  (2)  be- 
cause it  is  abstract.  And  if  the  encounter 
is  actually  unimportant  in  the  particular 
chain  of  events  being  presented,  the 
reader  notes  that  the  language  is  ap- 
propriately handled. 

But  suppose  the  event  were  an  im- 
portant one— how  might  the  author  use 
words  to  emphasize  it?  Note  what 
Ernest  Hemingway  does  in  the  follow- 
ing passage: 

The  three  of  them  started  for  the 
door,  and  I  watched  them  go.  They 
were  good-looking  young  fellows,  wore 
good  clothes.  ...  As  they  turned  out 
of  the  door  to  the  right,  I  saw  a  closed 


car  come  across  the  square  toward  them. 
The  first  thing  a  pane  of  glass  went  and 
the  bullet  smashed  into  the  row  of 
bottles  on  the  show  case  wall  to  the 
right.  I  heard  the  gun  going  and  bop, 
bop,  bop,  there  were  bottles  smashing 
all  along  the  wall. 

I  jumped  behind  the  bar  on  the  left 
and  could  see  over  the  edge.  'The  car 
was  stopped  and  there  were  two  fellows 
crouched  down  by  it.  One  had  a  Thomp- 
son gun  and  the  other  had  a  sawed-off 
automatic  shotgun.  .  .  .  One  of  the  boys 
was  spread  out  on  the  sidewalk,  face 
down,  ;ust  outside  the  big  window  that 
was  smashed.  The  other  two  were  be- 
hind one  of  the  Tropical  beer  ice  wagons. 
.  .  .  One  of  the  boys  shot  from  the  rear 
corner  of  the  wagon  and  it  ricocheted 
off  the  sidewalk.  .  .  .  You  could  see  the 
buckshot  marks  all  over  the  sidewalk  like 
silver  splatters.— To  Have  and  Have  Not 

Here  emphasis  is  achieved  because  the 
happening  is  treated  at  some  length. 
Moreover,  the  author  uses  few  abstract 
words  such  as  "individuals,"  "departed," 
and  "encountered."  Rather,  he  uses  con- 
crete words  which  specify  details  in  the 
happening,  for  instance,  "closed  car," 
"smashed,"  "ricocheted."  Such  image- 
bearing  words  convey  sensory  impres- 
sions, achieve  vividness,  and  therefore 
give  the  passage  more  emotional  impact 
than  an  abstract  (and  hence  neutral) 
account  possibly  could  have.  Quintilian, 
the  famous  Roman  critic,  long  ago 
pointed  out  that  "he  who  says  that  a 
city  is  captured  .  ,  .  makes  no  impres- 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 


81 


sion  on  the  feelings."  "It  is  less  impres- 
sive to  tell  the  whole  at  once,"  he  added, 
"than  to  specify  the  different  particu- 
lars." A  stanza  shows  how  the  poet 
Shakespeare  "specified  the  different  par- 
ticulars" by  using  concrete  words: 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 
When  blood  is  nipped  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
Tu-whit,  tu-who/  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

Words  which  evoke  emotions 

BUT  it  should  be  noticed  that  in  using 
concrete  words,  both  authors  are 
selective.  Hemingway  has  said  that  the 
writer's  problem  is  to  set  down  "the  real 
thing,  the  sequence  of  motion  and  fact 
which  make  the  emotion.  ...  If  you  get 
so  you  can  give  that  to  people  then  you 
are  a  writer."  The  author— not  only 
Hemingway  but  any  writer— therefore 
leaves  out  details  irrelevant  to  such  a 
sequence.  The  quiet  sunlight  on  the 
square  where  the  encounter  took  place, 
the  beggars  asleep  in  the  sunlight  (ac- 
tually described  by  Hemingway  in  an 
earlier  scene)  here  would  spoil  the  rec- 
ord of  tense  and  vicious  action.  Similar- 
ly, Shakespeare  leaves  out  of  his  stanza 
a  number  of  details  which  are  charac- 
teristic of  winter  but  not  of  the  emo- 
tional concept  of  the  season  he  is  pre- 
senting. 

Concrete  words— and  abstract  ones  as 
well— furthermore,  are  often  valuable 
not  only  for  denotations,  or  dictionary 
meanings,  but  also  for  their  connota- 
tions, or  emotional  associations.  You  will 
see  the  importance  of  our  accretions  of 
feelings  about  certain  words  if  you  con- 


sider these  possible  (though  not  de- 
sirable) substitutions  in  the  Heming- 
way passage:  "disappeared"  for  "went," 
and  "broke"  for  "smashed"  in  sen- 
tence 4;  "shattering"  for  "smashing"  in 
sentence  5;  "leaped"  for  "jumped"  in 
sentence  6;  "squatted"  for  "crouched" 
in  sentence  7;  and  "wrecked"  for 
"smashed"  in  sentence  9.  Substitutions 
in  Shakespeare's  poem  will  show  that 
connotations  there  are  also  important 
for  the  expression  of  emotion. 

Figurative  phrases 

WHEN,  however,  selected  concrete 
words  will  not  convey  with  suffi- 
cient precision  the  exact  emotional  qual- 
ity of  a  scene,  the  author  may  use 
phrases  or  sentences  making  poetic  com- 
parisons. Figures  of  speech— metaphors, 
similes,  hyperboles,  and  others— are  val- 
uable chiefly  because  they  indicate  the 
nature  of  an  emotion.  The  phrase  "buck- 
shot marks  ....  like  silver  splatters"  in 
the  passage  by  Hemingway  is  a  figura- 
tive one:  literally,  the  marks  are  lead 
splatters,  but  the  author  figuratively 
compares  them  with  silver.  This  particu- 
lar simile  is  more  valuable  for  its  vivid- 
ness than  its  emotional  freighting,  but 
compare  a  sailor's  memory  of  his  first 
impression  of  the  East,  in  Joseph  Con- 
rad's Youth: 

And  fhis  is  how  I  see  the  East.  I  have 
seen  its  secret  places  and  have  looked 
into  its  very  soul;  but  now  I  see  it  always 
from  a  small  boat,  a  high  outline  of 
mountains,  blue  and  afar  in  the  morn- 
ing; like  a  faint  mist  at  noon;  a  /agged 
wall  of  purple  at  sunset.  I  have  the  feel 
of  the  oar  in  my  hand,  the  vision  of  a 
scorching  blue  sea  in  my  eyes.  And  I  see 
a  bay,  a  wide  bay,  smooth  as  glass  and 
polished  like  ice,  shimmering  in  the 


82 


MATTER    AND    MANNER 


dark.  A  red  light  burns  far  off  upon  the 
gloom  of  the  land,  and  the  night  is  soft 
and  warm.  We  drag  at  the  oars  with 
aching  arms,  and  suddenly  a  puff  of 
wind,  a  puff  faint  and  tepid  and  laden 
with  strange  odors  of  blossoms,  of  aro- 
matic wood,  comes  out  of  the  still 
night— the  first  sigh  of  the  East  on  my 
face.  That  I  can  never  forget.  It  was 
impalpable  and  enslaving,  like  a  charm, 
like  a  whispered  promise  of  mysterious 
delight. 

There  are  many  concrete  words  here 
—Conrad  once  defined  his  task  thus: 
"by  the  power  of  the  written  word,  to 
make  you  hear,  to  make  you  feel .... 
before  all,  to  make  you  see."  But  the 
end  of  such  vividness,  he  went  on  to 
say,  is  to  hold  up  a  fragment  of  experi- 
ence, "to  show  its  vibration,  its  color,  its 
form  and  through  its  movement,  its 
form,  its  color,  reveal  the  substance  of 
its  truth— disclose  the  inspiring  secret: 
the  stress  and  passion  within  the  core 
of  each  convincing  moment/*  The  con- 
crete words  in  the  passage  contribute 
much  to  the  revelation  of  the  "stress 
and  passion"  here— the  impression  of  the 
East  as  "impalpable  and  enslaving";  but 
the  figurative  phrases  contribute  even 
more.  The  narrator  who  has  achingly 
rowed  across  a  seemingly  shoreless 
"scorching  blue  sea"  conveys  his  de- 
light by  telling  how  mountains  changed 
from  a  figurative  "faint  mist  at  noon"  to 
a  palpable  and  cool-colored  shape  at 
sunset— figuratively,  "a  jagged  wall  of 
purple."  He  conveys  his  emotion  when 
he  tells  how,  storm-tossed  and  sun- 
parched,  he  looked  at  last  upon  a  dark 
wide  bay— figuratively,  "smooth  as  glass 
and  polished  like  ice/'  The  "soft  and 
warm"  night  figuratively  suggests  rest 
for  his  tired  body.  And  the  figurative 


characterization  of  the  breeze  as  "the 
first  sigh  of  the  East ....  impalpable 
and  enslaving,  like  a  charm,  like  a  whis- 
pered promise  of  mysterious  delight" 
gives  more  than  a  vivid  account  of  a 
puff  of  wind:  it  conveys  emotion  by 
subtly  likening  this  welcome  haven  to 
an  entrancing  yet  enigmatic  woman. 
Thus  figures  of  speech  help  define  an 
emotion  precisely. 

Sentences  and  rhythms 

A  COMPARISON  between  the  passage 
£\^  by  Hemingway  and  that  by  Con- 
rad will  suggest  that,  in  addition  to  words 
and  phrases,  sentences  and  rhythms  are 
important  elements  for  representing 
happenings,  settings,  and  emotions.  The 
simple  sentences  and  compound  sen- 
tences, with  a  minimum  number  of 
modifiers,  which  make  up  the  first  pas- 
sage are  appropriate  for  describing 
rapid  action.  More  complex  sentences, 
with  numerous  appositions  and  figura- 
tive phrases  which  savor  details,  are 
appropriate  for  Conrad's  lyrical  account. 
In  Hemingway's  paragraphs,  a  large 
proportion  of  one-syllable  words  which 
frequently  cluster  accented  syllables 
("wo're  good  clothes,"  "closed  car  come," 
"glass  went,"  "show  case  wall,"  "bop, 
bop,  bop,"  "face  down,"  "beer  ice  wag- 
ons," etc.)  achieve  a  staccato  rhythm 
corresponding  to  the  action.  As  writing 
comes  nearer  to  poetry  in  expressing 
emotion,  it  tends  to  approach  regular 
rhythms  like  those  in  poetry;  therefore, 
Conrad's  emotional  passage  is,  for  prose, 
remarkably  close  at  times  to  iambic  and 
anapestic  verse.  (See  the  consideration 
of  rhythms  in  the  introduction  to  poetry, 
Part  III.)  At  an  opposite  extreme  from 
the  Hemingway  passage  is  Shake- 
speare's stanza,  with  its  regular  use 
(after  the  opening  line)  of  iambic 


MATTER   AND   MANNER        83 


rhythm.  Between  these  two  extremes, 
all  sorts  of  variations  are  available  to 
the  author. 

Not  only  accent  patterns  but  also 
sound  patterns  figure  in  one  kind  of 
rhythmical  arrangement— one  in  which 
the  handling  of  consonants  and  vowels 
suggests  the  kind  of  action  or  the  scene. 
A  simple  example  is  the  "bop,  bop, 
bop"  of  the  Hemingway  passage- 
wherein  the  sounds  imitate  those  of 
gun  explosions.  The  consonants  b  and 
p  here  used— like  hard  c,  dy  g,  fc,  and  t 
—as  a  matter  of  fact,  are  called  "explo- 
sives," because  you  pronounce  them  by 
closing  your  mouth  and  exploding  them 
with  your  breath.  Note  how  the  use  of 
such  consonants  helps  Tennyson  imi- 
tate the  progress  of  a  knight  in  his 
clanking  armor: 

Dry  clashed  his  harness  on  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  left  and 

right 
The    bare    black    cliff    clanged    round 

him 

But  contrast  with  this  Herrick's 

When  as  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 

Then,    then,    niethinks,    how    sweetly 

flows 
That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Here  a  predominance  of  "continuous 
consonants,"  so  called  because  they  may 
be  prolonged  indefinitely  (drawn  from 
"sibilants"— soft  c,  /,  s,  v,  z— and  "liq- 
uids"—/, ra,  n,  r,  rig),  imitates  the 
smooth  movement  of  the  lady  in  silks. 
And  vowels  as  well  as  consonants  may, 
at  times,  be  so  managed  that,  as  Pope 
puts  it,  the  sound  will  "seem  an  echo  of 
the  sense."  Compare  the  vowels  (as 
well  as  the  consonants)  in  these  pas- 


The  huge  round  stone  resulting  with  a 

bound, 
Thunders  impetuous  down  and  smokes 

along  the  ground. 

-POPE,  Odyssey,  xi 

...  the  spires 

Pricked  with  incredible  pinnacles  into 
heaven.     —TENNYSON,  Holy  Grail 

Such  suggestions  by  sound  of  sense  are 
called  onomatopoeia.  Finally,  there  will 
be  times,  of  course,  when  sound  pat- 
terns are  not  used  to  imitate  actions  or 
scenes  but  to  achieve  sheer  harmony 
which  helps  convey  an  emotion.  At  such 
times  the  author  will  use  sounds  of  va- 
rious sorts  which  blend  melodiously. 

Language  and  characterization 

IN  descriptions  of  the  physical  ap- 
pearances or  gestures  of  characters, 
an  author  uses  language  in  ways  com- 
parable to  those  employed  in  describing 
happenings  or  scenes.  Language  is  also 
important  for  characterization,  in  ways 
which  we  have  not  so  far  considered, 
when  the  work  quotes  the  character— in 
first  person  narratives  or  in  passages  of 
dialogue.  Here,  of  course,  the  choice  of 
words,  the  figures  of  speech,  the  sen- 
tences and  rhythms  may  be  useful  be- 
cause they  are  in  keeping. 

The  connotations  or  associations  of 
words  used  in  dialogue  are  as  important 
as  they  are  in  descriptive  passages, 
though  in  a  rather  different  way.  Here 
what  might  be  called  "social"  connota- 
tions loom  large.  As  H.  J.  C.  Grierson 
remarks,  words  have  "color": 

I  mean  by  "color"  the  associations 
which  gather  around  a  word  by  long 
usage.  The  meaning  provides  the  first 
nucleus  for  this,  and  then  come  all  the 


84 


MATTER   AND    MANNER 


accidental  circumstances  connected  with 
our  experience  of  the  word— the  people 
who  use  it,  the  places  in  which  we  have 
heard  it,  the  other  words  and  ideas  it 
tends  to  evolve.  And  so  we  find  that, 
against  our  will,  some  words  are  vulgar- 
ized, savor  (for  we  might  speak  of  "taste" 
as  well  as  "color")  of  the  streets  and  the 
music-hall;  others  are  homely,  though 
anything  but  vulgar,  are  redolent ....  of 
home,  of  familiar  objects  and  experi- 
ences, of  the  farm-yard,  the  fishing-boat 
and  the  workshop;  others  are  pedantic, 
schoolmaster's  words  that  no  healthy 
boy  would  ever  use  on  the  playground 
....  and  other  words  are  dignified, 
learned  but  not  pedantic,  for  a  learned 
word  is  only  pedantic  when  it  takes  the 
place  of  a  simpler  or  more  obvious  one 

and  again  others  are  lovely  exotics 

that  only  the  poets  have  ventured  to 
use:  "At  length  burst  in  the  argent 
revelry." 

"Color"  in  words  shows  itself  when  a 
sailor  says,  "We  shipped  a  sea  that  car- 
ried away  our  pinnace  and  our  bin- 
nacle," and  a  landsman  says  "A  heavy 
wave  broke  over  our  ship."  It  shows  it- 
self when  a  pompous  man  mouths  what 
Thoreau  called  "bad  words— words  like 
'tribal'  and  'ornamentation/  which  drag 
their  tails  behind  them."  It  shows  itself 
when  a  politician  uses  words  which  fill 
the  air  with  glittering  but  not  very 
meaningful  generalities.  The  coloration 
of  a  character's  words  shows  us  some- 
thing about  her  when  she  addresses  her 
mother:  whether  she  calls  her  Hazel, 
Mom,  Maw,  Mother,  or  Mother  Dar- 
ling, we  shall  learn  something  about 
the  character  from  the  form  of  address. 
The  kinds  of  words  a  character  uses 
may  show  whether  he  is  educated  or  un- 
read, whether  he  has  a  sense  of  humor 


or  is  humorless,  whether  he  is  sensitive 
or  crass,  refined  or  vulgar,  intelligent  or 
stupid. 

Figurative  phrases  or  sentences  used 
in  dialogue  may  also  suggest  much 
about  the  nature  of  the  character.  They 
may,  by  their  allusions,  suggest  the 
character's  background:  witness  how 
Huck  Finn,  born  and  reared  in  a  river 
town,  describes  a  room  mussed  up  by 
his  "pap"— "And  when  they  come  to 
look  at  that  spare  room  they  had  to  take 
soundings  before  they  could  navigate 
it."  Trite  figures  may  indicate  unimagi- 
nativeness;  literary  figures,  bookishness; 
original  figures,  imaginativeness;  pro- 
fane figures,  irreligion;  inept  figures,  a 
lack  of  a  sense  of  proportion  or  a  sense 
of  humor,  and  so  on. 

Sentences,  too,  are  important.  In 
passages  representing  conversations  or 
thoughts,  authors  often  imitate  the 
qualities  of  talk  or  of  the  thought  proc- 
esses. Perhaps  they  do  this  by  suggest- 
ing the  fumbling  for  words,  the  am- 
biguity, the  repetition,  the  irrelevancies 
we  hear  in  speech  or  notice  in  our 
thinking.  Or  they  may  construct  sen- 
tences which  have  a  fragmentary  qual- 
ity, awkwardness  of  arrangement,  a 
frequent  use  of  "and"  and  "but."  Some- 
times the  constructions  are  not  only  life- 
like but  also  characteristic  of  certain 
kinds  of  people—for  instance,  bad  gram- 
mar for  the  uneducated  man,  choppy 
sentences  for  the  decisive  man,  frag- 
mentary sentences— never  finished— for 
the  indecisive  character,  orotund  and 
long  sentences  for  the  orator. 

These,  according  to  the  nature  of  the 
work,  will  be  more  or  less  stenographic. 
They  will  never  be  completely  literal 
transcriptions,  however,  because  the  au- 
thor has  to  select  and  condense  talk  or 
thought,  like  everything  else  in  his  lit- 


MATTER    AND   MANNER        85 


erary  work.  Furthermore,  the  adapta- 
tion of  such  material  must  be  in  tune 
with  the  style  of  the  whole  work.  Thus 
if  the  work  is  a  poem,  although  the 
speech  may  have  definite  lifelike  qual- 
ities (see  "My  Last  Duchess,"  p.  60, 
for  instance),  it  will  naturally  be  far 
more  condensed  and  far  more  rhythmi- 


cal than  speech  is.  Or  if  the  work  is  a 
drama,  the  author  may  allow  some  char- 
acters to  speak  lifelike  prose,  and  for- 
feit the  right  to  be  realistically  lifelike 
as  he  allows  other  characters  to  speak 
in  the  heightened  style  of  blank  verse. 
(See,  for  instance,  The  Tragedy  of 
Julius  Csesar,  p.  22.) 


Mark  Twain  once  wrote  this  summary  of  part  of  The  Adventures  of  Huckle- 
berry Finn:  "An  ignorant  village  boy, 
Huck  Finn,  son  of  the  town  drunkard 
....  has  run  away  from  his  persecuting 
father,  and  from  a  persecuting  good 
widow  who  wishes  to  make  a  nice, 
truth-telling,  respectable  boy  of  him; 
and  with  him  a  slave  ....  has  also  es- 
caped." In  the  following  selection  from 
The  Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn, 
Huck  and  the  slave,  Jim,  are  on  Jack- 
sons  Island.  They  are  in  a  cave  to 
which  they  have  gone  because  Jim, 
after  watching  the  behavior  of  some 
young  birds,  has  predicted  a  rain  storm. 


SAMUEL  L.    CLEMENS 


Storm  on 
Jackson's  Island 


PRETTY  SOON  it  darkened  up,  and  begun  to  thunder  and  lighten;  so  the 
birds  was  right  about  it.  Directly  it  begun  to  rain,  and  it  rained  like  all 
fury,  too,  and  I  never  see  the  wind  blow  so.  It  was  one  of  these  regular  sum- 
mer storms.  It  would  get  so  dark  that  it  looked  all  blue-black  outside,  and 
lovely;  and  the  rain  would  thrash  along  by  so  thick  that  the  trees  off  a  little 
ways  looked  dim  and  spider-webby;  and  here  would  come  a  blast  of  wind 
that  would  bend  the  trees  down  and  turn  up  the  pale  underside  of  the  leaves; 
and  then  a  perfect  ripper  of  a  gust  would  follow  along  and  set  the  branches 
to  tossing  their  arms  as  if  they  was  just  wild;  and  next,  when  it  was  just 
about  the  bluest  and  blackest— fstl  it  was  as  bright  as  glory,  and  you'd  have 
a  little  glimpse  of  treetops  a-plunging  about  away  off  yonder  in  the  storm, 
hundreds  of  yards  further  than  you  could  see  before;  dark  as  sin  again  in  a 
second,  and  now  you'd  hear  the  thunder  let  go  with  an  awful  crash,  and  then 
go  rumbling,  grumbling,  tumbling,  down  the  sky  towards  the  under  side  of 
the  world,  like  rolling  empty  barrels  down-stairs—where  it's  long  stairs  and 
they  bounce  a  good  deal,  you  know. 


MATTER   AND   MANNER 


Language,  character,  and 
setting 

WHAT  qualities  in  Huck's  character 
may  be  deduced  from  his  way  of 
writing?  How  are  the  qualities  appro- 
priate for  a  character  who  has  acted  in 
the  way  indicated  by  Twain's  synopsis? 
Precisely  what  qualities  of  his  language 
indicate  these  traits? 

2.  Edgar  Lee  Masters  has  questioned 
the  appropriateness  of  Huck's  language 
in  other  parts  of  the  book  in  this  series 
of  questions:  "Would  Huck,  in  speak- 
ing of  his  feeling,  say  Very  well  satis- 
fied? Would  he  not  rather  say,   'and 
feelin'  all  right?  ....  Would  he  not  say 
'et'  instead  of  'eat?  Would  he  not  say 
'the  lightning  showed  her  very  plain/ 
instead   of   'the   lightning   showed   her 
very  distinct?"  What  is  Masters'  crite- 
rion?  Might   he   have   drawn  any   ex- 
amples from  this  passage?  If  so,  cite 
some  examples.  Do  you  agree  or  dis- 
agree with  his  criticism?  Why? 

3.  Comment  upon  the  relative  num- 
ber of  concrete  and  abstract  words  here. 


What  is  noteworthy  about  the  verbs 
which  Huck  uses? 

4.  What  figures  of  speech  do  you 
find  in  this  passage?  Is  the  use  of  so 
many  figures  of  speech  in  character? 
Are  they  the  sort  an  uneducated  river- 
town  boy  would  be  likely  to  use?  Do 
they  help  make  the  scene  vivid?  Why 
or  why  not?  What  is  Huck's  feeling 
about  the  storm,  and  to  what  extent  do 
the  figures  of  speech  indicate  it? 

5.  Discuss    the    words,    "fstl"    and 
"you'd  hear  the  thunder  let  go  with  an 
awful   crash,    and   then    go   rumbling, 
grumbling,  tumbling  .  .  .  ."  in  relation 
to  (a)  Huck's  character,  (b)  their  value 
in  this  description. 

6.  Are   the   sentences   formed  more 
like  those  in  talk  or  those  in  written  dis- 
course? Cite  details  which  support  your 
answer.  How  appropriate  for  Huck  is 
their  length?  kind?  arrangement? 

7.  Discuss  the  rhythms  in  the  pas- 
sage. How  would  you  describe  them? 
Are  they  useful  to  characterize  Huck, 
to  indicate  his  feelings,  or  to  make  vivid 
the  scene? 


STORM  ON  JACKSON'S  ISLAND      87 


£%»  The  language  of  a  scene  from  a  play  as  old  as  The  Tempest  (c.  1611)  offers 
some  difficulties  to  students  not  familiar  with  the  diction  of  Shakespeare's  pe- 
riod. Such  difficulties,  however,  may  easily  be  overcome  with  the  help  of  a 

small  footnote  glossary  such  as  the  one 
here  supplied.  Once  you  have  under- 
stood the  few  unfamiliar  words,  you  will 
find  that  this  opening  scene  of  one  of 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE  tl"  dramatist's  late  plays  shows  much 

about  what  a  genius  can  do  with  words. 
The  ship  is  one  bearing  Alonso,  King  of 
Naples;  Sebastian,  his  brother;  Antonio, 
the  Duke  of  Milan;  Ferdinand,  Alonso's 

A  son;  and  Gonzalo,  "an  honest  old  Coun- 

cil   SCcl  scllor" 


On  a  ship 


Act  7,  Scene  i:  On  a  ship  at  sea;  a  tempestuous  noise  of  thunder  and  light- 
ning  heard.  Enter  a  SHIP-MASTER  and  a  BOATSWAIN. 

MASTER.  Boatswain! 

BOATSWAIN.  Here,  master:  what  cheer? 

MASTER.  Good,  speak  to  the  mariners.  Fall  to  't,  yarely,  or  we  run  our- 
selves aground!  Bestir,  bestir!  (Exit,  blowing  his  whistle) 

(Enter  MARINERS,) 

BOATSWAIN.  Heigh,  my  hearts!  cheer ly,  cheerly,  my  hearts!  yare,  yare! 
Take  in  the  topsail.  Tend  to  the  master's  whistle.  Blow,  till  thou 
burst  thy  wind,  if  room  enough! 

(Enter  ALONSO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  FERDINAND,  GONZALO,  and  others) 

ALONSO.  Good  boatswain,  have  care.  Where's  the  master?  Play  the  men.     n 

BOATSWAIN.  I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

ANTONIO.  Where  is  the  master,  bos'n? 

BOATSWAIN.  Do  you  not  hear  him?  You  mar  our  labor.  Keep  your 
cabins:  you  do  assist  the  storm. 

GONZALO.  Nay,  good,  be  patient. 

BOATSWAIN.  When  the  sea  is.  Hence!  What  cares  these  roarers  for  the 
name  of  king?  To  cabin!  Silence!  Trouble  us  not. 


2.  Master,  the  captain.  3.  Good,  my  good  fellow.  Fall  to  *ty  yarely,  go  about  it,  quickly. 
6.  my  hearts!  the  equivalent  of  the  more  modern  "my  hearties."  cheerly,  with  good 
cheer.  7.  Take  in  the  topsail.  This  was  done  in  order  to  check  the  drift  to  leeward. 
8.  Tend,  attend.  Blow  . . .  enough!  This  speech  is  addressed  to  the  wind,  if  room  enough, 
if  there  is  enough  open  sea.  11.  Play  the  ment  act  as  men  should.  19.  roarers ,  both 
roaring  waves  and  bullies. 

88        MATTER   AND   MANNER 


GONZALO.  Good,  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast  aboard.  *i 

BOATSWAIN.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself.  You  are  a  counsellor; 
if  you  can  command  these  elements  to  silence,  and  work  the  peace  of 
the  present,  we  will  not  hand  a  rope  more;  use  your  authority.  If  you 
cannot,  give  thanks  you  have  lived  so  long,  and  make  yourself  ready 
in  your  cabin  for  the  mischance  of  the  hour,  if  it  so  hap.  Cheerly,  good 
hearts!  Out  of  our  way,  I  say.  (Exit)  29 

GONZALO.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow;  methinks  he  hath  no 
drowning  mark  upon  him;  his  complexion  is  perfect  gallows.  Stand 
fast,  good  Fate,  to  his  hanging:  make  the  rope  of  his  destiny  our  cable, 
for  our  own  doth  little  advantage.  If  he  be  not  born  to  be  hanged,  our 
case  is  miserable.  (Exeunt)  36 

(Re-enter  BOATSWAIN,) 

BOATSWAIN.  Down  with  the  topmast!  Yare!  Lower,  lower!  Bring  her  to 
try  with  main-course.  (A  cry  within)  A  plague  upon  this  howling! 
they  are  louder  than  the  weather  or  our  office.  40 

(Re-enter  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  and  GONZALO) 

BOATSWAIN.  Yet  again!  what  do  you  here?  Shall  we  give  o'er  and  drown? 
Have  you  a  mind  to  sink? 

SEBASTIAN.  A  pox  o'  your  throat,  you  bawling,  blasphemous,  incharitable 
dog! 

BOATSWAIN,  Work  you  then. 

ANTONIO.  Hang,  cur!  hang,  you  insolent  noisemaker!  We  are  less  afraid 
to  be  drowned  than  thou  art. 

GONZALO.  I'll  warrant  him  for  drowning;  though  the  ship  were  no 
stronger  than  a  nutshell.  51 

BOATSWAIN.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold!  set  her  two  courses  off  to  sea  again; 
lay  her  off. 

(Enter  MARINERS  wet ) 

MARINERS.  All  lost!  to  prayers,  to  prayers!  all  lost!  55 

BOATSWAIN.  What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold? 

GONZALO.  The  king  and  prince  at  prayers!  let's  assist  them, 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

SEBASTIAN.  I'm  out  of  patience. 

ANTONIO.  We  are  merely  cheated  of  our  lives  by  drunkards: 


24.  work  the  peace  of  the  present,  create  peace  immediately.  33.  the  rope  of  his 
destiny,  the  hangman's  rope.  37.  Down  with  the  topmast!  This  is  struck  to  take  the 
weight  from  aloft  and  halt  the  drift  leeward.  38.  Bring  . . .  main-course,  keep  her  close 
to  the  wind.  40.  our  office,  our  commands.  49.  for,  against.  52.  Lay  her  a-hold  .  .  .  off, 
keep  her  to  the  wind,  set  her  foresail  and  her  mainsail  to  carry  her  to  sea.  59.  merely, 
utterly. 

ON    A    SHIP    AT    SEA        89 


This  wide-chapp'd  rascal—would  thou  mightst  lie  drowning  60 

The  washing  of  ten  tides! 
GONZALO.  He'll  be  hang'd  yet, 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it 

And  gape  at  widest  to  glut  him. 
(A  confused  noise  within)  'Mercy  on  us!'— 

'We  split,  we  split!'— 'Farewell  my  wife  and  children!'— 

'Farewell,  brother!'— 'We  split,  we  split,  we  split!'  65 

ANTONIO.  Let's  all  sink  with  the  king. 

SEBASTIAN.  Let's  take  leave  of  him.  (Exeunt  ANTONIO  and  SEBASTIAN) 
GONZALO.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of  sea  for  an  acre  of 

barren  ground,  long  heath,  brown  furze,  any  thing.  The  wills  above 

be  done!  but  I  would  fain  die  a  dry  death.  (Exeunt) 

60.  wide-chapp'd,  big-mouthed. 


90 


MATTER    AND   MANNER 


Language,  setting,  characters, 
and  liappenings 

THE  Shakespearean  theater  was,  by 
our  standards,  quite  bare  of  scen- 
ery. How  did  Shakespeare  use  words 
and  actions  to  evoke  a  vivid  sense  of 
the  setting? 

2.  Do   the   seamen   talk   as   seamen 
should?    Is    there    any    evidence    that 
Shakespeare  took   any   pains  to  make 
them  do  so? 

3.  Note    the    speeches    of    Antonio, 
who  has  been  characterized  by  critics  as 
"coarse,  flippant,  and  familiar."  Do  his 
few  speeches  here  begin  to  show  such  a 
character?   Scholars   have  noticed  that 
he  says  "bos'n"  in  line  13,  whereas  the 
word    is    spelled    out    in    full    ("bote- 
swaine")  elsewhere  in  the  play.  Is  there 
any  possible  significance  in  this  fact? 

4.  Critic    Samuel   Johnson   said,    "It 
may  be  observed  of  Gonzalo  that,  be- 
ing the  only   good  man  that   appears 
with   the    king,    he   is    the   only    man 
that  preserves  his  cheerfulness  in  the 


wreck  .  .  .  ."  How  does  his  way  of  talk- 
ing indicate  his  cheerfulness? 

5.  A  sailor,  writing  of  the  boatswain, 
has  called  him  "a  grand  old  seadog," 
and  has  claimed  that  in  this  brief  pas- 
sage "we  learn  to  know  him  as  thor- 
oughly as  though  he  lived  and  moved 
in  our  presence/'  Do  you  agree?  Com- 
ment upon  line  60. 

6.  A  scholar  has  cited  lines  1-9  as  an 
instance    of    Shakespeare's    rhythmical 
prose.  How  might  he  demonstrate  that 
it    is    rhythmical?    What    value    does 
rhythmical  prose  have  here? 

7.  Coleridge  has  pointed  out  that  this 
scene  has  been  appropriately  handled 
for  the  start  of  a  romantic  and  imagina- 
tive play.  "It  is  the  bustle  of  a  tempest," 
he  says,  "from  which  the  real  horrors 
are  abstracted;  therefore  it  is  poetical, 
though  not  in  strictness  natural,  and  it 
is  purposely  restrained  from  concentrat- 
ing the  interest  in  itself,  but  used  merely 
as  an  induction  or  tuning  for  what  is 
to  follow."  Do  you  agree  or  disagree? 
Why? 


£*>  These  lines  from  Homer's  Odyssey,  Book  V,  describe  how  Odysseus  (Ulysses) 
encountered  a  storm  loosed  by  Neptune.  Ulysses,  the  King  of  Ithaca,  had  left  his 
wife  and  his  young  son  to  fight  in  the  Trojan  War.  Troy  had  finally  been  taken 

in  the  tenth  year  of  the  conflict,  and 
Ulysses  had  started  his  long  voyage 
home.  Just  before  our  selection  begins, 
he  had  left  Calypso's  Isle  on  a  raft  and 
had  sailed  along,  pleasantly  enough,  for 
seventeen  days.  Neptune,  the  god  of 
the  sea,  then  had  sighted  him  and  had 
announced  that  he  would  harass  the 


HOMER 


Translator:  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 


fierce  rush 
of  all  the  winds' 


wanderer.    The    passage 
storm  which  followed. 


tells    of    the 


HE  [Neptune]  spoke,  and  round  about  him  called  the  clouds 
And  roused  the  ocean,  wielding  in  his  hand 
The  trident,  summoned  all  the  hurricanes 


A   FIERCE   RUSH   OF   ALL    THE   WINDS 


91 


Of  all  the  winds,  and  covered  earth  and  sky 

At  once  with  mists,  while  from  above,  the  night  5 

Fell  suddenly.  The  east  wind  and  the  south 

Rushed  forth  at  once,  with  the  strong-blowing  west, 

And  the  clear  north  rolled  up  his  mighty  waves. 

Ulysses  trembled  in  his  knees  and  heart, 

And  thus  to  his  great  soul,  lamenting,  said:  10 

"What  will  become  of  me?  unhappy  man! 
I  fear  that  all  the  goddess  said  was  true, 
Foretelling  what  disasters  should  o'ertake 
My  voyage,  ere  I  reach  my  native  land. 

Now  are  her  words  fulfilled,  Now  Jupiter  15 

Wraps  the  great  heaven  in  clouds  and  stirs  the  deep 
To  tumult!  Wilder  grow  the  hurricanes 
Of  all  the  winds,  and  now  my  fate  is  sure. 
Thrice  happy,  four  times  happy  they,  who  fell 
On  Troy's  wide  field,  warring  for  Atreus'  sons:  20 

O,  had  I  met  my  fate  and  perished  there, 
That  very  day  on  which  the  Trojan  host, 
Around  the  dead  Achilles,  hurled  at  me 
Their  brazen  javelins!  I  had  then  received 

Due  burial  and  great  glory  with  the  Greeks;  25 

Now  must  I  die  a  miserable  death." 

As  thus  he  spoke,  upon  him,  from  on  high, 
A  huge  and  frightful  billow  broke;  it  whirled 
The  raft  around,  and  far  from  it  he  fell. 

His  hands  let  go  the  rudder;  a  fierce  rush  30 

Of  all  the  winds  together  snapped  in  twain 
The  mast;  far  off  the  yard  and  canvas  flew 
Into  the  deep;  the  billow  held  him  long 
Beneath  the  waters,  and  he  strove  in  vain 

Quickly  to  rise  to  air  from  that  huge  swell  35 

Of  ocean,  for  the  garments  weighed  him  down 
Which  fair  Calypso  gave  him.  But,  at  length, 
Emerging,  he  rejected  from  his  throat 
The  bitter  brine  that  down  his  forehead  streamed. 
Even  then,  though  hopeless  with  dismay,  his  thought  40 

Was  on  the  raft,  and,  struggling  through  the  waves, 
He  seized  it,  sprang  on  board,  and  seated  there 
Escaped  the  threatened  death.  Still  to  and  fro 
The  rolling  billows  drove  it.  As  the  wind 


92 


MATTER    AND    MANNER 


In  autumn  sweeps  the  thistles  o'er  the  field, 
Clinging  together,  so  the  blasts  of  heaven 
Hither  and  thither  drove  it  o'er  the  sea. 


45 


Language 

A*Y  author  translating  a  poem  tries, 
of  course,  to  capture  in  his  own 
language  the  qualities  of  the  original. 
Bryant  says,  "The  style  of  Homer  is 
simple,  and  he  has  been  praised  for  fire 
and  rapidity  of  narrative  ....  Homer 
....  wrote  in  idiomatic  Greek,  and  .... 
should  have  been  translated  into  idio- 
matic English."  How  well  does  Bryant's 
translation  live  up  to  this  theory  of  his 
about  the  ideal  translation? 

2.  Bryant  criticized  Cowper's  trans- 
lation of  this  poem  for  its  lack  of  sim- 
plicity, its  lack  of  "fire  and  rapidity." 
"Almost  every  sentence,"  he  continued, 
"is  stiffened  by  some  clumsy  inversion; 
stately  phrases  are  used  when  simpler 
ones  were  at  hand,  and  would  have  ren- 
dered the  meaning  of  the  original  bet- 
ter. The  entire  version  ....  is  cold  and 
constrained  .  .  . ."  With  these  points  in 
mind,  compare  the  following  lines  from 
Cowper's  translation  with  lines  19-26  of 
Bryant's  version: 

Thrice    blest,    and   more    than    thrice, 

Achafa's  sons 

At  Ilium  slain  for  the  Atridae'  sake/ 
Ah,  would  to  heav'n  that,  dying,  I  had 

felt 
That  day  the  stroke  of  fate,  when  me 

the  dead 

Achilles  guarding,  with  a  thousand  spears 
Troy's   furious   host   assaiTd/   Funereal 

rites 


I  then  had  shared,  and  praise  from  ev'ry 

Greek, 
Whom  now  the  most  inglorious  death 

awaits. 

3.  Compare  lines  27-39  of  Bryant's 
translation  with  the  following  prose  ver- 
sion written  by  S.  H.  Butcher  and  A. 
Lang: 

Even  as  he  spake,  the  great  wave 
smote  down  upon  him,  driving  on  in 
terrible  wise,  that  the  raft  reeled  again. 
And  far  therefrom  he  fell,  and  lost  the 
helm  from  his  hand;  and  the  fierce  blast 
of  the  jostling  winds  came  and  brake 
his  mast  in  the  midst,  and  sail  and  yard- 
arm  fell  afar  in  the  deep.  Long  time  the 
water  kept  him  under,  nor  could  he 
speedily  rise  from  beneath  the  rush  of 
the  mighty  wave:  for  the  garments  hung 
heavy  which  fair  Calypso  gave  him.  But 
Jate  and  at  length  he  came  up,  and  spat 
forth  from  his  mouth  the  bitter  salt 
water,  which  ran  down  in  streams  from 
his  head. 

4.  What  is  extraordinary  about  the 
figurative  language  in  Bryant's  passage? 
What  values  do  you  find  in  the  kinds 
of  figures  here  used? 

5.  Contrast   Bryant's   language  with 
that  of  Keats  in  "To  Autumn,"  page  79. 
How  do  the  contrasts  which  you  find 
relate  to  the  differing  purposes  of  the 
two  authors? 


A   FIERCE   RUSH   OF   ALL   THE   WINDS 


$*»  The  author  of  this  poem  believes  in  making  his  writings  dramatic.  "Everything 

written"  he  once  said,  "is  as  good  as  it 
is  dramatic."  Here  he  sets  forth  the  dra- 
ma of  a  New  England  farmer's  thoughts 
and  emotions  as  the  farmer  hears  a 
nighttime  storm  raging  outside  his 

ROBERT   FROST  ^^     ^  CQncrete  WQrds>   the  figures 

of  speech,  and  the  rhythms  show  how  a 
modern  poet  uses  language  to  convey 
an  emotion. 


WHEN  the  wind  works  against  us  in  the  dark, 
And  pelts  with  snow 
The  lower  chamber  window  on  the  east, 
And  whispers  with  a  sort  of  stifled  bark, 
The  beast,  5 

"Come  out!  Come  out!"— 
It  costs  no  inward  struggle  not  to  go, 
Ah,  no! 

I  count  our  strength, 

Two  and  a  child,  10 

Those  of  us  not  asleep  subdued  to  mark 
How  the  cold  creeps  as  the  fire  dies  at  length,— 
How  drifts  are  piled, 
Dooryard  and  road  ungraded, 

Till  even  the  comforting  barn  grows  far  away,  15 

And  my  heart  owns  a  doubt 
Whether  'tis  in  us  to  arise  with  day 
And  save  ourselves  unaided. 

Language,  characters,  setting,     ™uld  a  vivid  literf!1  description  lack? 

&      &    7  7  .  °         In   your   answer,   take   account  of  the 

and  happenings  follo'wing  figures  of  gpeech.   (a)  ^ 

WHAT    can    you    learn    about    the  wind  works  against  us  in  the  dark";  (b) 

character  of  the  speaker  of  these  "whispers  with  a  sort  of  stifled  bark,/ 

lines  from  the  kind  of  words  he  uses?  The  beast";  (c)  "How  the  cold  creeps 

Be  specific.  as  the  fire  dies  at  length";  (d)  "the  com- 

2.  Compared  with  this  vivid  figura-  forting  barn."  Is  it  true,  as  Professor 

tive    description    of   the    storm,    what  Lawrance    Thompson    has    suggested, 

From  Collected  Poems  of  Robert  Frost.  Copyright,  1930,  1939,  by  Henry  Holt  and 
Company,  Inc.  Copyright,  1936,  by  Robert  Frost.  By  permission  of  the  publishers. 

94        MATTER   AND    MANNEP 


that  here  "words  and  images  bring  the 
attention  to  focus  on  the  emotional 
sense  which  underlies  the  poem"? 

3.  What  is  the  pattern  of  the  hap- 
penings here  presented?  What  change 
is  there  in  the  speaker's  attitude?  How 
is  this  change  shown? 

4.  What  is  peculiar  about  the  rhyth- 
mical structure?  Is  the  peculiarity  you 


find  in  any  way  appropriate  to  what  is 
being  expressed?  Develop  your  answer. 
Does  the  use  of  rhyme  help  or  hinder 
the  development  of  the  thought? 

5.  Contrast  the  use  of  figurative  lan- 
guage in  "Storm-Fear"  with  that  in 
"Storm  on  Jackson's  Island"  (p.  86) 
and  in  "A  Fierce  Rush  of  All  the 
Winds"  (p.  91). 


TONE 


IN  a  literary  work,  as  a  rule,  the  ele- 
ments (happenings,  characters,  set- 
tings, and  language)  are  so  adapted  and 
integrated  as  to  form  a  harmonious 
whole.  To  you,  the  reader,  this  whole  is 
of  the  utmost  importance.  When  you 
read  a  complex  sentence,  you  may  find 
it  useful  to  notice  the  parts  of  speech 
which  form  it.  But  it  is  hardly  conceiv- 
able that  you  will  be  satisfied  to  stop 
with  your  perception  of  the  parts.  In- 
stead, you  will  want  to  re-imbed  the 
words  in  the  whole  sentence  so  that  you 
may  sense  the  emotional  effect  and 
come  to  grips  with  the  meaning. 

Similarly,  when  you  read  a  story,  a 
drama,  or  a  poem,  you  are  not  satisfied 
with  an  analysis  of  its  separate  ele- 
ments. You  are  not  likely  to  want  to 
stop  before  perceiving  the  accomplish- 
ment of  the  whole  work.  Actually,  it 
may  be  argued  that  you  have  not  "taken 
in"  the  work  at  all  until  you  have  shared 
with  the  author  the  emotions  and  the 
meaning  embodied  in  his  work.  You  do 
well,  therefore,  to  consider  the  work  in 
two  different  but  useful  and  supplemen- 


tary ways:  (a)  as  an  emotional  expres- 
sion of  the  author,  and  (b)  as  an  artistic 
embodiment  of  a  meaning  or  set  of 
meanings.  In  this  section,  we  shall  see 
how  you  consider  it  as  the  first  of  these; 
in  the  next  section,  as  the  second. 

The  nature  of  tone 

E:E  all  other  human  creatures,  the 
author  is  a  personality  with  his 
own  peculiar  tastes,  his  own  store  of 
knowledge,  his  own  individual  bents, 
prejudices,  and  emotions.  When  he  cre- 
ates an  imaginative  work  about  the 
world  as  he  sees  it,  almost  inevitably— 
consciously  or  unconsciously— he  will 
give  voice  to  certain  phases  of  his  per- 
sonality. And  you,  if  you  are  an  alert 
reader,  will,  so  to  speak,  hear  that  con- 
scious or  unconscious  voicing.  It  will  be 
somewhat  as  if  by  listening  while  the 
author  read  aloud,  by  noting  his  "tone" 
—the  timbre  of  his  voice,  the  intona- 
tions, the  emphases— you  came  to  know 
the  personal  qualities  and  emotions  em- 
bodied in  the  work. 

When  Thomas  Wolfe  speaks,  in  Of 


TONE       95 


Time  and  the  River,  of  "the  lusty,  vul- 
gar and  sweet-singing  voice  of  Geoffrey 
Chaucer,"  of  "Thackeray's  sentimental 
gallantry,"  of  "acid  and  tart-humored 
Horace/'  and  of  "the  massy  gold,  the 
choked-in  richness  ....  of  John  Keats," 
he  is  considering  the  tone  of  each  of 
these  authors.  Young  Walt  Whitman 
had  the  tone  of  his  early  works  in  mind 
when  he  spoke  of  "shouting  his  barbaric 
yawp  over  the  roofs  of  the  world." 

Limitations 

OF  course,  all  the  aspects  of  an  au- 
thor's personality  will  not  be  per- 
ceivable in  any  one  work,  nor  may  all 
his  feelings.  An  author  is  as  complex  as 
other  human  beings,  and  his  moods 
vary.  Furthermore,  an  author  tends  to 
write  in  the  modes  and  forms  fashion- 
able during  his  day.  Depending  upon 
his  period,  for  instance,  he  may  be,  say, 
a  classicist,  a  romanticist,  or  a  naturalist. 
The  literary  market  of  the  period  may 
be  better  for  dramas  than  for  sonnets,  or 
for  short  stories  than  for  plays,  or  for 
tragedies  than  for  comedies.  An  author 
may  not  find  that  he  can  express  as 
much  as  he  would  like  in  works  that  will 
sell,  and  after  all  an  author  must  live— 
if  possible. 

Again  the  moral  tastes  of  his  potential 
audience  may  force  a  writer  to  use  ma- 
terials which  he  finds  distressing,  or  to 
leave  out  materials  of  which  he  is  fond. 
A  prissy  puritan  writing  a  play  in  the 
bawdy  Restoration  period  or  a  novel  in 
the  militantly  frank  1920's  probably  had 
to  forget  some  of  his  scruples.  A  writer 
during  the  strait-laced  Victorian  period, 
as  both  Mark  Twain  and  Thackeray 
testified,  was  somewhat  limited  in  mani- 
festing his  taste  for  earthy  vulgarity.  In 
other  words,  the  author  may  be  limited 
in  various  ways  because  of  the  tastes  of 


the  readers  he  hopes  to  attract.  Some- 
how, he  must  win  sympathetic  atten- 
tion, and  if  he  does  not  appeal  to  read- 
ers in  his  most  natural  guise,  he  may 
assume  a  guise  more  likely  to  please. 

If  an  author  is  completely  enslaved 
by  his  period  and  by  the  taste  of  his  im- 
mediate audience,  later  readers  quite 
possibly  will  be  unable  to  read  his  works 
sympathetically.  A  Victorian  sentimen- 
talist such  as  the  author  of  Uncle  Toms 
Cabin  may  seem  funny  or  even  disgust- 
ing to  readers  a  few  decades  away.  Such 
a  nineteenth-century  humorist  as  Petro- 
leum V.  Nasby  or  Bill  Arp,  who  had 
readers  in  stitches  during  the  Civil  War, 
may  seem  funereal  in  tone  to  readers  in 
more  peaceful  clays.  Readers  may,  for 
various  reasons,  find  the  assumed  or  real 
personality  revealed  in  a  work  com- 
pletely unsympathetic.  In  such  cases,  it 
will,  of  course,  be  important  for  the 
reader  to  understand  exactly  how  the 
tone  interposes  itself  between  a  work 
and  its  enjoyment. 

In  what  we  say  about  tone  in  the  rest 
of  this  section,  however,  we  shall  take 
for  granted  that  such  limitations  have 
been  overcome— as  they  will  have  been 
by  the  best  authors.  We  shall  take  for 
granted,  in  other  words,  that  the  au- 
thor has  surmounted  limitations  set  by 
his  period  and  by  his  audience,  and 
that  he  has  managed  to  win  a  sym- 
pathetic hearing.  In  the  works  of  such 
an  author,  readers  may  find  three  kinds 
of  indications  of  tone:  (1)  the  author's 
choice  of  form,  (2)  his  choice  of  ma- 
terials, and  (3)  his  personal  interpre- 
tations. 

The  author's  choice  of  form 

THE  overall  pattern  which  an  author 
chooses  for  his  work  may  well  be 
determined  by  his  attitude  or  his  mood. 


96 


TONE 


Granted  that  his  audience  allows  him 
sufficient  freedom,  his  attitudes,  perma- 
nent or  temporary,  may  cause  him  to 
write  tragedy  or  comedy,  melodrama 
or  farce,  parody  or  sober  lyric.  A  pessi- 
mist, as  a  rule,  will  not  be  satisfied 
with  a  happy  ending  in  a  serious  work. 
If  he  writes  a  narrative  with  a  happy 
ending,  he  will  find  a  way  to  make  fun 
of  it— perhaps  by  burlesquing  it.  An 
optimist  or  a  writer  who  likes  to  create 
escapist  literature  will  not  be  satisfied 
with  an  unhappy  ending,  seriously  pre- 
sented. A  fanatic,  a  propagandist,  a 
parodist,  or  an  author  who  has  no  pro- 
found beliefs  about  human  nature  which 
he  wishes  to  express  may  picture  a 
group  of  angelic  figures  in  a  melodra- 
matic or  a  farcical  struggle  with  fiendish 
villains— and  the  course  and  the  out- 
come of  the  struggle  inevitably  will 
show  his  attitude  toward  life. 

Some  authors  always— and  other  au- 
thors in  some  moods— will  find  simple 
lyrics  the  only  satisfactory  forms  to  ex- 
press their  emotions.  Others  may  be 
compelled  by  an  inner  urgency  to  write 
complex  philosophical  poems,  and  still 
others  may  need  the  wide  scope  pro- 
vided by  epic  poetiy.  The  tones  of  such 
expressions  naturally  will  differ.  A  Love- 
lace's delicate  lyrics  will  contrast  with 
an  Eliot's  metaphysical  poems,  and 
these  in  turn  will  contrast  with  a  Mil- 
ton's Paradise  Lost.  Thus  in  fiction, 
drama,  and  poetry,  one  clue  to  the  au- 
thor's attitude  will  be  provided  by  the 
form  which  he  chooses  to  employ. 

The  author's  choice  of  materials 

E:E  everyone  else,  the  author  likes 
certain  kinds  of  characters,  certain 
kinds  of  settings,  certain  kinds  of  hap- 
penings; and  he  loathes  others  or  finds 
them  dull.  Some  human  qualities  will 


attract  him  or  seem  important  to  him, 
while  others  will  be  repugnant  or  wili 
seem  unimportant.  The  author's  choice 
of  characters  to  be  treated  at  length 
will  offer  us  insights.  A  Mark  Twain 
will  love  the  urchin  Huckleberry  Finn, 
but  will  find  Jane  Austen's  heroines  un- 
attractive and  boresome.  A  Henry 
James  will  shudder  at  the  thought  of 
writing  about  Huck:  he  himself  will 
prefer  writing  about  characters  with 
subtle  minds  and  with  sensitivities  sim- 
ilar to  his  own.  An  Ernest  Hemingway 
will  probably  prefer  Huck  to  James' 
delicate  characters,  but  he  will  like  even 
better  stoical,  tight-lipped  heroes  such 
as  Nick  Adams,  Hank  Morgan,  and 
Robert  Jordan.  Understandably  (unless 
he  is  writing  satire),  each  author  there- 
fore will  choose  for  detailed  portrayal 
a  character  of  the  sort  that  particularly 
fascinates  him. 

Each  fiction  writer,  also,  will  prefer 
certain  settings— Twain  the  Mississippi 
River  of  his  boyhood,  James  either  Brit- 
ish or  continental  drawing  rooms,  Hem- 
ingway, bedrooms,  barrooms,  or  out-of- 
door  scenes.  A  poet  writing  of  nature 
will  depict  those  scenes  or  aspects  of 
scenes  which  he  finds  most  interesting 
and  moving.  The  dramatist,  too,  is  likely 
to  have  preferences  in  backgrounds: 
witness  the  dramas  on  ships  at  sea  writ- 
ten by  the  youthful  Eugene  O'Neill. 

The  happenings  portrayed  by  an  au- 
thor will  also  be  selected  according  to 
his  taste.  "If  I  write  a  story  of  action," 
says  Carl  Grabo,  "I  select  my  incidents 
to  make  my  story  interesting  and  effec- 
tive; but  I  am  further  guided  by  an 
emotion  which  makes  me  select  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  incident  from  the  many 
incidents  possible,  a  kind  in  harmony 
with  my  emotion.  I  have  really  two  pur- 
poses which  I  endeavor  to  reconcile/ 


TONE 


97 


If  the  term  "emotion"  as  used  here  in- 
cludes preferences,  the  point  is  well 
taken.  A  Mark  Twain,  a  Paul  Green, 
or  a  Robert  Frost  will  choose  to  present 
incidents  which  catch  the  qualities  of 
life  peculiar  to  a  geographical  region. 
A  Henry  James  or  a  T.  S.  Eliot  or  a 
Eugene  O'Neill  will  prefer  to  show 
speculative  characters  puzzling  about 
motives  and  actions.  A  lyrical  poet  will 
concentrate  upon  intense  thoughts  and 
feelings—those  based  upon  the  poet's 
own  experiences  or  the  imagined  expe- 
riences of  others.  A  Wordsworth  will  be 
deeply  moved  by  experiences  in  the 
world  of  nature,  whereas  an  Edna  St. 
Vincent  Millay  or  a  Dorothy  Parker  will 
be  impelled  to  sing  of  a  remembrance 
of  a  love  which  has  ended. 

The  authors  interpretations 

THE  tone  of  a  work,  finally,  is  mani- 
fest in  the  author's  personal  inter- 
pretations of  the  characters,  the  hap- 
penings, the  settings,  and  the  feelings 
of  which  he  writes.  These  interpreta- 
tions may  be  explicit  or  implicit.  They 
will  be  explicit  when  the  author  speaks 
directly  to  the  reader;  they  will  be  im- 
plicit when  he  colors  his  record  in  ways 
which  indirectly  convey  his  attitudes. 
In  a  sense,  as  we  have  seen,  the  author 
has  the  problem  of  winning  over  the 
reader  to  his  own  view  of  what  he  is 
portraying.  He  may,  so  to  speak,  step 
into  the  pages  of  his  book,  and  in  his 
own  or  an  assumed  role,  offer  com- 
ments on  characters  and  events.  Or  he 
may  write  as  an  author-producer,  al- 
lowing his  lighting  and  setting  of  the 
scenes,  his  costuming  of  the  characters, 
and  his  devising  and  direction  of  dia- 
logue and  action  to  convey  his  atti- 
tudes. 


EXPLICIT   INTERPRETATIONS 

Throughout  his  great  novel,  Vanity 
Fair,  William  Makepeace  Thackeray 
talks  directly  to  the  reader  about  his 
characters.  They  are,  he  indicates, 
"puppets"  whom  he  may  manipulate  to 
illustrate  his  ideas.  Whenever  the  spirit 
moves  him,  he  stops  his  story  to  chat 
intimately  about  human  nature  and  his 
attitudes  toward  it.  Sometimes  he  is 
ironic,  sometimes  sentimental.  Percy 
Lubbock,  in  The  Craft  of  Fiction,  in- 
stances Thackeray  as  the  intrusive  au- 
thor whom  we  "can  never  forget"  while 
reading  his  narrative: 

.  .  .  the  general  panorama  ....  be- 
comes the  representation  of  the  author's 
experience,  arid  the  author  becomes  a 
personal  entity,  about  whom  we  may 
begin  to  ask  questions  ....  Thackeray, 
far  from  trying  to  conceal  himself,  comes 
forward  and  attracts  attention  and 
nudges  the  reader  ....  he  likes  the  per- 
sonal relation  with  the  reader  and  insists 
on  it. 

There  is  always  the  possibility  that 
an  author  may  thus  assume  the  guise 
of  a  commentator  talking  directly  to  the 
reader.  Kipling,  in  his  early  tales  of  In- 
dia, assumed  the  role  of  a  sophisticated 
member  of  the  ruling  group,  learned  in 
the  ways  of  men  and  women  and  in  the 
intricacies  of  British  colonial  govern- 
ment and  army  life.  In  "The  Rout  of 
the  White  Hussars,"  for  instance,  he 
steps  forward  to  say: 

You  may  know  the  White  Hussars 
hy  their  "side,"  which  is  greater  than 
that  of  all  the  Cavalry  Regiments  on  the 
roster.  If  this  is  not  a  sufficient  mark,  you 
may  know  them  for  their  old  brandy.  It 


98 


TONE 


has  been  sixty  years  in  the  Mess  and  is 
worthy  of  going  far  to  taste.  Ask  for  the 
"McGaire"  old  brandy,  and  see  that  you 
get  it.  If  the  Mess  Sergeant  thinks  that 
you  are  uneducated,  and  that  the  genu- 
ine article  will  be  lost  on  you,  he  will 
treat  you  accordingly.  He  is  a  good  man. 
But,  when  you  are  at  Mess,  you  must 
never  talk  to  your  hosts  about  forced 
marches  or  long-distance  rides.  The  Mess 
are  very  sensitive;  and,  if  they  think  you 
are  laughing  at  them,  will  tell  you  so. 

From  this  and  similar  comments  and 
asides,  one  who  reads  the  early  tales 
gets  an  impression,  if  not  of  the  real 
twenty-two-year-old  Kipling,  at  least 
of  the  worldly-wise,  philosophical,  witty 
club  member  the  young  author  pre- 
tended to  be. 

The  tone  in  Kipling's  stories  is  con- 
versational, man  to  man.  Contrast  this 
passage  from  William  Saroyan's  The 
Human  Comedy: 

The  train  was  filled  with  American 
boys,  among  them  Marcus  and  his  friend 
To  bey— all  of  them  dressed  as  soldiers 
and  trained  for  war.  But  from  their  eyes, 
from  their  high  spirits,  and  from  their 
laughter  and  shouting  and  singing,  you 
knew  this  was  not  an  army  alone,  but  a 
nation,  and  surely  a  good  and  great  one. 
. . .  You  knew  surely  that  while  their 
noise  came  from  deep  inner  fear,  they 
were  still  utterly  unafraid. . . .  You  knew 
they  were  American  boys,  some  of  them 
past  forty  even,  but  most  of  them  kids 
—kids  from  big  cities  and  little  towns, 
from  farms  and  offices,  from  rich  fami- 
lies and  poor  families,  kids  lifted  out  of 
great  worlds  and  kids  lifted  out  of  small 
worlds,  some  moved  away  from  magnifi- 
cent dreams  of  action  and  some  from 
humble  dreams  of  peace. . . . 


This  is  a  eulogy,  a  personal  appeal  to 
readers  to  have  the  same  feelings  Saroy- 
an  does  about  the  soldiers  he  is  portray- 
ing. The  author,  when  he  steps  forward, 
assumes  the  role  of  a  somewhat  emo- 
tional advocate. 

The  least  reticent  of  all  explicit  inter- 
preters are  those  who  speak  out  in  lyrical 
poetry.  Like  such  figures  in  fiction,  the 
speakers  in  lyrical  poems  may  differ 
materially  from  the  real  authors  of  the 
works.  Quite  often,  the  "I"  in  the  poem 
is  an  idealization  of  the  author  or  of 
the  author's  mood.  In  a  love  poem,  he 
may  be  the  kind  of  lover  the  author 
admires—and  his  only  qualities  (as 
shown  by  the  poem)  may  be  those  of  an 
impassioned  lover.  Again,  if  the  poem 
is  sad,  the  "I"  in  it  may  be  the  ideal 
sufferer.  And  often  the  speaker  in  the 
poem  will  have  none  of  the  reticence, 
the  shyness,  the  inarticulateness  which 
the  actual  poet  in  real  life  may  have: 
the  character's  every  phrase  and  the 
very  rhythms  of  his  speech  may  elo- 
quently voice  his  feeling.  He  will  ad- 
dress a  small  audience,  perhaps,  but  it 
will  be  one  which  he  hopes  will  under- 
stand and  sympathize  with  his  deep 
feeling  and  with  his  complete  expres- 
sion of  it. 

IMPLICIT   INTERPRETATIONS 

In  one  of  his  short  stories,  Sherwood 
Anderson  spoke  of  the  advantage  old- 
time  storytellers  had  over  moderns 
whose  stories  are  printed.  "They,"  he 
says,  "were  both  storytellers  and  actors. 
As  they  talked  they  modulated  their 
voices,  made  gestures  with  their  hands. 
...  All  our  modern  fussing  with  style 
is  an  attempt  to  do  the  same  thing."  His 
point  is  that,  deprived  of  the  chance  to 
speak  aloud,  an  author  "fusses"  with 
his  choice  of  details,  words,  and  phrases 


TONE       99 


so  that,  in  print,  he  may  convey  his 
feelings  about  elements  in  his  narrative. 
Such  care  must  have  gone  into  the 
choices  made  in  this  description  of 
Huck's  pappy: 

He  was  most  fifty,  and  he  looked  it. 
His  hair  was  long  and  tangled  and  greasy, 
and  hung  down,  and  you  could  see  his 
eyes  shining  through  like  he  was  be- 
hind vines.  It  was  all  black,  no  grav;  so 
was  his  long,  mixed-up  whiskers.  There 
warn't  no  color  in  his  face,  where  his 
face  showed;  it  was  white;  not  like  an- 
other man's  white,  but  a  white  to  make 
a  body  sick,  a  white  to  make  a  body's 
flesh  crawl— a  tree-toad  white,  a  fish- 
belly  white. 

Every  word  conveys  to  the  reader 
Mark  Twain's  distaste  for  this  character; 
but  instead  of  explicitly  stating  the  atti- 
tude, the  author  lets  the  details  convey 
it.  The  emphasis  upon  the  dirt,  the  un- 
healthy lack  of  coloration,  and  particu- 
larly the  comparison  of  the  white  face 
to  cold,  dead,  "fish-belly  white"  reveal 
that  this  is  an  unattractive  character. 
The  way  a  character  is  presented  can 
indicate  clearly  how  his  creator  feels 
about  that  character.  Details  in  presen- 
tation can  indicate  the  condescension 
of  a  Bret  Harte  toward  the  folk  in  his 
stories,  the  sentimentalism  of  a  Dick- 
ens, the  compassion  of  a  Dreiser.  Even 
the  dialogue  of  the  characters  will  often 
imply  the  author's  attitude  toward  char- 
acters. For,  actually,  when  the  author 
sets  down  his  impression  of  their  dia- 
logue, in  ways  which  are  unmistakable, 
he  heightens  the  traits  which  he  likes 
or  dislikes.  Note,  for  instance,  how  the 
speeches  which  Lewis  attributes  to 
Babbitt  (p.  55)  imply  the  author's  atti- 
tude toward  his  character. 


Actions  as  well  as  characters  will  be 
interpreted  in  ways  revelatory  of  the 
author's  attitude  toward  them.  If,  for 
instance,  he  says  that  a  character 
"smirked,"  he  will  imply  a  different 
attitude  from  the  one  implied  by  his 
saying  that  the  character  "giggled"  or 
"laughed  wryly."  Contrast  "walked" 
with  "minced,"  "marched,"  "stalked," 
and  "trod":  each,  used  in  relationship 
to  other  revelatory  words,  will  help 
show  approval  or  disapproval.  All  the 
devices  of  language  which  we  have  con- 
sidered (pp.  81-86)  may,  in  fact,  be 
called  upon  by  the  author  to  communi- 
cate his  feelings. 

The  tone  of  an  author  in  parts  of  a 
work  or  throughout  a  whole  work  then 
may  be,  for  instance,  broadly  comic, 
witty,  ironic,  satirical,  disinterested,  dis- 
illusioned, sentimental,  idealistic,  or 
tragic.  Whatever  it  is,  it  will  provide 
his  commentary  upon  the  people,  the 
emotions,  and  the  happenings  presented 
in  the  woik.  All  this  means  that  a  liter- 
ary work  involves  not  merely  a  number 
of  elements  but  an  author's  emotional 
interpretation  of  them.  It  means  that  a 
work  is,  in  miniature,  a  copy  of  the 
world  as  the  author  sees  it,  and  that  the 
tone  which  pervades  his  commentary 
upon  that  world  gives  the  work  unity. 
It  means  that  the  author  tacitly  asks  the 
reader  to  join  him  in  feeling  as  he  does 
about  this  world  and  the  things  that 
happen  in  it. 

The  importance  of  tone 
to  the  reader 

A  readers,  we  are  therefore  faced 
with  the  necessity  of  cooperating 
with  the  author.  We  must  become 
aware  of  what  he  feels,  and,  in  order  to 
share  his  imaginative  experience  with 
him,  we  must  feel  as  he  does.  We  must 


100 


join  the  storyteller,  the  dramatist,  or 
the  poet  in  liking  and  disliking.  If  he  is 
sympathetic,  we  must  be  so,  or  if  he  is 
ironic,  we  must  follow  his  lead. 

But  such  cooperation  between  read- 
er and  author  does  not  mean  that  our 
critical  sense  is  completely  numbed 
while  we  read.  As  Gordon  Hall  Gerould 
shrewdly  remarks: 

Somewhat  as  the  writer  in  the  act  of 
composition  must  control  his  imagina- 
tion, if  he  is  to  accomplish  anything  of 
value,  rejecting  this  as  wrong  and  choos- 
ing that  as  right,  we  can  ....  recognize 
fhat  the  guide  to  life  whom  we  are  fol- 
lowing has  here  made  a  misstep  or  there 
quite  badly  stumbled.  Only  the  naif 
playgoer  fails  to  observe  a  certain  detach- 
ment as  he  watches  a  spectacle  on  the 
stage.  7'he  wiser  auditor  may  be  ab- 
sorbed in  the  drama,  and  certainly  he 
must  let  his  imagination  respond  to  that 
of  playwright  and  aclois;  but  he  is  at  the 
same  time  able  to  evaluate  the  effect 
produced— even  the  effect  on  his  own 
feelings.  He  docs  not  try  to  shoot  fhe 
villain.  Just  so  the  experienced  reader 
keeps  his  critical  judgment  awake  while 


he  yields  himself  to  the  guidance  of  the 
author.  Nor  is  his  enjoyment  lessened 
by  so  doing.  Indeed,  he  comes  into  closer 
association  with  the  writer,  and  partici- 
pates more  fully  in  the  imaginative  proc- 
esses by  which  the  story  has  been  made, 
if  he  combines  such  control  with  sym- 
pathetic absorption. 

Hall  is  speaking  of  the  reading  of  fic- 
tion, but  obviously  the  reading  of  drama 
and  poetry  also  requires  this  combina- 
tion of  warm  sympathy  and  cool  de- 
tachment. 

Your  task,  then,  is  to  perceive  as  ex- 
actly as  possible  the  nature  of  the  tone 
in  any  literary  work.  By  noting  the  au- 
thor's choice  of  form,  his  preferences  in 
subject  matter,  and  his  interpretations, 
you  should  learn  what  feelings  are  ex- 
pressed and  how  the  author  has  ex- 
pressed them.  You  should  be  aware  of 
what  the  author  requires  of  you  in  the 
way  of  sympathy,  and  so  far  as  is  possi- 
ble, you  should  imaginatively  share  the 
author's  attitudes  and  emotions.  You 
should  also,  in  the  end,  see  what  the 
tone  of  the  work  does  to  give  it  its  emo- 
tional impact,  its  emotional  unity. 


TONE        101 


£»>  One  review  describes  Dorothy  Parker,  a  leading  contemporary  writer  of  light 

verse,  as  "fond  of  dogs,  flowers,  and 
pretty  clothes  ...  a  very  feminine  per- 
son,  emotional,  rather  timid,  and  con- 
fessedly superstitious."  Another  review 
says  she  "represents  to  perfection  the 
deflationary  mood  of  much  post-war 

DOROTHY  PARKER  ^^          ^^  lavishly  and  skillfully 

in  anticlimax.  .  .  ."  It  may  be  helpful 
to  consider  these  characterizations  after 
reading  the  following  poem. 


A  WAYS  I  knew  that  it  could  not  last 
(Gathering  clouds,  and  the  snowflakes  flying), 
Now  it  is  part  of  the  golden  past 

(Darkening  skies,  and  the  night- wind  sighing); 
It  is  but  cowardice  to  pretend.  5 

Cover  with  ashes  our  love's  cold  crater— 
Always  I've  known  that  it  had  to  end 
Sooner  or  later. 

Always  I  knew  it  would  come  like  this 

(Pattering  rain,  and  the  grasses  springing),  10 

Sweeter  to  you  is  a  new  love's  kiss 

(Flickering  sunshine,  and  young  birds  singing). 
Gone  are  the  raptures  that  once  we  knew, 

Now  you  are  finding  a  new  joy  greater- 
Well,  I'll  be  doing  the  same  thing,  too,  15 

Sooner  or  later. 


rr,                j     7  adapted  to  show  the  thoughts  and  feel- 

Tone  and  character  ing!f  of  such  an  intmsive  *haracter? 

/CHARACTERIZE  with  as  much  detail  3.  To  what  extent,  in  your  opinion, 

V>f  as  possible  the  "I"  who  is  speaking  does  the  "I"  of  the  poem  represent  the 

in  this  poem,  and  explain  exactly  how  personality   and   attitudes   of   Dorothy 

the  poem  has  indicated  her  qualities.  Parker?  Justify  your  answer.   In  what 

2.  In  what  ways  is  the  overall  pat-  different  ways  could  you  check  on  the 

tern    of    "Nocturne"    particularly    well  accuracy  of  your  answer? 


From   The  Portable  Dorothy   Parker.    Copyright    1926,    1944   by   Dorothy   Parker. 
Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Viking  Press,  Inc. 

102        TONE 


4.  How  would  you  describe  the  tone          5.  On  the  basis  of  your  reading  of 

of  "Nocturne"?  How  would  you  relate  "My  Last  Duchess"  (p.  60),  how  would 

it  to  the  author  of  the  poem?  To  the  you  guess  that  Browning  might  develop 

reader?  What  sorts  of  readers  would  be  a  poem  portraying  a  character  similar 

most  likely  to  admire  this  poem?  to  the  "I"  in  "Nocturne"?  Why? 


£*>  The  following  selection  is  from  Henri/  Fielding's  novel  The  History  of  the  Life 

of  the  Late  Mr.  Jonathan  Wild  the 
Great  (1743).  Jonathan  Wild,  an  actual 
person,  was  a  well-known  "thief-taker" 
(i.e.,  "stool-pigeon")  and  an  under-world 

HENHY  FIELDING  tycoon  who  had  built  up  a  huge  busi- 

ness—a "lost  property  office"  as  he  called 

i— il  -I  tt-  He  arranged  robberies  wholesale,  re- 

JL  jLlC    C-QcirciCter  ceived  the  stolen  goods,  and  returned 

them  to  the  owners  for  a  fee,  which  he 

o  shared— very  reluctantly— with  the 

thieves.  The  tone  employed  by  Fielding 
TTl^n  tn  discussing  the  greatness  of  his  hero 

llldll  is  typified  by  this  passage. 

JONATHAN  WILD  had  every  qualification  necessary  to  form  a  great  man, 
As  his  most  powerful  and  predominant  passion  was  ambition,  so  nature 
had,  with  consummate  propriety,  adapted  all  his  faculties  to  the  attaining 
those  glorious  ends  to  which  this  passion  directed  him.  He  was  extremely 
ingenious  in  inventing  designs,  artful  in  contriving  the  means  to  accomplish 
his  purposes,  and  resolute  in  executing  them:  for  as  the  most  exquisite  cun- 
ning and  most  undaunted  boldness  qualified  him  for  any  undertaking,  so 
was  he  not  restrained  by  any  of  those  weaknesses  which  disappoint  the 
views  of  mean  and  vulgar  souls,  and  which  are  comprehended  in  one  gen- 
eral term  of  honesty,  which  is  a  corruption  of  HONOSTY,  a  word  derived 
from  what  the  Greeks  call  an  ass.  He  was  entirely  free  from  those  low 
vices  of  modesty  and  good-nature,  which,  as  he  said,  implied  a  total  nega- 
tion of  human  greatness,  and  were  the  only  qualities  which  absolutely  ren- 
dered a  man  incapable  of  making  a  considerable  figure  in  the  world.  His 
lust  was  inferior  only  to  his  ambition;  but,  as  for  what  simple  people  call 
love,  he  knew  not  what  it  was.  His  avarice  was  immense,  but  it  was  of 
the  rapacious,  not  of  the  tenacious  kind;  his  rapaciousness  was  indeed  so 
violent,  that  nothing  ever  contented  him  but  the  whole;  for,  however  con- 
siderable the  share  was  which  his  coadjutors  allowed  him  of  a  booty,  he 

THE   CHARACTER   OF   A   GREAT   MAN         103 


was  restless  in  inventing  means  to  make  himself  master  of  the  smallest 
pittance  reserved  by  them.  He  said  laws  were  made  for  the  use  of  prigs1 
only,  and  to  secure  their  property;  they  were  never,  therefore,  more  per- 
verted than  when  their  edge  was  turned  against  these;  but  that  this  gen- 
erally happened  through  their  want  of  sufficient  dexterity.  The  character 
which  he  most  valued  himself  upon,  and  which  he  principally  honoured  in 
others,  was  that  of  hypocrisy.  His  opinion  was,  that  no  one  could  carry 
priggism  very  far  without  it;  for  which  reason,  he  said,  there  was  little 
greatness  to  be  expected  in  a  man  who  acknowledged  his  vices,  but  always 
much  to  be  hoped  from  him  who  professed  great  virtues:  wherefore,  though 
he  would  always  shun  the  person  whom  he  discovered  guilty  of  a  good 
action,  yet  he  was  never  deterred  by  a  good  character,  which  was  more 
commonly  the  effect  of  profession  than  of  action:  for  which  reason,  he  him- 
self was  always  very  liberal  of  honest  professions,  and  had  as  much  virtue 
and  goodness  in  his  mouth  as  a  saint;  never  in  the  least  scrupling  to  swear 
by  his  honour,  even  to  those  who  knew  him  the  best;  nay,  though  he  held 
good-nature  and  modesty  in  the  highest  contempt,  he  constantly  practised 
the  affectation  of  both,  and  recommended  this  to  others,  whose  welfare, 
on  his  own  account,  he  wished  well  to. 

1  prigs,  thieves. 


Tone  and  language 

THE  first  sentence  says   that  Wild 
"had  every  qualification  necessary 
to  form  a  great  man/'  What,  precisely, 
were  his  qualifications? 

2.  What  kind  of  greatness  did  these 
qualifications  prepare  him  to  achieve? 
What  would  IDC  the  nature  of  such  a 
great  man's  career? 

3.  What  is  the  ostensible  feeling  of 
the  author  concerning  (a)  these  quali- 
fications?  (b)   Wild's  greatness?  Quote 
some  passages  which  show  Fielding's 
ostensible  attitude. 


4.  Does   Fielding,   in  your  opinion, 
share     this     ostensible    feeling?    What 
words  and  phrases  can  you  cite  to  show 
what  Fielding  thought  of  Wild? 

5.  Describe  the  tone  of  this  passage. 
What  does  the  appreciation  of  the  pas- 
sage demand  of  the  reader? 

6.  What  does  Fielding  have  in  com- 
mon with  Sinclair  Lewis,  as  the  latter  is 
represented  by  the  passage  from  Bab- 
bitt  (p.  55)?    How  do  their  attitudes 
toward  their  characters  differ?  How  is 
the   difference  between  their  attitudes 
evident  in  their  selection  of  details?  In 
their  language? 


104        TONE 


$*>  S.  ]  Perelman  has  written  for  many  periodicals,  including  College  Humor  and 

the  New  Yorker,  and  he  has  also  done 
some  gagwriting  for  Marx  Brothers  films. 
Perelman  is,  according  to  one  review, 
an  exponent  of  the  "screwball  art"  which 
"calls  for  an  exquisite  sense  of  cliche 

S  T  PERELMAN  Gn^  ™i™>tery"  Robert  Benchley  held 

that  he  "took  over  the  dementia  praecox 
field  .  .  .  any  further  attempt  to  garble 

rT^ii  •  l  1}  thought-processes  sounded  like  imita- 

A  llC  IClOlo  tion-Perelman."  The  following  selection 

shows  Perelmans  art  as  a  garbler  of 
thought-processes. 


I  HAD  been  week-ending  with  Gabriel  Snubbers  at  his  villa,  "The  Acacias," 
on  the  edge  of  the  Downs.  Gabriel  isn't  seen  about  as  much  as  he  used 
to  be;  one  hears  that  an  eccentric  aunt  left  him  a  tidy  little  sum  and  the 
lazy  beggar  refuses  to  leave  his  native  haunts.  Four  of  us  had  cycled  down 
from  London  together:  Gossip  Gabrilowitsch,  the  Polish  pianist;  Downey 
Couch,  the  Irish  tenor;  Frank  falcovsky,  the  Jewish  prowler,  and  myself, 
Clay  Modelling.  Snubbers,  his  face  beaming,  met  us  at  the  keeper's  lodge. 
His  eyes  were  set  in  deep  rolls  of  fat  for  our  arrival,  and  I  couldn't  help 
thinking  how  well  they  looked.  I  wondered  whether  it  was  because  his  dar- 
ing farce,  Mrs.  Stebbins'  Step-ins,  had  been  doing  so  well  at  the  Haymarket. 

"Deuced  decent  of  you  chaps  to  make  this  filthy  trip,"  he  told  us,  leading 
us  up  the  great  avenue  of  two  stately  alms  towards  the  house.  "Rum  place, 
this."  A  surprise  awaited  us  when  we  reached  the  house,  for  the  entire  left 
wing  had  just  burned  down.  Snubbers,  poor  fellow,  stared  at  it  a  bit  ruefully, 
I  thought. 

"Just  as  well.  It  was  only  a  plague-spot,"  sympathized  Falcovsky.  Snubbers 
was  thoughtful. 

"D'ye  know,  you  chaps,"  he  said  suddenly,  "I  could  swear  an  aunt  of  mine 
was  staying  in  that  wing."  Falcovsky  stirred  the  ashes  with  his  stick  and 
uncovered  a  pair  of  knitting  needles  and  a  half-charred  corset. 

"No,  it  must  have  been  the  other  wing,"  dismissed  Snubbers.  "How  about 
a  spot  of  whisky  and  soda?"  We  entered  and  Littlejohn,  Snubbers'  man, 
brought  in  a  spot  of  whisky  on  a  piece  of  paper  which  we  all  examined  with 
interest.  A  splendid  fire  was  already  roaring  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  to 
drive  out  the  warmth. 

From  Crazy  Like  a  Fox  by  S.  J.  Pcrehnan.  Copyright,  1944,  by  S.  J.  Perelman.  Used 
by  permission  of  Random  House,  Inc. 

THE  IDOL'S  EYE      105 


"Soda?"  offered  Snubbers.  I  took  it  to  please  him,  for  Gabrief  s  cellar  was 
reputedly  excellent.  A  second  later  I  wished  that  I  had  drunk  the  cellar 
instead.  Baking  soda  is  hardly  the  thing  after  a  three-hour  bicycle  trip, 

"You  drank  that  like  a  little  soldier,"  he  complimented,  his  little  button 
eyes  fastened  on  me.  I  was  about  to  remark  that  I  had  never  drunk  a  little 
soldier,  when  I  noticed  Littlejohn  hovering  in  the  doorway. 

"Yes,  that  will  be  all/'  Snubbers  waved,  "and,  oh,  by  the  way,  send  up  to 
London  tomorrow  for  a  new  wing,  will  you?"  Littlejohn  bowed  and  left, 
silently,  sleekly  Oriental. 

"Queer  cove,  Littlejohn/'  commented  Snubbers.  "Shall  I  tell  you  a  story?" 
He  did,  and  it  was  one  of  the  dullest  I  have  ever  heard.  At  the  end  of  it 
Falcovsky  grunted.  Snubbers  surveyed  him  suspiciously. 

"Why,  what's  up,  old  man?"  he  queried. 

"What's  up?  Nothing's  up,"  snarled  Falcovsky.  "Can't  a  man  grunt  in  front 
of  an  open  fire  if  he  wants  to?" 

"But . . ."  began  Snubbers. 

"But  nothing/'  Falcovsky  grated.  "You  haven't  lived  till  you've  grunted  in 
front  of  an  open  fire.  Just  for  that— grunt,  grunt,  grunt,"  and  he  grunted 
several  times  out  of  sheer  spite.  The  baking  soda  was  beginning  to  tell  on 
Snubbers. 

"Remarkable  thing  happened  the  other  day,"  he  began.  "I  was  pottering 
about  in  the  garden  . . ." 

"Why  must  one  always  potter  around  in  a  garden?"  demanded  Couch. 
"Can't  you  potter  around  in  an  armchair  just  as  well?" 

"I  did  once/'  confessed  Snubbers  moodily,  revealing  a  whitish  scar  on  his 
chin.  "Gad,  sir,  what  a  wildcat  she  was!"  He  chewed  his  wad  of  carbon 
paper  reminiscently.  "Oh,  well,  never  mind.  But  as  I  was  saying— I  was  going 
through  some  of  my  great-grandfather's  things  the  other  day . . ." 

"What  things?"  demanded  Falcovsky. 

"His  bones,  if  you  must  know/'  Snubbers  said  coldly.  "You  know,  Great- 
grandfather died  under  strange  circumstances.  He  opened  a  vein  in  his  bath." 

"I  never  knew  baths  had  veins,"  protested  Gabrilowitsch. 

"I  never  knew  his  great-grandfather  had  a  ba~"  began  Falcovsky  deri- 
sively. With  a  shout  Snubbers  threw  himself  on  Falcovsky.  It  was  the  signal 
for  Pandemonium,  the  upstairs  girl,  to  enter  and  throw  herself  with  a  shout 
on  Couch.  The  outcome  of  the  necking  bee  was  as  follows:  Canadians  12, 
Visitors  9.  Krebs  and  Vronsky  played  footie,  subbing  for  Gerber  and  Wein- 
wald,  who  were  disabled  by  flying  antipasto, 

We  were  silent  after  Snubbers  had  spoken;  men  who  have  wandered  in 
far  places  have  an  innate  delicacy  about  their  great-grandfathers'  bones. 

106        TONE 


Snubbers'  face  was  a  mask,  his  voice  a  harsh  whip  of  pain  in  the  stillness 
when  he  spoke  again. 

"I  fancy  none  of  you  knew  my  great-grandfather,"  he  said  slowly.  "Before 
your  time,  I  daresay.  A  rare  giant  of  a  man  with  quizzical  eyes  and  a  great 
shock  of  wiry  red  hair,  he  had  come  through  the  Peninsular  Wars  without  a 
scratch.  Women  loved  this  impetual  Irish  adventurer  who  would  rather  fight 
than  eat  and  vice  versa.  The  wars  over,  he  turned  toward  cookery,  planning 
to  devote  his  failing  years  to  the  perfection  of  the  welsh  rarebit,  a  dish  he 
loved.  One  night  he  was  chafing  at  The  Bit,  a  tavern  in  Portsmouth,  when 
he  overheard  a  chance  remark  from  a  brawny  gunner's  mate  in  his  cups. 
In  Calcutta  the  man  had  heard  native  tales  of  a  mysterious  idol,  whose  single 
eye  was  a  flawless  ruby. 

"  'Topscuttle  my  bamberger,  it's  the  size  of  a  bloomin'  pigeon's  egg!'  spat 
the  salt,  shifting  his  quid  to  his  other  cheek.  'A  bloomin'  rajah's  ransom  and 
ye  may  lay  to  that,  mateys!' 

"The  following  morning  the  Maid  of  Hull,  a  frigate  of  the  line  mounting 
thirty-six  guns,  out  of  Bath  and  into  bed  in  a  twinkling,  dropped  downstream 
on  the  tide,  bound  out  for  Bombay,  object  matrimony.  On  her  as  passenger 
went  my  great-grandfather,  an  extra  pair  of  nankeen  pants  and  a  dirk  his 
only  baggage.  Fifty-three  days  later  in  Poona,  he  was  heading  for  the  interior 
of  one  of  the  Northern  states.  Living  almost  entirely  on  cameo  brooches  and 
the  few  ptarmigan  which  fell  to  the  ptrigger  of  his  pfowlingpiece,  he  at  last 
sighted  the  towers  of  Ishpeming,  the  Holy  City  of  the  Surds  and  Cosines, 
fanatic  Mohammedan  warrior  sects.  He  disguised  himself  as  a  beggar  and 
entered  the  gates. 

"For  weeks  my  great-grandfather  awaited  his  chance  to  enter  the  temple 
of  the  idol.  They  were  changing  the  guard  one  evening  when  he  saw  it.  One 
of  the  native  janissaries  dropped  his  knife.  My  great-grandfather  leaped 
forward  with  cringing  servility  and  returned  it  to  him,  in  the  small  of  his 
back.  Donning  the  soldier's  turban,  he  quickly  slipped  into  his  place.  Mid- 
night found  him  within  ten  feet  of  his  prize.  Now  came  the  final  test.  He 
furtively  drew  from  the  folds  of  his  robes  a  plate  of  curry,  a  dish  much  prized 
by  Indians,  and  set  it  in  a  far  corner.  The  guards  rushed  upon  it  with  bulging 
squeals  of  delight.  A  twist  of  his  wrist  and  the  gem  was  his.  With  an  elabo- 
rately stifled  yawn,  my  great-grandfather  left  under  pretense  of  going  out  for 
a  glass  of  water.  The  soldiers  winked  slyly  but  when  he  did  not  return  after 
two  hours,  their  suspicions  were  aroused.  They  hastily  made  a  canvass  of 
the  places  where  water  was  served  and  their  worst  fears  were  realized.  The 
ruby  in  his  burnoose,  Great-grandfather  was  escaping  by  fast  elephant  over 
the  Khyber  Pass.  Dockside  loungers  in  Yarmouth  forty  days  later  stared 

THE  IDOL'S  EYE      107 


curiously  at  a  mammoth  of  a  man  with  flaming  red  hair  striding  toward  the 
Bull  and  Bloater  Tavern.  Under  his  belt,  did  they  but  only  know  it,  lay 
the  Ruby  Eye. 

'Ten  years  to  that  night  had  passed,  and  my  great-grandfather,  in  seclu- 
sion under  this  very  roof,  had  almost  forgotten  his  daring  escapade.  Smoking 
by  the  fireplace,  he  listened  to  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  reviewed  his  cam- 
paigns. Suddenly  he  leaped  to  his  feet— a  dark  face  had  vanished  from  the 
window.  Too  late  my  great-grandfather  snatched  up  powder  and  ball  and 
sent  a  charge  hurtling  into  the  night.  The  note  pinned  to  the  window  drained 
the  blood  from  his  face. 

"It  was  the  first  of  a  series.  Overnight  his  hair  turned  from  rose-red  to 
snow-white.  And  finally,  when  it  seemed  as  though  madness  were  to  rob 
them  of  their  revenge,  they  came." 

Snubbers  stopped,  his  eyes  those  of  a  man  who  had  looked  beyond  life 
and  had  seen  things  best  left  hidden  from  mortal  orbs.  Falcovsky's  hand  was 
trembling  as  he  pressed  a  pinch  of  snuff  against  his  gums. 

"You— you  mean?"  he  quavelled. 

"Yes."  Snubbers'  voice  had  sunk  to  a  whisper.  "He  fought  with  the  strength 
of  nine  devils,  but  the  movers  took  away  his  piano.  You  see,"  he  added  very 
gently,  "Great-grandfather  had  missed  the  last  four  instalments."  Gabril- 
owitsch  sighed  deeply  and  arose,  his  eyes  fixed  intently  on  Snubbers. 

"And— and  the  ruby?"  he  asked  softly,  his  delicate  fingers  closing  around 
the  fire-tongs. 

"Oh,  that"  shrugged  Snubbers,  "I  just  threw  that  in  to  make  it  interesting." 

We  bashed  in  his  conk  and  left  him  to  the  vultures. 


Tone,  character,  language,  3-  A  burlesque  is  a  ludicrous  treat- 

and  happenings  ^  °ff  a  S™S  ^bject-perhaps  of  an 

_.                             rr           o  institution.  A  pastiche  is  a  careful  imi- 

I  UDGING  by  his  style  and  his  expres-  tation   of  the  form  and  content   of  a 

«J     sions,  what  kind  of  person  is  the  work  or  of  a  group  of  works.  A  parody  is 

"I"  in  this  piece— Clay  Modelling?  What  a  humorous  exaggeration  of  the  quali- 

does  Perelman's  choice  of  a  name  for  ties  of  a  serious  work  or  of  a  species  of 

him,  and  what  do  other  details  in  the  serious  works.  Classify  this  work  in  rela- 

narrative,  indicate  about  Perelman's  at-  tionship  to  "A  Night  at  an  Inn"    (p. 

titude  toward  him?  42).  What  details  in  both  works  justify 

2.  What  does  the  overall  pattern  of  your  classification? 

the    work— including    the    conclusion—  4.  How  does  the  tone  of  Perelman's 

reveal  about  Perelman's  attitude  toward  story  differ  from  that  of  "A  Night  at 

the  characters  and  happenings?  an  Inn"? 


108        TONE 


$*»  One  December  evening  when  Keals  was  visiting  his  friend,  the  poet  Leigh 

Hunt,  the  talk  somehow  turned  to 
crickets.  Hunt  proposed  that  he  and 

JOHN  KEATS  £^f5  have  a  sonnet-writing  contest,  the 

subject  to  be  "The  Grasshopper  and 
^e  Cricket"  Keats,  usually  a  careful 
reviser,  completed  his  sonnet  before 

c  all  rtrvr^r  Hunt  comPleted  his-and  critics  feel  that 

oollUULJCl  Keats'  poem  is  the  better  of  the  two.  It 

shows  no  signs  of  the  haste  with  which 

it  was  composed. 


tVlf* 
tllCx 


d 


THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead: 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead; 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's— he  takes  the  lead  5 

In  summer  luxury,— he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun, 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never: 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost  10 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 

,          .  characterize  Keats'  tone?  What  do  you 

Tone  and  setting  find  congenial)  and  what  do  you  find 

COMPARE  the  tone  of  this  poem  and  uncongenial,  in  the  Keats'  approach? 
that   of  "To   Autumn"    (p.    79).  4.  A   critic   of  Keats   has    seen   the 

Do  you  find  evidences  of  similar  inter-  poet's  "passion  for  beauty"  as  an  "essen- 

ests  and  attitudes  on  the  part  of  the  tial  quality"  of  his  poetry.  "It  is  this 

author  in  the  two  poems?  passion    for   beauty,"    says   the    critic, 

2.  Wolfe  has  spoken  of  "the  massy  "working  through  an  aesthetic  organism 
gold,  the  choked-in  richness"  of  Keats,  of   extraordinary   delicacy  and   power, 
Does  this  phrase  apply  in  any  way  to  which  gives  to  Keats'  poetry  its  sensuous 
this  poem,  or  would  you  judge  that  it  richness,  and  which  makes  it  play  mag- 
must  apply  (if  it  does)  to  other  poems  ically  upon  the  senses  of  the  reader. . . . 
by  this  author?  From  the  first  his  poetry  had  extraor- 

3.  On  the  basis  of  your  reading  of  dinary  freshness,  gusto,  energy."  How 
these  two  poems  only,  how  would  you  sound  does  this  statement  seem  to  you? 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET    109 


MEANINGS 


IN  "Wakefield,"  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
tells  the  story  of  a  crafty  Londoner 
who  "under  pretense  of  going  a  jour- 
ney, took  lodgings  in  the  next  street  to 
his  own  house,  and  there,  unheard  of 
by  his  wife  or  friends,  and  without  the 
shadow  of  a  reason  for  such  self-banish- 
ment, dwelt  upwards  of  twenty  years." 
Then,  caught  in  a  shower  near  his  home 
one  afternoon,  he  ascended  his  own 
steps  once  more  and  passed  into  his 
house— as  if  his  long  absence  had  been 
nothing  but  a  little  joke  at  his  wife's  ex- 
pense. The  story  of  Wakefield  ends  thus: 

This  happy  event— supposing  it  to  be 
such— could  only  have  occurred  at  an 
unpremeditated  moment.  We  will  not 
follow  OUT  friend  across  the  threshold. 
He  has  left  us  much  food  for  thought,  a 
portion  of  which  shall  lend  its  wisdom 
to  a  moral,  and  be  shaped  into  a  figure. 
Amid  the  seeming  confusion  of  our  mys- 
terious world,  individuals  are  so  nicely 
adjusted  to  a  system,  and  systems  to  one 
another  and  to  a  whole,  that,  by  step- 
ping aside  for  a  moment,  a  man  exposes 
himself  to  a  fearful  risk  of  losing  his 
place  forever.  Like  Wakefield,  he  may 
become,  as  it  were,  the  Outcast  of  the 
Universe. 

Were  you  to  read  the  story  in  its  en- 
tirety you  would  have  little  trouble  in 
discovering  how  its  form  and  tone  have 
prepared  for  this  conclusion.  But  the 
conclusion  itself  rather  obviously  in- 
volves something  besides  just  form  and 


tone— something  very  important  to  every 
perceptive  reader. 

What  must  occur  to  you  as  you  read 
this  ending  is  that  it  has  converted  the 
whole  story  into  a  springboard  for  some- 
thing more  general  than  the  particular 
happenings,  characters,  and  settings 
which  up  to  this  point  the  author  has 
portrayed.  Hawthorne's  concern— and 
consequently  your  concern— has  broad- 
ened beyond  a  single  event  which  took 
place  in  London  long  ago.  The  concern 
now  is  with  all  events  in  which  an  indi- 
vidual steps  outside  his  own  little  system 
of  human  affections.  Hawthorne  has 
caused  you  to  shift  your  attention  from 
Wakefield  to  man,  from  the  specific  to 
the  general,  and  in  so  doing  has  made  it 
clear  that  he  is  concerned  not  only  with 
Wakefield  but  with  himself  and  his 
readers— anyone  who  might  be  tempted 
to  break  off  ties  as  Wakefield  did. 

As  a  reader,  therefore,  you  are  no 
longer  simply  a  spectator  watching  a 
little  drama  play  itself  out;  to  a  certain 
extent,  at  least,  you  are  in  the  drama 
yourself.  Let  us  put  it  another  way.  A 
story,  a  play,  a  poem,  if  it  is  to  give  the 
illusion  of  reality,  must  be  about  a  par- 
ticular experience  taking  place  at  one 
time  and  in  one  place  and  involving 
certain  particular  people.  But  though 
this  experience  may  be  in  many  ways 
unique,  it  can  at  the  same  time  be  rep- 
resentative of  experiences  which  all  of 
us  have  or  will  have.  And  to  the  degree 
that  the  affairs  portrayed  in  a  literary 
work  are  representative  of  your  affairs 


110 


MEANINGS 


the  work  can  be  said  to  have  meaning 
for  you.  If  you  want  a  more  formal 
definition,  it  might  run  something  like 
this:  the  meaning  of  a  literary  work  for 
you  is  that  insight  into  human  affairs 
which  it  offers  and  which  you  find  use- 
ful in  understanding  your  experience. 

At  this  point  someone  is  bound  to 
ask  whether  a  work  can  have  meanings 
which  the  author  did  not  intend  it  to 
have.  The  answer  is  yes.  For  hundreds 
of  years  people  have  been  finding  var- 
ious useful  meanings  in  Hamlet  and 
Othello  and  Twelfth  Night  that  Shake- 
speare undoubtedly  never  knew  were 
there.  Every  reader  applies  poetical, 
fictional,  and  dramatic  representations 
to  himself  in  the  light  of  his  own  back- 
ground, interests,  and  information.  In- 
deed, the  same  reader  coming  to  a  work 
at  two  different  times  and  in  different 
moods  may  apply  its  representations  to 
himself  in  two  quite  different  fashions. 
Possibly  you  yourself  have  said  of  a 
book,  "I  got  a  lot  more  meaning  out  of 
it  the  second  time  I  read  it."  By  this, 
you  indicate  that  your  experience  with 
life  and  literature  has  led  you  to  see 
more  implications  in  the  book  and  more 
applications  of  the  work  to  human  af- 
fairs than  you  saw  during  your  first 
reading.  Actually,  what  meaning  the 
author  has  in  mind  is  unimportant  un- 
less the  literary  work  makes  it  clear— 
and  makes  it  clear,  moreover,  to  you 
and  other  readers.  Your  task,  therefore, 
is  to  find  whatever  clues  to  meaning 
there  are  in  the  work  and  to  follow  them 
through  to  their  implications  for  you. 
Note  that  the  implications  are  to  be 
found  in  the  works— that  you  should 
discover  meanings  in  what  the  author 
has  written  as  well  as  in  your  interpre- 
tations. 


How  do  you  discover  meanings? 
There  is  no  one  answer  to  such  a 
question,  for  the  process  of  discovery 
changes  with  every  work  you  read. 
There  are  certain  guideposts  to  mean- 
ing, however,  and  these  you  should  look 
for  as  you  read.  They  are  ( 1 )  statements 
of  meaning  provided  by  the  author  and 
expressed  either  directly  by  him  or  in- 
directly through  one  of  his  characters; 
(2)  relations  and  conflicts  of  the  char- 
acters which  are  representative  of 
broader  relations  and  conflicts.  Let  us 
examine  these  more  closely. 

Statements  of  meaning 

STATEMENTS  of  meaning  may  be  of 
O  three  kinds:  explicit,  ironic,  and 
symbolic.  Of  these  the  first  is  by  far  the 
easiest  to  detect.  In  an  explicit  state- 
ment of  meaning  the  author  simply  tells 
you,  or  has  an  attractive  character  ex- 
pressing his  point  of  view  tell  you,  what 
the  meaning  is  which  he  has  in  mind. 
The  example  given  from  "Wakefield" 
shows  you  how  it  is  done  in  a  short 
story.  Notice  how  Wordsworth  does  it  in 
one  stanza  from  "The  Tables  Turned": 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

For  an  example  of  a  meaning  stated 
by  an  attractive  character  in  a  play,  ex- 
amine the  ending  to  Ibsen's  An  Enemy 
of  the  People.  Ibsen  has  dramatized 
the  story  of  a  Dr.  Stockman,  who  dis- 
covers that  the  water  in  the  town's  Mu- 
nicipal Baths  is  polluted.  But  because 
the  Baths  provide  the  main  income  for 
the  townsmen,  Stockman  is  reviled  and 
persecuted  by  the  authorities,  the  local 


MEANINGS        111 


paper,  his  father-in-law,  who  threatens 
to  disinherit  his  wife  and  children,  and 
the  public  in  general,  who  brand  him 
"an  enemy  of  the  people."  For  a  while, 
Dr.  Stockman  considers  the  possibility 
of  fleeing  to  America,  but  in  the  end  he 
decides  to  stay  and  fight  the  thing  out. 
The  last  few  lines  then  run  like  this: 

MRS.  STOCKMAN.  Let  us  hope  it  won't 
be  the  wolves  [narrow-minded  leaders 
of  the  people]  that  will  drive  you  out 
of  the  country,  Thomas. 

DR.  STOCKMAN.  Are  you  out  of  your 
mind,  Katharine?  Drive  me  out'  Now 
—when  I  am  the  strongest  man  in  the 
town! 

MRS.  STOCKMAN.  The  strongest— now? 

DR.  STOCKMAN.  Yes,  and  I  will  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that  now  I  am  the  strongest 
man  in  the  world. 

MORTEN  [his  son] .  I  say/ 

DR.     STOCKMAN      (lowering     lllS     voice). 

Hush!  You  mustn't  say  anything 
about  it  yet;  but  I  have  made  a  great 
discovery. 

MRS.  STOCKMAN.  Another  one? 

DR.  STOCKMAN.  Yes.  (Gathers  them 
around  him,  and  says  confidentially) 
It  is  this,  let  me  tell  you— that  the 
strongest  man  in  the  world  is  he  who 
stands  most  alone. 

MRS.  STOCKMAN  ( smiling  and  shaking 
her  head).  Oh,  Thomas,  Thomas. 

PETRA  (encouragingly,  as  she  grasps  her 
father's  hands).  Father/ 

Ironic  statements  are  not  so  frequent, 
but  their  possibility  should  be  kept  in 
mind.  In  such  a  statement  the  author 
will  say  playfully,  or  allow  an  unattrac- 
tive character  to  say  seriously,  exactly 
the  opposite  to  what  the  author  means. 
This  is  the  same  sort  of  thing  which  you 
do  when  you  growl  on  a  cold,  rainy 


afternoon.  "This  is  a  fine  day!"  You  in- 
dicate by  your  tone  rather  than  by  your 
words  what  you  mean.  Likewise  the 
author  indicates  by  his  tone  that  his 
statement  is  to  be  taken  ironically.1 

No  one  could  possibly  miss  the  ironic 
intent  of  Mark  Twain  in  the  Connecticut 
'Yankee  when  he  writes: 

If  you  talce  a  nation  of  sixty  millions, 
where  average  wages  are  two  dollars  per 
day,  three  days'  wages  taken  from  each 
individual  will  provide  three  hundred 
and  sixty  mil  lion  dollars  and  pay  the 
government's  expenses.  In  my  day,  in 
my  own  country,  this  money  was  col- 
lected from  imports,  and  the  citizen 
imagined  that  the  foreign  importer  paid 
it,  and  it  made  him  comfortable  to  think 
so,  whereas,  in  fact,  it  was  paid  by  the 
American  people,  and  was  so  equally 
distributed  and  exactly  distributed  among 
them  that  the  annual  cost  to  the  one- 
hundred-millionaire  and  the  annual  cost 
to  the  sucking  child  of  the  day  laborer 
was  precisely  the  same— each  paid  six 
dollars.  Nothing  could  be  equalcr  than 
that,  I  reckon. 

Symbolic  statements  are  those  in 
which  the  meaning  is  communicated  in 
figurative  language.  Such  a  statement 
may  be  a  single  simile  or  metaphor; 


1  Notice  how  important  tone  is  to  the  right 
perception  of  meaning.  It  is  especially  so  when 
meaning  ij>  communicated  through  the  charac- 
ters As  a  reader,  you  can  never  be  certain  that 
any  character  is  speaking  directly  for  the  author, 
but  you  may  be  completely  certain  that  those 
characters  which  the  author  has  made  attractive 
to  you  are  more  likely  to  give  voice  to  his  real 
convictions  than  those  which  he  has  made  un- 
attractive. Thus  Cordelia  in  KING  LEAR  is  much 
more  likely  to  express  Shakespeare's  true  senti- 
ments than  are  Goncnl  and  Regan,  her  base 
and  quite  unattractive  sisters. 


112 


MEANINGS 


sometimes  it  is  an  analogy  which  carries 
through  a  paragraph  or  a  series  of  para- 
graphs; and  sometimes,  as  in  works  like 
Pilgrim's  Progress  and  Gulliver's  Trav- 
els, the  symbolism  carries  through  an 
entire  work.  If  you  have  read  Melville's 
Moby  Dick  you  will  recall  that  the  main 
character,  Ahab,  with  his  wooden  leg 
and  lightning  scar,  goes  clumping 
through  the  novel  not  only  as  a  sea  cap- 
tain but  as  an  animated  metaphor  rep- 
resenting what  is  defiant  in  mankind. 
The  following  paragraphs  are  from  the 
same  book.  To  understand  their  mean- 
ing you  must  recognize  that  the  land 
represents  what  man  knows,  the  sea 
what  he  still  does  not  know.  Melville 
addresses  the  reader  directly  in  this 
symbolic  statement: 

Consider  the  subtleness  of  the  sea; 
how  its  most  dreaded  creatures  glide 
under  water,  unapparent  for  the  most 
part,  and  treacherously  hidden  beneath 
fhe  loveliest  tints  of  azure.  Consider  also 
the  devilish  brilliance  and  beauty  of 
many  of  its  most  remorseless  tribes,  as 
fhe  dainty  embellished  shape  of  many 
species  of  sharks.  Consider,  once  more, 
the  universal  cannibalism  of  the  sea;  all 
whose  creatures  prey  upon  each  other, 
carrying  on  eternal  war  since  the  world 
began. 

Consider  all  this;  and  then  turn  to 
this  green,  gentle,  and  most  docile  earth; 
consider  them  both,  the  sea  and  the 
land;  and  do  you  not  find  a  strange 
analogy  to  something  in  yourself?  For 
as  this  appalling  ocean  surrounds  the 
verdant  land,  so  in  the  soul  of  man  lies 
one  insular  Tahiti,  full  of  peace  and  ;oy, 
but  encompassed  by  all  the  horrors  of 
the  half  known  life.  God  help  theel  Push 
not  oft  from  that  isle,  thou  canst  never 
return/ 


Relations  and  conflicts 

NOT  all  meanings  are  so  easy  to  dis- 
cover as  the  ones  just  given  since 
many  authors,  especially  the  modern 
ones,  are  reluctant  to  be  so  explicit. 
They  feel  that  a  statement  of  meaning 
often  results  in  artless  banality  and  gives 
the  impression  that  they  underrate  the 
reader's  intelligence  and  sensitivity.  In 
a  competent  literary  work,  they  contend, 
meaning  should  emerge  clearly  enough 
without  its  being  stated.  Now  it  is  quite 
true  that  the  meaning  of  a  poem  or  a 
short  story  or  a  passage  in  a  play  or 
novel  may  be  readily  apparent;  yet  in 
many  instances  rereading  will  be  re- 
quired, and  in  the  case  of  works  like 
T.  S.  Eliot's  poems  and  Joyce's  novels 
many  rereadings  will  be  necessary. 
What  are  the  signposts  to  meaning  in 
works  where  there  are  no  statements 
of  it?  The  answer  is  the  relations  and 
conflicts  of  the  characters—inner  con- 
flicts or  outer  ones  involving  such  rela- 
tions as  those  between  a  person  and  his 
environment,  a  person  and  other  per- 
sons, a  person  and  his  God. 

We  say  relations  and  conflicts  rather 
than  happenings,  settings,  or  characters 
because  a  concentration  on  the  latter 
tends  to  emphasize  the  unique  charac- 
teristics of  what  is  being  portrayed 
rather  than  its  representative  character- 
istics. For  example,  the  exact  happen- 
ings related  by  Conrad  in  his  Nigger 
of  the  "Narcissus"  will  never  occur 
again;  the  setting  in  this  particular 
crew's  quarters  will  never  be  duplicated, 
and,  naturally,  these  exact  characters 
will  never  navigate  the  seas.  Yet  the 
relations  among  these  men  are  of  the 
things  that,  in  the  words  of  Henry 
James,  "we  cannot  possibly  not  know, 
sooner  or  later,  in  one  way  or  another/' 


MEANINGS        113 


Motivated  by  a  common  fear  of  the  big, 
burly  Negro,  a  quarrelsome  crew  is 
gradually  bound  together  in  a  tightly 
cohesive  unit.  Is  this  development  of  a 
relation  among  people  unique?  Are 
quarreling  nations  ever  bound  together 
by  fear  of  a  common  foe?  Have  you 
and  a  brother  or  sister  ever  begun  pull- 
ing together  when  faced  by  an  obstrep- 
erous outsider?  Generalizations  such  as 
those  suggested  are  almost  inevitable 
for  the  reader  of  this  novel. 

A  simple  formula,  then,  for  seeing 
how  relations  and  conflicts  imply  mean- 
ings, might  be  the  following: 

Step  One:  See  whether  the  important 
relations  or  conflicts  are  representative 
of  ones  which  you  encounter  or  might 
encounter  in  actual  life.  A  Superman 
scrap,  for  example,  in  which  that  daunt- 
less character  wins  because  of  his  steel 
muscles  and  X-ray  vision  would  be  ruled 
out;  ruled  in  would  be  the  conflict  in 
Huckleberry  Finn's  mind  over  whether 
he  should  surrender  Jim,  the  runaway 
slave,  to  the  authorities.  (Note  that  in 
real  life  you  are  no  more  likely  to  meet 
Huckleberry  Finn  than  Superman  but 
that  you  can't  miss  encountering  an 
inner  conflict  like  Huck's  between  what 
he  knows  the  community  wants  him  to 
do  and  what  his  feelings  urge  him 
to  do.) 

Step  Two:  Convert  the  particular  per- 
sons, places,  and  happenings  in  the  rela- 
tion or  conflict  into  their  respective 
classes  or  categories  (e.g.,  substitute 
mankind  for  Huck  Finn,  death  in  gen- 
eral for  the  death  of  one  man,  nature 
for  a  woods  at  twilight)  .* 


irrhis  little  formula,  of  course,  will  not  work 
in  those  poems  and  occasional  prose  pieces  where 
the  author  is  using  a  private  set  of  symbols.  In 
such  cases  you  will  have  to  consult  your  own 
good  sense,  other  works  by  the  same  author,  or 
commentaries  by  or  on  the  author. 


Although  at  first  such  a  process  maj 
sound  rather  mechanical,  it  is  precisely 
the  procedure  you  employ  unconsciously 
in  reading  a  work  in  which  the  meaning 
is  readily  discernible.  Here,  all  we  are 
suggesting  is  that  in  the  tougher  cases 
you  make  your  unconscious  process  con- 
scious. Notice  how  you  might  handle 
the  following  poem  by  Whitman: 

When  I  heard  the  Jearn'd  astronomer, 

When  the  proofs,  the  figures,  were 
ranged  in  columns  before  me, 

When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  dia- 
grams, to  add,  divide,  and  measure 
them, 

When  I  sitting  heard  the  astronomer 
where  he  lectured  with  much  ap- 
plause in  the  lecture-room, 

How  soon  unaccountable  I  became  tired 
and  sick, 

Till  rising  and  gliding  out  I  wander'd 
ofi  by  myself, 

In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  horn 
time  to  time, 

Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars. 

Step  One:  The  conflict  is  in  the  mind 
of  the  poet.  On  the  one  hand  he  is 
sickened  by  an  explanation  of  the  stars; 
on  the  other  he  views  the  stars  them- 
selves in  perfect  silence.  This  seems  rep- 
resentative of  conflicts  that  we  all  have 
had.  (Whether  our  reactions  have  been 
the  same  makes  no  difference;  the  point 
is  that  the  conflict  is  a  common  one.) 

Step  Two:  The  poet  can  be  general- 
ized into  man;  the  stars  into  nature;  the 
astronomer's  charts,  figures,  and  the  like 
into  an  explanation  of  nature. 

All  you  need  to  do  now  is  to  find 
some  congenial  phrasing  for  the  mean- 
ing as  you  have  come  to  perceive  it.  A 
sentence  like  this  might  do  the  job: 
Nature  itself  is  more  satisfying  to  man 
than  his  own  explanations  of  it. 


114 


MEANINGS 


Levels  of  meaning 

IN  the  preceding  paragraphs  we  have 
been  concerned  with  what  meaning 
is  and  how  you  find  it.  You  should  not 
suppose,  however,  that  all  works  are 
equally  rich  in  meaning.  Indeed,  it 
might  be  argued  that  many  notable 
works  of  literature  possess  no  meaning 
at  all  as  we  have  defined  it.  Works  de- 
signed simply  to  excite  us,  to  re-create 
a  mood  or  a  feeling,  works  centered 
about  an  emotion  rather  than  people 
and  ideas,  these  are  the  ones  with  little 
meaning.  Yet  this  is  not  to  say  that  such 
works  give  no  pleasure.  Think,  for  in- 
stance, of  Dunsany's  "A  Night  at  an 
Inn"  (p.  42)  or  Foe's  story  "The  Pit 
and  the  Pendulum"  or  Coleridge's  poem 
"Kubla  Khan"  (Part  III).  Meaning  of  a 
certain  kind,  in  short,  is  not  necessary 
for  a  literary  experience. 

In  those  cases,  however,  where  the 
author  is  more  interested  in  studying 
how  people  think  and  feel  and  act  than 
he  is  in  simply  evoking  a  mood,  you  can 
be  sure  of  at  least  one  level  of  meaning. 
This  is  the  overall  level  of  meaning  or 
what  we  shall  call  theme.  When  you 
ask  about  a  work,  "What's  the  point  of 
all  this?"  you  are  asking  in  effect  for  its 
theme.  Often  a  work  will  have  no  other 
meaning  than  its  theme.  This  certainly  is 
true  of  Aesop's  fables  and  of  Jesus'  par- 
ables. It  is  true  also  of  many  short 
stories  and  poems  (for  instance,  "When 
I  Heard  the  Learn'd  Astronomer"  has 
only  a  theme). 

Longer  works,  since  they  touch  on 
more  relations  of  men  and  portray  more 
conflicts,  are  almost  bound  to  have  more 
than  one  level  of  meaning.  These  sec- 
ondary levels  can  be  of  two  kinds:  (1) 
they  can  be  meanings  which  apply  to 
the  work  as  a  whole  and  thus  constitute 
subthemes,  or  (2)  they  can  be  mean- 


ings which  emerge  from  sections  of  the 
work,  indeed  from  stanzas  or  para- 
graphs, and  have  sometimes  only  a  dis- 
tant relation  to  the  theme.  For  a  com- 
plex example  of  a  work  with  theme  and 
subthemes  you  might  sometime  turn  to 
Whitman's  "Passage  to  India."  On  the 
surface,  he  is  dealing  with  the  West  and 
the  East,  suddenly  brought  closer  be- 
cause of  the  Suez  Canal,  the  transat- 
lantic cables,  and  the  transcontinental 
railroads.  But  in  doing  this,  he  is  also 
dealing  symbolically  with  science  and 
wisdom,  with  the  rational  and  the  mys- 
tical, with  the  body  and  the  soul,  with 
man's  soul  and  God.  It  would  be  hard 
to  say  which  is  the  major  theme  and 
which  are  the  minor  ones  in  such  a 
poem.  Almost  any  novel  affords  an  ex- 
ample of  a  work  with  an  overall  mean- 
ing or  meanings  and  incidental  mean- 
ings which  apply  to  only  small  passages. 
The  great  ones  afford  what  amounts  to 
a  continuous  succession  of  penetrating 
and  provocative  insights  into  your  own 
experience. 

There  is  still  another  level  of  mean- 
ing, one  that  is  often  neither  stated  nor 
susceptible  of  the  method  of  generaliz- 
ing proposed  on  page  114.  This  level 
deals  with  the  kinds  of  assumptions 
which  the  author  makes.  In  short,  what 
is  his  philosophic  position?  Here  are 
typical  questions  you  should  ask  your- 
self: What  does  the  author  believe  about 
the  nature  of  man:  is  he  made  in  the 
image  of  God?  has  he  free  will?  is  he  a 
creature  of  blind  chance?  is  he  domi- 
nated by  reason  or  impulse?  What  does 
the  author  believe  about  the  nature  of 
society;  does  he  think  the  strong  man 
should  rule?  the  rich?  the  capable?  the 
majority?  the  working  class?  What  does 
he  believe  about  the  nature  of  the  uni- 
verse: is  there  a  Divine  purpose  behind 
it?  is  it  working  according  to  laws?  is  it 


MEANINGS         115 


accidental  or  capricious?  What  is  the 
nature  of  truth:  is  it  something  beyond 
our  senses  which  we  can  never  prove 
but  perceive  through  intuition,  our  rea- 
son, or  the  Bible?  or  is  it  something  that 
we  agree  upon  only  after  the  scientific 
process  of  observation,  hypothesis,  veri- 
fication, and  conclusion?  The  ability  to 
discern  an  author's  fundamental  as- 
sumptions will  not  come  overnight,  nor 
is  it  likely  to  come  through  the  reading 
of  a  single  work.  But  ultimately,  if  you 
are  to  be  able  to  say  that  you  under- 
stand thoroughly  the  meaning  of  a  poem 
or  novel  or  play,  you  must  be  able  to 
push  beneath  its  themes  and  subsidi- 
ary meanings  to  this  level  of  basic  as- 
sumptions. 

For  illustration,  let  us  return  once 
more  to  "Wakefield."  You  will  recall 
that  the  theme  was  stated  at  the  end  in 
this  fashion: 

Amid  the  seeming  confusion  of  our 
mysterious  world,  individuals  are  so  nice- 
ly ad/usted  to  a  system,  and  systems  to 
one  another  and  to  a  whole,  that  by 
stepping  aside  for  a  moment,  a  man 
exposes  himself  to  a  fearful  risJc  of  losing 
his  place  forever. 

What  does  this  imply  about  the  nature 
of  man?  That  he  becomes  a  free  agent 
at  his  peril  and,  therefore,  that  he  is 
substantially  without  freedom  of  the 
will.  What  is  assumed  about  the  nature 
of  society?  Nothing  about  the  proper 
or  desirable  form  of  society,  but  the 
implication  is  that  whatever  the  form, 
there  is  little  chance  of  changing  it. 
What  is  implied  about  the  nature  of  the 


universe?  Hawthorne  apparently  is  sug- 
gesting here  that  cosmic  events  are  but 
a  long  sequence  of  cause  and  effect. 
This  philosophy  of  predestination,  de- 
terminism, fatalism—call  it  what  you 
will— is  more  strongly  suggested  in  an- 
other passage  from  the  same  story: 

Would  that  I  had  a  folio  to  write, 
instead  of  an  article  of  a  dozen  pages' 
Then  might  I  exemplify  how  an  in- 
fluence beyond  our  control  lays  its  strong 
hand  on  every  deed  which  we  do,  and 
weaves  its  consequences  into  an  iion 
tissue  of  necessity. 

What  is  the  nature  of  truth?  Obviously 
Hawthorne  is  assuming  that  there  is 
some  superhuman  and,  undoubtedly, 
supernatural  power  which  controls  our 
destiny.  Presumably,  therefore,  ultimate 
truth  must  lie  beyond  the  range  of  our 
five  senses.  Whether  such  truth  may  be 
discerned  by  intuition,  by  reason,  or 
through  Scriptures,  he  does  not  say. 
There  is  a  strong  suspicion  from  the  tone 
of  the  story  that  he  does  not  believe  it 
can  be  discerned  at  all. 

It  would  be  a  mistake  to  build  up 
these  particular  questions  into  a  mo- 
notonous pattern,  a  little  ritual  which 
you  go  through  every  time  you  read  a 
literary  work  that  seems  to  have  some 
meaning.  These  are  representative,  how- 
ever, of  the  more  searching  type  of 
question  you  should  ask  of  any  thought- 
ful work  of  art.  Use  them,  modify  them, 
adapt  them,  discard  them  as  you  see  fit. 
Use  your  common  sense— but  don't  be 
content  until  you  have  exhausted  all  the 
possible  levels  of  meaning. 


116 


MEANINGS 


£*»  Even  as  a  young  man  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  thought  long  and  deeply  about 

sin  and  its  effects  upon  men's  lives.  In 
one  fashion  or  another  the  subject  gets 
into  all  of  his  novels  and  short  stories. 
The  idea  for  "The  Ministers  Black  Veil" 
he  says,  came  from  an  account  of  a  New 
England  clergyman  by  the  name  of 
Joseph  Moody,  who  ever  after  acci- 

NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE  ^^  MUn&  «  M°™d  ^end  hid  HiS 

face  from  the  world  in  the  same  man- 
ner as  here  related  of  the  Reverend  Mr. 

npil  *      *     A        9  Hooper.  The  story  has  always  been  one 

JL  I1C    IllllllbtCr  &  of  Hawthorne's  more  popular  ones,  and 

many  persons  have  speculated  about  its 
meaning. 


•  i 
Vdl 


THE  SEXTON  stood  in  the  porch  of  Milford  meeting-house,  pulling  busily 
at  the  bell-rope.  The  old  people  of  the  village  came  stooping  along  the 
street.  Children,  with  bright  faces,  tripped  merrily  beside  their  parents,  or 
mimicked  a  graver  gait,  in  the  conscious  dignity  of  their  Sunday  clothes. 
Spruce  bachelors  looked  sidelong  at  the  pretty  maidens,  and  fancied  that  the 
Sabbath  sunshine  made  them  prettier  than  on  week  days.  When  the  throng 
had  mostly  streamed  into  the  porch,  the  sexton  began  to  toll  the  bell,  keep- 
ing his  eye  on  the  Reverend  Mr.  Hooper's  door.  The  first  glimpse  of  the 
clergyman's  figure  was  the  signal  for  the  bell  to  cease  its  summons. 

"But  what  has  good  Parson  Hooper  got  upon  his  face?"  cried  the  sexton 
in  astonishment. 

All  within  hearing  immediately  turned  about,  and  beheld  the  semblance 
of  Mr.  Hooper,  pacing  slowly  his  meditative  way  towards  the  meeting- 
house. With  one  accord  they  started,  expressing  more  wonder  than  if  some 
strange  minister  were  coming  to  dust  the  cushions  of  Mr.  Hooper's  pulpit. 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  our  parson?"  inquired  Goodman  Gray  of  the  sextan. 

"Of  a  certainty  it  is  good  Mr.  Hooper,"  replied  the  sexton.  "He  was  to 
have  exchanged  pulpits  with  Parson  Shute,  of  Westbury;  but  Parson  Shute 
sent  to  excuse  himself  yesterday,  being  to  preach  a  funeral  sermon." 

The  cause  of  so  much  amazement  may  appear  sufficiently  slight.  Mr. 
Hooper,  a  gentlemanly  person,  of  about  thirty,  though  still  a  bachelor,  was 
dressed  with  due  clerical  neatness,  as  if  a  careful  wife  had  starched  his  band, 
and  brushed  the  weekly  dust  from  his  Sunday's  garb.  There  was  but  one 
thing  remarkable  in  his  appearance.  Swathed  about  his  forehead,  and  hang- 
ing down  over  his  face,  so  low  as  to  be  shaken  by  his  breath,  Mr.  Hooper 
bad  on  a  black  veil.  On  a  nearer  view  it  seemed  to  consist  of  two  folds  of 

THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL      117 


crape,  which  entirely  concealed  his  features,  except  the  mouth  and  chin, 
but  probably  did  not  intercept  his  sight,  further  than  to  give  a  darkened 
aspect  to  all  living  and  inanimate  things.  With  this  gloomy  shade  before 
him,  good  Mr.  Hooper  walked  onward,  at  a  slow  and  quiet  pace,  stooping 
somewhat,  and  looking  on  the  ground,  as  is  customary  with  abstracted  men, 
yet  nodding  kindly  to  those  of  his  parishioners  who  still  waited  on  the 
meeting-house  steps.  But  so  wonder-struck  were  they  that  his  greeting 
hardly  met  with  a  return. 

"I  can't  really  feel  as  if  good  Mr.  Hooper's  face  was  behind  that  piece  of 
crape,"  said  the  sexton. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  muttered  an  old  woman,  as  she  hobbled  into  the  meeting- 
house. "He  has  changed  himself  into  something  awful,  only  by  hiding  his 
face." 

"Our  parson  has  gone  mad!"  cried  Goodman  Gray,  following  him  across 
the  threshold. 

A  rumor  of  some  unaccountable  phenomenon  had  preceded  Mr.  Hooper 
into  the  meeting-house,  and  set  all  the  congregation  astir.  Few  could  refrain 
from  twisting  their  heads  towards  the  door;  many  stood  upright,  and  turned 
directly  about;  while  several  little  boys  clambered  upon  the  seats,  and 
came  down  again  with  a  terrible  racket.  There  was  a  general  bustle,  a 
rustling  of  the  women's  gowns  and  shuffling  of  the  men's  feet,  greatly  at 
variance  with  that  hushed  repose  which  should  attend  the  entrance  of  the 
minister.  But  Mr.  Hooper  appeared  not  to  notice  the  perturbation  of  his 
people.  He  entered  with  an  almost  noiseless  step,  bent  his  head  mildly  to  the 
pews  on  each  side,  and  bowed  as  he  passed  his  oldest  parishioner,  a  white- 
haired  great-grandsire,  who  occupied  an  arm-chair  in  the  centre  of  the  aisle. 
It  was  strange  to  observe  how  slowly  this  venerable  man  became  conscious 
of  something  singular  in  the  appearance  of  his  pastor.  He  seemed  not  fully 
to  partake  of  the  prevailing  wonder,  till  Mr.  Hooper  had  ascended  the  stairs, 
and  showed  himself  in  the  pulpit,  face  to  face  with  his  congregation,  except 
for  the  black  veil.  That  mysterious  emblem  was  never  once  withdrawn.  It 
shook  with  his  measured  breath,  as  he  gave  out  the  psalm;  it  threw  its 
obscurity  between  him  and  the  holy  page,  as  he  read  the  Scriptures;  and 
while  he  prayed,  the  veil  lay  heavily  on  his  uplifted  countenance.  Did  he 
seek  to  hide  it  from  the  dread  Being  whom  he  was  addressing? 

Such  was  the  effect  of  this  simple  piece  of  crape,  that  more  than  one 
woman  of  delicate  nerves  was  forced  to  leave  the  meeting-house.  Yet  per- 
haps the  pale-faced  congregation  was  almost  as  fearful  a  sight  to  the  min- 
ister, as  his  black  veil  to  them. 

Mr.  Hooper  had  the  reputation  of  a  good  preacher,  but  not  an  energetic 
one:  he  strove  to  win  his  people  heavenward  by  mild,  persuasive  influences, 

118        MEANINGS 


rather  than  to  drive  them  thither  by  the  thunders  of  the  Word.  The  sermon 
which  he  now  delivered  was  marked  by  the  same  characteristics  of  style 
and  manner  as  the  general  series  of  his  pulpit  oratory.  But  there  was  some- 
thing, either  in  the  sentiment  of  the  discourse  itself,  or  in  the  imagination  of 
the  auditors,  which  made  it  greatly  the  most  powerful  effort  that  they  had 
ever  heard  from  their  pastor's  lips.  It  was  tinged,  rather  more  darkly  than 
usual,  with  the  gentle  gloom  of  Mr.  Hooper's  temperament.  The  subject  had 
reference  to  secret  sin,  and  those  sad  mysteries  which  we  hide  from  our 
nearest  and  dearest,  and  would  fain  conceal  from  our  own  consciousness, 
even  forgetting  that  the  Omniscient  can  detect  them.  A  subtle  power  was 
breathed  into  his  words.  Each  member  of  the  congregation,  the  most  inno- 
cent girl,  and  the  man  of  hardened  breast,  felt  as  if  the  preacher  had  crept 
upon  them,  behind  his  awful  veil,  and  discovered  their  hoarded  iniquity  of 
deed  or  thought.  Many  spread  their  clasped  hands  on  their  bosoms.  There 
was  nothing  terrible  in  what  Mr.  Hooper  said,  at  least,  no  violence;  and  yet, 
with  every  tremor  of  his  melancholy  voice,  the  hearers  quaked.  An  unsought 
pathos  came  hand  in  hand  with  awe.  So  sensible  were  the  audience  of  some 
unwonted  attribute  in  their  minister,  that  they  longed  for  a  breath  of  wind 
to  blow  aside  the  veil,  almost  believing  that  a  stranger's  visage  would  be 
discovered,  though  the  form,  gesture,  and  voice  were  those  of  Mr.  Hooper. 
At  the  close  of  the  services,  the  people  hurried  out  with  indecorous  con- 
fusion, eager  to  communicate  their  pent-up  amazement,  and  conscious  of 
lighter  spirits  the  moment  they  lost  sight  of  the  black  veil.  Some  gathered  in 
little  circles,  huddled  closely  together,  with  their  mouths  all  whispering  in 
the  centre;  some  went  homeward  alone,  wrapt  in  silent  meditation;  some 
talked  loudly,  and  profaned  the  Sabbath  day  with  ostentatious  laughter.  A 
few  shook  their  sagacious  heads,  intimating  that  they  could  penetrate  the 
mystery;  while  one  or  two  affirmed  that  there  was  no  mystery  at  all,  but  only 
that  Mr.  Hooper's  eyes  were  so  weakened  by  the  midnight  lamp,  as  to 
require  a  shade.  After  a  brief  interval,  forth  came  good  Mr.  Hooper  also,  in 
the  rear  of  his  flock.  Turning  his  veiled  face  from  one  group  to  another,  he 
paid  due  reverence  to  the  hoary  heads,  saluted  the  middle  aged  with  kind 
dignity  as  their  friend  and  spiritual  guide,  greeted  the  young  with  mingled 
authority  and  love,  and  laid  his  hands  on  the  little  children's  heads  to  bless 
them.  Such  was  always  his  custom  on  the  Sabbath  day.  Strange  and 
bewildered  looks  repaid  him  for  his  courtesy.  None,  as  on  former  occasions, 
aspired  to  the  honor  of  walking  by  their  pastor's  side.  Old  Squire  Saunders, 
doubtless  by  an  accidental  lapse  of  memory,  neglected  to  invite  Mr.  Hooper 
to  his  table,  where  the  good  clergyman  had  been  wont  to  bless  the  food, 
almost  every  Sunday  since  his  settlement.  He  returned,  therefore,  to  the 
parsonage,  and,  at  the  moment  of  closing  the  door,  was  observed  to  look 

THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL      119 


back  upon  the  people,  all  of  whom  had  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  minister. 
A  sad  smile  gleamed  faintly  from  beneath  the  black  veil,  and  flickered  about 
his  mouth,  glimmering  as  he  disappeared. 

"How  strange,"  said  a  lady,  "that  a  simple  black  veil,  such  as  any  woman 
might  wear  on  her  bonnet,  should  become  such  a  terrible  thing  on  Mr. 
Hooper's  face!" 

"Something  must  surely  be  amiss  with  Mr.  Hooper's  intellects,"  observed 
her  husband,  the  physician  of  the  village.  "But  the  strangest  part  of  the 
affair  is  the  effect  of  this  vagary,  even  on  a  sober-minded  man  like  myself. 
The  black  veil,  though  it  covers  only  our  pastor's  face,  throws  its  influence 
over  his  whole  person,  and  makes  him  ghostlike  from  head  to  foot.  Do  you 
not  feel  it  so?" 

"Truly  do  I,"  replied  the  lady;  "and  I  would  not  be  alone  with  him  for  the 
world.  I  wonder  he  is  not  afraid  to  be  alone  with  himself!" 

"Men  sometimes  are  so,"  said  her  husband. 

The  afternoon  service  was  attended  with  similar  circumstances.  At  its 
conclusion,  the  bell  tolled  for  the  funeral  of  a  young  lady.  The  relatives 
and  friends  were  assembled  in  the  house,  and  the  more  distant  acquaintances 
stood  about  the  door,  speaking  of  the  good  qualities  of  the  deceased,  when 
their  talk  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Hooper,  still  covered 
with  his  black  veil.  It  was  now  an  appropriate  emblem.  The  clergyman 
stepped  into  the  room  where  the  corpse  was  laid,  and  bent  over  the  coffin, 
to  take  a  last  farewell  of  his  deceased  parishioner.  As  he  stooped,  the  veil 
hung  straight  down  from  his  forehead,  so  that,  if  her  eyelids  had  not  been 
closed  forever,  the  dead  maiden  might  have  seen  his  face.  Could  Mr.  Hooper 
be  fearful  of  her  glance,  that  he  so  hastily  caught  back  the  black  veil?  A 
person  who  watched  the  interview  between  the  dead  and  living,  scrupled 
not  to  affirm,  that,  at  the  instant  when  the  clergyman's  features  were  dis- 
closed, the  corpse  had  slightly  shuddered,  rustling  the  shroud  and  muslin 
cap,  though  the  countenance  retained  the  composure  of  death.  A  supersti- 
tious old  woman  was  the  only  witness  of  this  prodigy.  From  the  coffin  Mr. 
Hooper  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  mourners,  and  thence  to  the  head  of 
the  staircase,  to  make  the  funeral  prayer.  It  was  a  tender  and  heart-dissolving 
prayer,  full  of  sorrow,  yet  so  imbued  with  celestial  hopes,  that  the  music  of 
a  heavenly  harp,  swept  by  the  fingers  of  the  dead,  seemed  faintly  to  be 
heard  among  the  saddest  accents  of  the  minister.  The  people  trembled, 
though  they  but  darkly  understood  him  when  he  prayed  that  they,  and  him- 
self, and  all  of  mortal  race,  might  be  ready,  as  he  trusted  this  young  maiden 
had  been,  for  the  dreadful  hour  that  should  snatch  the  veil  from  their  faces. 
The  bearers  went  heavily  forth,  and  the  mourners  followed,  saddening  all 
the  street,  with  the  dead  before  them,  and  Mr.  Hooper  in  his  black  veil 
behind. 

120        MEANINGS 


"Why  do  you  look  back?"  said  one  in  the  procession  to  his  partner. 

"I  had  a  fancy,"  replied  she,  "that  the  minister  and  the  maiden's  spirit 
were  walking  hand  in  hand." 

"And  so  had  I,  at  the  same  moment,"  said  the  other. 

That  night,  the  handsomest  couple  in  Milford  village  were  to  be  joined  in 
wedlock.  Though  reckoned  a  melancholy  man,  Mr.  Hooper  had  a  placid 
cheerfulness  for  such  occasions,  which  often  excited  a  sympathetic  smile 
where  livelier  merriment  would  have  been  thrown  away.  There  was  no 
quality  of  his  disposition  which  made  him  more  beloved  than  this.  The  com- 
pany at  the  wedding  awaited  his  arrival  with  impatience,  trusting  that  the 
strange  awe,  which  had  gathered  over  him  throughout  the  day,  would  now 
be  dispelled.  But  such  was  not  the  result.  When  Mr.  Hooper  came,  the  first 
thing  that  their  eyes  rested  on  was  the  same  horrible  black  veil,  which  had 
added  deeper  gloom  to  the  funeral,  and  could  portend  nothing  but  evil  to 
the  wedding.  Such  was  its  immediate  effect  on  the  guests  that  a  cloud 
seemed  to  have  rolled  duskily  from  beneath  the  black  crape,  and  dimmed 
the  light  of  the  candles.  The  bridal  pair  stood  up  before  the  minister.  But  the 
bride's  cold  fingers  quivered  in  the  tremulous  hand  of  the  bridegroom,  and 
her  deathlike  paleness  caused  a  whisper  that  the  maiden  who  had  been 
buried  a  few  hours  before  was  come  from  her  grave  to  be  married.  If  ever 
another  wedding  were  so  dismal,  it  was  that  famous  one  where  they  tolled 
the  wedding  knell.  After  performing  the  ceremony,  Mr.  Hooper  raised  a 
glass  of  wine  to  his  lips,  wishing  happiness  to  the  new-married  couple  in  a 
strain  of  mild  pleasantry  that  ought  to  have  brightened  the  features  of  the 
guests,  like  a  cheerful  gleam  from  the  hearth.  At  that  instant,  catching  a 
glimpse  of  his  figure  in  the  looking-glass,  the  black  veil  involved  his  own 
spirit  in  the  horror  with  which  it  overwhelmed  all  others.  His  frame  shud- 
dered, his  lips  grew  white,  he  spilt  the  untasted  wine  upon  the  carpet,  and 
rushed  forth  into  the  darkness.  For  the  Earth,  too,  had  on  her  Black  Veil. 

The  next  day,  the  whole  village  of  Milford  talked  of  little  else  than 
Parson  Hooper's  black  veil.  That,  and  the  mystery  concealed  behind  it, 
supplied  a  topic  for  discussion  between  acquaintances  meeting  in  the  street, 
and  good  women  gossiping  at  their  open  windows.  It  was  the  first  item  of 
news  that  the  tavern-keeper  told  to  his  guests.  The  children  babbled  of  it  on 
their  way  to  school.  One  imitative  little  imp  covered  his  face  with  an  old 
black  handkerchief,  thereby  so  affrighting  his  playmates  that  the  panic 
seized  himself,  and  he  well-nigh  lost  his  wits  by  his  own  waggery. 

It  was  remarkable  that  of  all  the  busybodies  and  impertinent  people  in  the 
parish,  not  one  ventured  to  put  the  plain  question  to  Mr.  Hooper,  wherefore 
he  did  this  thing.  Hitherto,  whenever  there  appeared  the  slightest  call  for 
such  interference,  he  had  never  lacked  advisers,  nor  shown  himself  averse 
to  be  guided  by  their  judgment.  If  he  erred  at  all,  it  was  by  so  painful  a 

THE    MINISTERS    BLACK    VEIL         121 


degree  of  self-distrust,  that  even  the  mildest  censure  would  lead  him  to 
consider  an  indifferent  action  as  a  crime.  Yet,  though  so  well  acquainted  with 
this  amiable  weakness,  no  individual  among  his  parishioners  chose  to  make 
the  black  veil  a  subject  of  friendly  remonstrance.  There  was  a  feeling  of 
dread,  neither  plainly  confessed  nor  carefully  concealed,  which  caused  each 
to  shift  the  responsibility  upon  another,  till  at  length  it  was  found  expedient 
to  send  a  deputation  of  the  church,  in  order  to  deal  with  Mr.  Hooper  about 
the  mystery,  before  it  should  grow  into  a  scandal.  Never  did  an  embassy  so 
ill  discharge  its  duties.  The  minister  received  them  with  friendly  courtesy, 
but  became  silent,  after  they  were  seated,  leaving  to  his  visitors  the  whole 
burden  of  introducing  their  important  business.  The  topic,  it  might  be 
supposed,  was  obvious  enough.  There  was  the  black  veil  swathed  round 
Mr.  Hooper's  forehead,  and  concealing  every  feature  above  his  placid  mouth, 
on  which,  at  times,  they  could  perceive  the  glimmering  of  a  melancholy 
smile.  But  that  piece  of  crape,  to  their  imagination,  seemed  to  hang  down 
before  his  heart,  the  symbol  of  a  fearful  secret  between  him  and  them.  Were 
the  veil  but  cast  aside,  they  might  speak  freely  of  it,  but  not  till  then.  Thus 
they  sat  a  considerable  time,  speechless,  confused,  and  shrinking  uneasily 
from  Mr.  Hooper's  eye,  which  they  felt  to  be  fixed  upon  them  with  an  invis- 
ible glance.  Finally,  the  deputies  returned  abashed  to  their  constituents, 
pronouncing  the  matter  too  weighty  to  be  handled,  except  by  a  council  of 
the  churches,  if,  indeed,  it  might  not  require  a  general  synod. 

But  there  was  one  person  in  the  village  unappalled  by  the  awe  with  which 
the  black  veil  had  impressed  all  beside  herself.  When  the  deputies  returned 
without  an  explanation,  or  even  venturing  to  demand  one,  she,  with  the  calm 
energy  of  her  character,  determined  to  chase  away  the  strange  cloud  that 
appeared  to  be  settling  around  Mr.  Hooper,  every  moment  more  darkly  than 
before.  As  his  plighted  wife,  it  should  be  her  privilege  to  know  what  the 
black  veil  concealed.  At  the  minister's  first  visit,  therefore,  she  entered  upon 
the  subject  with  a  direct  simplicity,  which  made  the  task  easier  both  for 
him  and  her.  After  he  had  seated  himself,  she  fixed  her  eyes  steadfastly 
upon  the  veil,  but  could  discern  nothing  of  the  dreadful  gloom  that  had  so 
overawed  the  multitude:  it  was  but  a  double  fold  of  crape,  hanging  down 
from  his  forehead  to  his  mouth,  and  slightly  stirring  with  his  breath. 

"No,"  said  she  aloud,  and  smiling,  "there  is  nothing  terrible  in  this  piece 
of  crape,  except  that  it  hides  a  face  which  I  am  always  glad  to  look  upon. 
Come,  good  sir,  let  the  sun  shine  from  behind  the  cloud.  First  lay  aside  your 
black  veil:  then  tell  me  why  you  put  it  on." 

Mr.  Hooper's  smile  glimmered  faintly. 

"There  is  an  hour  to  come,"  said  he,  "when  all  of  us  shall  cast  aside  our 
veils.  Take  it  not  amiss,  beloved  friend,  if  I  wear  this  piece  of  crape  till  then." 


122 


MEANINGS 


"Your  words  are  a  mystery,  too,"  returned  the  young  lady.  "Take  away 
the  veil  from  them,  at  least." 

"Elizabeth,  I  will,"  said  he,  "so  far  as  my  vow  may  suffer  me.  Know,  then, 
this  veil  is  a  type  and  a  symbol,  and  I  am  bound  to  wear  it  ever,  both  in 
light  and  darkness,  in  solitude  and  before  the  gaze  of  multitudes,  and  as 
with  strangers,  so  with  my  familiar  friends.  No  mortal  eye  will  see  it  with- 
drawn. This  dismal  shade  must  separate  me  from  the  world:  even  you, 
Elizabeth,  can  never  come  behind  it!" 

"What  grievous  affliction  hath  befallen  you,"  she  earnestly  inquired,  "that 
you  should  thus  darken  your  eyes  forever?" 

"If  it  be  a  sign  of  mourning,"  replied  Mr.  Hooper,  "I,  perhaps,  like  most 
other  mortals,  have  sorrows  dark  enough  to  be  typified  by  a  black  veil." 

"But  what  if  the  world  will  not  believe  that  it  is  the  type  of  an  innocent 
sorrow?"  urged  Elizabeth.  "Beloved  and  respected  as  you  are,  there  may  be 
whispers  that  you  hide  your  face  under  the  consciousness  of  secret  sin.  For 
the  sake  of  your  holy  office,  do  away  this  scandal!" 

The  color  rose  into  her  cheeks  as  she  intimated  the  nature  of  the  rumors 
that  were  already  abroad  in  the  village.  But  Mr.  Hooper's  mildness  did  not 
forsake  him.  He  even  smiled  again— that  same  sad  smile,  which  always 
appeared  like  a  faint  glimmering  of  light,  proceeding  from  the  obscurity 
beneath  the  veil. 

"If  I  hide  my  face  for  sorrow,  there  is  cause  enough/'  he  merely  replied; 
"and  if  I  cover  it  for  secret  sin,  what  mortal  might  not  do  the  same?" 

And  with  this  gentle,  but  unconquerable  obstinacy  did  he  resist  all  her 
entreaties.  At  length  Elizabeth  sat  silent.  For  a  few  moments  she  appeared 
lost  in  thought,  considering,  probably,  what  new  methods  might  be  tried  to 
withdraw  her  lover  from  so  dark  a  fantasy,  which,  if  it  had  no  other  mean- 
ing, was  perhaps  a  symptom  of  mental  disease.  Though  of  a  firmer  character 
than  his  own,  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  But,  in  an  instant,  as  it  were, 
a  new  feeling  took  the  place  of  sorrow:  her  eyes  were  fixed  insensibly  on 
the  black  veil,  when,  like  a  sudden  twilight  in  the  air,  its  terrors  fell  around 
her.  She  arose,  and  stood  trembling  before  him. 

"And  do  you  feel  it  then,  at  last?"  said  he  mournfully. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  turned  to 
leave  the  room.  He  rushed  forward  and  caught  her  arm. 

"Have  patience  with  me,  Elizabeth!"  cried  he,  passionately.  "Do  not 
desert  me,  though  this  veil  must  be  between  us  here  on  earth.  Be  mine,  and 
hereafter  there  shall  be  no  veil  over  my  face,  no  darkness  between  our  souls! 
It  is  but  a  mortal  veil— it  is  not  for  eternity!  O!  you  know  not  how  lonely  I 
am,  and  how  frightened,  to  be  alone  behind  my  black  veil.  Do  not  leave  me 
in  this  miserable  obscurity  foreverl" 

THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL      123 


"Lift  the  veil  but  once,  and  look  me  in  the  face,"  said  she. 

"Never!  It  cannot  be!"  replied  Mr.  Hooper. 

"Then  farewell!"  said  Elizabeth. 

She  withdrew  her  arm  from  his  grasp,  and  slowly  departed,  pausing  at 
the  door,  to  give  one  long  shuddering  gaze,  that  seemed  almost  to  penetrate 
the  mystery  of  the  black  veil.  But,  even  amid  his  grief,  Mr.  Hooper  smiled  to 
think  that  only  a  material  emblem  had  separated  him  from  happiness, 
though  the  horrors,  which  it  shadowed  forth,  must  be  drawn  darkly  between 
the  fondest  of  lovers. 

From  that  time  no  attempts  were  made  to  remove  Mr.  Hooper's  black 
veil,  or,  by  a  direct  appeal,  to  discover  the  secret  which  it  was  supposed  to 
hide.  By  persons  who  claimed  a  superiority  to  popular  prejudice,  it  was 
reckoned  merely  an  eccentric  whim,  such  as  often  mingles  with  the  sober 
actions  of  men  otherwise  rational,  and  tinges  them  all  with  its  own  semblance 
of  insanity.  But  with  the  multitude,  good  Mr.  Hooper  was  irreparably  a 
bugbear.  He  could  not  walk  the  street  with  any  peace  of  mind,  so  conscious 
was  he  that  the  gentle  and  timid  would  turn  aside  to  avoid  him,  and  that 
others  would  make  it  a  point  of  hardihood  to  throw  themselves  in  his  way. 
The  impertinence  of  the  latter  class  compelled  him  to  give  up  his  customary 
walk  at  sunset  to  the  burial  ground;  for  when  he  leaned  pensively  over  the 
gate,  there  would  always  be  faces  behind  the  gravestones,  peeping  at  his 
black  veil.  A  fable  went  the  rounds  that  the  stare  of  the  dead  people  drove 
him  thence.  It  grieved  him,  to  the  very  depth  of  his  kind  heart,  to  observe 
how  the  children  fled  from  his  approach,  breaking  up  their  merriest  sports, 
while  his  melancholy  figure  was  yet  afar  off.  Their  instinctive  dread  caused 
him  to  feel  more  strongly  than  aught  else,  that  a  preternatural  horror  was 
interwoven  with  the  threads  of  the  black  crape.  In  truth,  his  own  antipathy 
to  the  veil  was  known  to  be  so  great,  that  he  never  willingly  passed  before  a 
mirror,  nor  stooped  to  drink  at  a  still  fountain,  lest,  in  its  peaceful  bosom, 
he  should  be  affrighted  by  himself.  This  was  what  gave  plausibility  to  the 
whispers,  that  Mr.  Hooper's  conscience  tortured  him  for  some  great  crime 
too  horrible  to  be  entirely  concealed,  or  otherwise  than  so  obscurely  inti- 
mated. Thus,  from  beneath  the  black  veil,  there  rolled  a  cloud  into  the  sun- 
shine, an  ambiguity  of  sin  or  sorrow,  which  enveloped  the  poor  minister,  so 
that  love  or  sympathy  could  never  reach  him.  It  was  said  that  ghost  and 
fiend  consorted  with  him  there.  With  self-shudderings  and  outward  terrors, 
he  walked  continually  in  its  shadow,  groping  darkly  within  his  own  soul,  or 
gazing  through  a  medium  that  saddened  the  whole  world.  Even  the  lawless 
wind,  it  was  believed,  respected  his  dreadful  secret,  and  never  blew  aside 
the  veil.  But  still  good  Mr.  Hooper  sadly  smiled  at  the  pale  visages  of  the 
worldly  throng  as  he  passed  by. 

124     MEANINGS 


Among  all  its  bad  influences,  the  black  veil  had  the  one  desirable  effect, 
of  making  its  wearer  a  very  efficient  clergyman.  By  the  aid  of  his  mysterious 
emblem— for  there  was  no  other  apparent  cause— he  became  a  man  of  awful 
power  over  souls  that  were  in  agony  for  sin.  His  converts  always  regarded 
him  with  a  dread  peculiar  to  themselves,  affirming,  though  but  figuratively, 
that,  before  he  brought  them  to  celestial  light,  they  had  been  with  him 
behind  the  black  veil.  Its  gloom,  indeed,  enabled  him  to  sympathize  with 
all  dark  affections.  Dying  sinners  cried  aloud  for  Mr.  Hooper,  and  would  not 
yield  their  breath  till  he  appeared;  though  ever,  as  he  stooped  to  whisper 
consolation,  they  shuddered  at  the  veiled  face  so  near  their  own.  Such  were 
the  terrors  of  the  black  veil,  even  when  Death  had  bared  his  visage!  Strangers 
came  long  distances  to  attend  service  at  his  church,  with  the  mere  idle 
purpose  of  gazing  at  his  figure,  because  it  was  forbidden  them  to  behold  his 
face.  But  many  were  made  to  quake  ere  they  departed!  Once,  during  Gov- 
ernor Belcher's  administration,  Mr.  Hooper  was  appointed  to  preach  the 
election  sermon.  Covered  with  his  black  veil,  he  stood  before  the  chief 
magistrate,  the  council,  and  the  representatives,  and  wrought  so  deep  an 
impression,  that  the  legislative  measures  of  that  year  were  characterized  by 
all  the  gloom  and  piety  of  our  earliest  ancestral  sway. 

In  this  manner,  Mr.  Hooper  spent  a  long  life,  irreproachable  in  outward 
act,  yet  shrouded  in  dismal  suspicions;  kind  and  loving,  though  unloved,  and 
dimly  feared;  a  man  apart  from  men,  shunned  in  their  health  and  joy,  but 
ever  summoned  to  their  aid  in  mortal  anguish.  As  years  wore  on,  shedding 
their  snows  above  his  sable  veil,  he  acquired  a  name  throughout  the  New 
England  churches,  and  they  called  him  Father  Hooper.  Nearly  all  his  parish- 
ioners, who  were  of  mature  age  when  he  was  settled,  had  been  borne 
away  by  many  a  funeral:  he  had  one  congregation  in  the  church,  and  a 
more  crowded  one  in  the  churchyard;  and  having  wrought  so  late  into  the 
evening,  and  done  his  work  so  well,  it  was  now  good  Father  Hooper's  turn 
to  rest. 

Several  persons  were  visible  by  the  shaded  candle-light,  in  the  death 
chamber  of  the  old  clergyman.  Natural  connections  he  had  none.  But  there 
was  the  decorously  grave,  though  unmoved  physician,  seeking  only  to  miti- 
gate the  last  pangs  of  the  patient  whom  he  could  not  save.  There  were  the 
deacons,  and  other  eminently  pious  members  of  his  church.  There,  also,  was 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Clark,  of  Westbury,  a  young  and  zealous  divine,  who  had 
ridden  in  haste  to  pray  by  the  bedside  of  the  expiring  minister.  There  was 
the  nurse,  no  hired  handmaiden  of  death,  but  one  whose  calm  affection  had 
endured  thus  long  in  secrecy,  in  solitude,  amid  the  chill  of  age,  and  would 
not  perish,  even  at  the  dying  hour.  Who,  but  Elizabeth!  And  there  lay  the 
hoary  head  of  good  Father  Hooper  upon  the  death  pillow,  with  the  black 

THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL      125 


veil  still  swathed  about  his  brow,  and  reaching  down  over  his  face,  so  that 
each  more  difficult  gasp  of  his  faint  breath  caused  it  to  stir.  All  through  life 
that  piece  of  crape  had  hung  between  him  and  the  world:  it  had  separated 
him  from  cheerful  brotherhood  and  woman's  love,  and  kept  him  in  that 
saddest  of  all  prisons,  his  own  heart;  and  still  it  lay  upon  his  face,  as  if  to 
deepen  the  gloom  of  his  darksome  chamber,  and  shade  him  from  the  sun- 
shine of  eternity. 

For  some  time  previous,  his  mind  had  been  confused,  wavering  doubtfully 
between  the  past  and  the  present,  and  hovering  forward,  as  it  were,  at 
intervals,  into  the  indistinctness  of  the  world  to  come.  There  had  been  fever- 
ish turns,  which  tossed  him  from  side  to  side,  and  wore  away  what  little 
strength  he  had.  But  in  his  most  convulsive  struggles,  and  in  the  wildest 
vagaries  of  his  intellect,  when  no  other  thought  retained  its  sober  influence, 
he  still  showed  an  awful  solicitude  lest  the  black  veil  should  slip  aside.  Even 
if  his  bewildered  soul  could  have  forgotten,  there  was  a  faithful  woman  at 
his  pillow,  who,  with  averted  eyes,  would  have  covered  that  aged  face, 
which  she  had  last  beheld  in  the  comeliness  of  manhood.  At  length  the 
death-stricken  old  man  lay  quietly  in  the  torpor  of  mental  and  bodily  exhaus- 
tion, with  an  imperceptible  pulse,  and  breath  that  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
except  when  a  long,  deep,  and  irregular  inspiration  seemed  to  prelude  the 
flight  of  his  spirit. 

The  minister  of  Westbury  approached  the  bedside. 

"Venerable  Father  Hooper,"  said  he,  "the  moment  of  your  release  is  at 
hand.  Are  you  ready  for  the  lifting  of  the  veil  that  shuts  in  time  from 
eternity?" 

Father  Hooper  at  first  replied  merely  by  a  feeble  motion  of  his  head; 
then,  apprehensive,  perhaps,  that  his  meaning  might  be  doubtful,  he  exerted 
himself  to  speak. 

"Yea,"  said  he,  in  faint  accents,  "my  soul  hath  a  patient  weariness  until  that 
veil  be  lifted." 

"And  is  it  fitting,"  resumed  the  Reverend  Mr.  Clark,  "that  a  man  so  given 
to  prayer,  of  such  a  blameless  example,  holy  in  deed  and  thought,  so  far  as 
mortal  judgment  may  pronounce;  is  it  fitting  that  a  father  in  the  church 
should  leave  a  shadow  on  his  memory,  that  may  seem  to  blacken  a  life  so 
pure?  I  pray  you,  my  venerable  brother,  let  not  this  thing  be!  Suffer  us  to 
be  gladdened  by  your  triumphant  aspect  as  you  go  to  your  reward.  Before 
the  veil  of  eternity  be  lifted,  let  me  cast  aside  this  black  veil  from  your  face!" 

And  thus  speaking,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Clark  bent  forward  to  reveal  the 
mystery  of  so  many  years.  But,  exerting  a  sudden  energy,  that  made  all  the 
beholders  stand  aghast,  Father  Hooper  snatched  both  his  hands  from 
beneath  the  bedclothes,  and  pressed  them  strongly  on  the  black  veil,  reso- 

126        MEANINGS 


lute  to  struggle,  if  the  minister  of  Westbury  would  contend  with  a  dying  man. 

"Never!"  cried  the  veiled  clergyman.  "On  earth,  never!" 

"Dark  old  man!"  exclaimed  the  affrighted  minister,  "with  what  horrible 
crime  upon  your  soul  are  you  now  passing  to  the  judgment?" 

Father  Hooper's  breath  heaved;  it  rattled  in  his  throat;  but,  with  a  mighty 
effort,  grasping  forward  with  his  hands,  he  caught  hold  of  life,  and  held  it 
back  till  he  should  speak.  He  even  raised  himself  in  bed;  and  there  he  sat, 
shivering  with  the  arms  of  death  around  him,  while  the  black  veil  hung 
down,  awful,  at  that  last  moment,  in  the  gathered  terrors  of  a  lifetime.  And 
yet  the  faint,  sad  smile,  so  often  there,  now  seemed  to  glimmer  from  its 
obscurity,  and  linger  on  Father  Hooper's  lips. 

"Why  do  you  tremble  at  me  alone?"  cried  he,  turning  his  veiled  face  round 
the  circle  of  pale  spectators.  "Tremble  also  at  each  other!  Have  men  avoided 
me,  and  women  shown  no  pity,  and  children  screamed  and  fled,  only  for  my 
black  veil?  What,  but  the  mystery  which  it  obscurely  typifies,  has  made  this 
piece  of  crape  so  awful?  When  the  friend  shows  his  inmost  heart  to  his 
friend;  the  lover  to  his  best  beloved;  when  man  does  not  vainly  shrink  from 
the  eye  of  his  Creator,  loathsomely  treasuring  up  the  secret  of  his  sin;  then 
deem  me  a  monster,  for  the  symbol  beneath  which  I  have  lived,  and  die!  I 
look  around  me,  and,  lo!  on  every  visage  a  Black  Veil!" 

While  his  auditors  shrank  from  one  another,  in  mutual  affright,  Father 
Hooper  fell  back  upon  his  pillow,  a  veiled  corpse,  with  a  faint  smile  lingering 
on  the  lips.  Still  veiled,  they  laid  him  in  his  coffin,  and  a  veiled  corpse  they 
bore  him  to  the  grave.  The  grass  of  many  years  has  sprung  up  and  withered 
on  that  grave,  the  burial  stone  is  moss-grown,  and  good  Mr.  Hooper's  face 
is  dust;  but  awful  is  still  the  thought  that  it  mouldered  beneath  the 
Black  Veil! 


The  whole  Work  after?  at  the  funeral?  at  the  wedding? 

on   the   deputation?  on   Elizabeth?  on 

HAPPENINGS  x,       TT  T.-          iro  xxru    i.   •     *u         U-- 

Mr.  Hooper  himself  r  What  is  the  ura- 

How  does  Hawthorne  manage  the  mate  effect  on  the  community? 

beginning  to  make  it  as  dramatic  3.  What  are  the  time  breaks  in  the 

as  possible?  story?   Why   does   plausibility   depend 

2.  One  of  Hawthorne's  favorite  struc-  upon    the    elapse    of    a    considerable 

tural    devices    was    a    "procession"    in  amount  of  time? 

which  he  would  have  a  series  of  indi-  CHARACTERS 

viduals  come  in  contact  with  his  main  4.  How  completely  are  the  various 

character   and   then   note    the   results.  age,  social,  and  occupational  classes  of 

What  is  the  special  effect  of  the  black  the  community  represented? 

veil  at  the  meeting— both  during  and  5.  Are  the  various  reactions  to  the 

THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL      127 


black  veil  probable?  Are  there  any  that 
seem  overdone? 

6.  Is  Mr.  Hooper's  character  deline- 
ated well  enough  so  that  his  wearing  of 
the   veil   seems    plausible?   Why    does 
Hawthorne  not  tell  us  the  nature  of  Mr. 
Hooper's  secret  sin?  Is  Mr.  Hooper  an 
attractive  character  or  an  eccentric? 

SETTING 

7.  Why  should   a  small  town   be  a 
more  useful  setting  for  this  story  than 
a  farm  or  a  large  city? 

LANGUAGE 

8.  What  specific  differences  do  you 
notice  between  Hawthorne's  language 
and    that    of   a    typical   modern    short 
story?   Why   is   Hawthorne's    language 
more  suitable  for  this  subject  than  that 
of  (a)  Hemingway?  (b)  Lewis? 

TONE 

9.  Does  Hawthorne  seem  to  feel  that 
Mr.  Hooper's  wearing  of  the  veil  is  a 
silly  business?  Explain  your  answer. 

MEANING 

10.  What  clues  to  the  meaning  of  the 
minister's  actions  do  you  get  from  what 
he   says   and   does?   from   what   other 


people  say  and  do?  from  what  the  au- 
thor tells  you  directly?  Which  method 
of  communicating  meaning  does  Haw- 
thorne use  most  frequently? 

11.  Which  relation   is  stressed:    the 
mental  or  moral  conflict  within  the  man? 
the  relation  between  man  and  nature? 
the   relation   between   man   and   other 
men?   the   relation   between   man    and 
God?  Are   they  all   present?   Give   ex- 
amples where  possible. 

12.  What  does  the  black  veil  sym- 
bolize? Whom  does  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Hooper  symbolize?  What  is  ironic  about 
the  fact  that  the  veil  frightens  people 
whereas  what  the  veil  symbolizes  ordi- 
narily does  not? 

13.  What  ambiguity  in  meaning  docs 
Professor  Fogle  see  in  the  story?  (Read 
his  evaluation  of  it,  pp.  186-191.) 

14.  Do  you  agree  that  such  an  am- 
biguity  exists?   If  so,   do  you  think   it 
makes  the  story  less  or  more  interesting? 
less  or  more  illuminating  about  the  na- 
ture of  man?  Explain  your  answers. 

15.  Summarize    your    findings    in    a 
statement  of  the  meaning  of  the  story. 


128 


MEANINGS 


$*»  "The  Love  Song  of  J.  Alfred  Prufrock"  is  a  longer  and  much  more  compli- 
cated poem  than  "When  I  Heard  the  Learn  d  Astronomer"  on  page  114.  Basically, 
however,  the  same  techniques  that  were  helpful  in  understanding  Whitmans  poem 

can  be  used.  Readers  generally  agree 

T    s    ELIOT  tnat  *t  ™  one  °f  EMot'  s  best,  both  be- 

cause it  makes  a  considerable  impact 
_  emotionally  and  because  its  details  are 

HTTlP    Invf*    QnnO*    nf         so  l°aded  with  meaning  that  it  can  be 
A  11C    1U  V  C    SUll^    Ul          feread  many  times  and  sm  not  be  com_ 

pletely  mastered.  Like  "My  Last  Duch- 
ess"  (pt  6Q)  ^  is  a  dramatic  monologue 

T)         C  "I  —the   rendition   of  the   thoughts  of  a 

A  iLlllOCK.  character. 


J 
• 


S'io  crcdesse  che  mia  risposta  fosse 
A  persona  che  mai  tornasse  al  mondo, 
Questa  fiamma  staria  senza  piu  scosse. 
Ma  perciocche  giammai  di  questo  fondo 
Non  torno  vivo  alcun,  siodo  il  vero, 
Senza  tema  d'infamia  ti  rispondo.* 

Er  us  go  then,  you  and  I, 
When  the  evening  is  spread  out  against  the  sky 
Like  a  patient  etherized  upon  a  table; 
Let  us  go,  through  certain  half-deserted  streets, 

The  muttering  retreats  5 

Of  restless  nights  in  one-night  cheap  hotels 
And  sawdust  restaurants  with  oyster-shells: 
Streets  that  follow  like  a  tedious  argument 
Of  insidious  intent 

To  lead  you  to  an  overwhelming  question  ...  10 

Oh,  do  not  ask,  'What  is  it?' 
Let  us  go  and  make  our  visit. 

In  the  room  the  women  come  and  go 
Talking  of  Michelangelo. 


From  Collected  Poems  1909-1935  by  T.  S.  Eliot.  Copyright,  1936,  by  Harcourt,  Brace 
and  Company,  Inc. 

1  S'io  .  .  .  rispondo.  If  I  could  believe  that  my  answer  might  be  to  a  person  who 
should  ever  return  into  the  world,  this  flame  would  stand  without  more  quiverings;  but 
inasmuch  as,  if  I  hear  the  truth,  never  from  this  depth  did  any  living  man  return,  without 
fear  of  infamy  I  answer  thee  (from  Dante's  Inferno,  Canto  XXVII,  11.  61-66). 

THE  LOVE  SONG  OF  T.  ALFRED  PRUFROCK    129 


The  yellow  fog  that  rubs  its  back  upon  the  window-panes,  15 

The  yellow  smoke  that  rubs  its  muzzle  on  the  window-panes 

Licked  its  tongue  into  the  corners  of  the  evening, 

Lingered  upon  the  pools  that  stand  in  drains, 

Let  fall  upon  its  back  the  soot  that  falls  from  chimneys, 

Slipped  by  the  terrace,  made  a  sudden  leap,  20 

And  seeing  that  it  was  a  soft  October  night, 

Curled  once  about  the  house,  and  fell  asleep. 

And  indeed  there  will  be  time 

For  the  yellow  smoke  that  slides  along  the  street, 

Rubbing  its  back  upon  the  window-panes;  25 

There  will  be  time,  there  will  be  time 

To  prepare  a  face  to  meet  the  faces  that  you  meet; 

There  will  be  time  to  murder  and  create, 

And  time  for  all  the  works  and  days  of  hands 

That  lift  and  drop  a  question  on  your  plate;  30 

Time  for  you  and  time  for  me, 

And  time  yet  for  a  hundred  indecisions, 

And  for  a  hundred  visions  and  revisions, 

Before  the  taking  of  a  toast  and  tea. 

In  the  room  the  women  come  and  go  35 

Talking  of  Michelangelo. 

And  indeed  there  will  be  time 

To  wonder,  'Do  I  dare?*  and,  'Do  I  dare?' 

Time  to  turn  back  and  descend  the  stair, 

With  a  bald  spot  in  the  middle  of  my  hair—  40 

(They  will  say:  'How  his  hair  is  growing  thin!') 

My  morning  coat,  my  collar  mounting  firmly  to  the  chin, 

My  necktie  rich  and  modest,  but  asserted  by  a  simple  pin— 

(They  will  say:  'But  how  his  arms  and  legs  are  thin!') 

Do  I  dare  45 

Disturb  the  universe? 

In  a  minute  there  is  time 

For  decisions  and  revisions  which  a  minute  will  reverse. 

For  I  have  known  them  all  already,  known  them  all:— 

Have  known  the  evenings,  mornings,  afternoons,  5° 

I  have  measured  out  my  life  with  coffee  spoons; 

I  know  the  voices  dying  with  a  dying  fall 

130        MEANINGS 


Beneath  the  music  from  a  farther  room. 
So  how  should  I  presume? 

And  I  have  known  the  eyes  already,  known  them  all—  55 

The  eyes  that  fix  you  in  a  formulated  phrase, 
And  when  I  am  formulated,  sprawling  on  a  pin, 
When  I  am  pinned  and  wriggling  on  the  wall, 
Then  how  should  I  begin 

To  spit  out  all  the  butt-ends  of  my  days  and  ways?  60 

And  how  should  I  presume? 

And  I  have  known  the  arms  already,  known  them  all- 
Arms  that  are  braceleted  and  white  and  bare 
(But  in  the  lamplight,  downed  with  light  brown  hair! ) 
Is  it  perfume  from  a  dress  65 

That  makes  me  so  digress? 
Arms  that  lie  along  a  table,  or  wrap  about  a  shawl. 

And  should  I  then  presume? 

And  how  should  I  begin? 

Shall  I  say,  I  have  gone  at  dusk  through  narrow  streets  70 

And  watched  the  smoke  that  rises  from  the  pipes 

Of  lonely  men  in  shirt-sleeves,  leaning  out  of  windows?  .  .  . 

I  should  have  been  a  pair  of  ragged  claws 

Scuttling  across  the  floors  of  silent  seas. 

And  the  afternoon,  the  evening,  sleeps  so  peacefully!  75 

Smoothed  by  long  fingers, 

Asleep  .  .  .  tired  ...  or  it  malingers, 

Stretched  on  the  floor,  here  beside  you  and  me. 

Should  I,  after  tea  and  cakes  and  ices, 

Have  the  strength  to  force  the  moment  to  its  crisis?  80 

But  though  I  have  wept  and  fasted,  wept  and  prayed, 

Though  I  have  seen  my  head  (grown  slightly  bald)  brought  in  upon  a 

platter, 

I  am  no  prophet— and  here's  no  great  matter; 
I  have  seen  the  moment  of  my  greatness  flicker, 

And  I  have  seen  the  eternal  Footman  hold  my  coat,  and  snicker,  85 

And  in  short,  I  was  afraid. 

And  would  it  have  been  worth  it,  after  all, 
After  the  cups,  the  marmalade,  the  tea, 

THE  LOVE  SONG  OF  J.  ALFRED  PRUFROCK    131 


Among  the  porcelain,  among  some  talk  of  you  and  me, 

Would  it  have  been  worth  while,  90 

To  have  bitten  off  the  matter  with  a  smile, 

To  have  squeezed  the  universe  into  a  ball 

To  roll  it  toward  some  overwhelming  question, 

To  say:  1  am  Lazarus,  come  from  the  dead, 

Come  back  to  tell  you  all,  I  shall  tell  you  all'—  95 

If  one,  settling  a  pillow  by  her  head, 

Should  say:  That  is  not  what  I  meant  at  all, 

That  is  not  it,  at  all/ 


And  would  it  have  been  worth  it,  after  all, 

Would  it  have  been  worth  while,  100 

After  the  sunsets  and  the  dooryards  and  the  sprinkled  streets, 

After  the  novels,  after  the  teacups,  after  the  skirts  that  trail  along  the  floor— 

And  this,  and  so  much  more?— 

It  is  impossible  to  say  just  what  I  mean! 

But  as  if  a  magic  lantern  threw  the  nerves  in  patterns  on  a  screen:  105 

Would  it  have  been  worth  while 

If  one,  settling  a  pillow  or  throwing  off  a  shawl, 

And  turning  toward  the  window,  should  say: 

'That  is  not  it  at  all, 

That  is  not  what  I  meant,  at  all/  no 


No!  I  am  not  Prince  Hamlet,  nor  was  meant  to  be; 

Am  an  attendant  lord,  one  that  will  do 

To  swell  a  progress,  start  a  scene  or  two, 

Advise  the  prince;  no  doubt,  an  easy  tool, 

Deferential,  glad  to  be  of  use,  "5 

Politic,  cautious,  and  meticulous; 

Full  of  high  sentence,  but  a  bit  obtuse; 

At  times,  indeed,  almost  ridiculous— 

Almost,  at  times,  the  Fool. 

I  grow  old  ...  I  grow  old  ...  120 

I  shall  wear  the  bottoms  of  my  trousers  rolled. 

Shall  I  part  my  hair  behind?  Do  I  dare  to  eat  a  peach? 

I  shall  wear  white  flannel  trousers,  and  walk  upon  the  beach. 

I  have  heard  the  mermaids  singing,  each  to  each. 

I  do  not  think  that  they  will  sing  to  me.  «5 

132      MEANINGS 


I  have  seen  them  riding  seaward  on  the  waves 
Combing  the  white  hair  of  the  waves  blown  back 
When  the  wind  blows  the  water  white  and  black. 

We  have  lingered  in  the  chambers  of  the  sea 

By  sea-girls  wreathed  with  seaweed  red  and  brown 

Till  human  voices  wake  us,  and  we  drown. 


130 


The  whole  work 

HAPPENINGS    AND    STRUCTURE 

WHAT  is  the  situation  here  that 
gives  the  poem  a  surface  unity? 
(To  answer  this  you  must  first  realize 
that  the  "you"  of  the  poem  is  that  part 
of  Prufrock's  personality  which  is  social, 
outgoing,  and  active.  The  "I"  of  the 
poem  is  that  part  which  is  shy,  retiring, 
introspective,  and  fearful.  Apparently 
before  the  poem  opens  the  active  self 
[the  "y°u"]  has  suggested  to  the  re- 
tiring self  [the  "I"]  that  they  go  into 
the  room  where  the  "women  come  and 
go."  For  convenience  we  shall  hereafter 
refer  to  the  "I"  or  the  shy,  fearful  self 
as  Prufrock.) 

2.  What  is  Prufrock's  attitude  at  the 
beginning  of  the  poem?  What  is  it  at 
the    end?    Show   the   main    stages   by 
which  he  moves  from  the  initial  to  the 
final  position.   (It  might  be  well  not  to 
try  to  answer  this  question  until  you 
have    answered    the    various    parts    of 
question  14.) 

CHARACTERS 

3.  Describe    Prufrock's    appearance. 
What  does  it  imply  about  his  character? 

4.  What  does  his  name  suggest  about 
him?  Consider  each  part  of  the  name 
carefully. 

5.  How  does  he  characterize  himself? 
(See  lines  111-119  especially.) 


6.  What  is  added  to  our  understand- 
ing of  him  by  the  allusions  to  John  the 
Baptist    (lines   81-83),   Lazarus    (lines 
94-95),  and  Hamlet   (lines  111-119)? 

7.  Summarize  Prufrock  as  a  person, 
being   as   orderly   and  specific   as   you 
can. 

8.  What  are  the  basic  characteristics 
of  the  women  in  the  poem? 

SETTING 

9.  What  is  the  setting  of  the  poem? 
How  is  it  of  value?  Can  you  hazard  a 
guess  about  why  Eliot  does  not  give  us 
the  setting  in  more  detail? 

LANGUAGE 

10.  Would  you  say  that  the  poem 
is  written  in  formal,  informal,  or  vulgate 
diction?   Cite  specific  words  and  sen- 
tences to  prove  your  claim. 

11.  Contemporary    poetry    is    often 
described   as  being   so   compressed   in 
form  that  the  connections  and  transi- 
tions we  are  accustomed  to  in  prose  and 
in  older  poetry  get  squeezed  out.  Would 
you  say  that  this  is  true  of  "Prufrock"? 
Explain  your  answer. 

12.  What  characteristics  of  the  lan- 
guage   clearly    distinguish    "Prufrock" 
from  a  prose  selection  that  has  simply 
been  set  up  in  uneven  lines  and  stanzas? 

TONE 

13.  How  can  the  tone  of  the  poem 
best  be  characterized? 

MEANING 

14.  Let  these  questions  help  you  to 


THE  LOVE  SONG  OF  J.  ALFRED  PRUFROCT    133 


discover  the  meaning  of  each  stanza: 

Lines  1-12.  How  does  Prufrock  make 
clear  that  he  does  not  want  to  visit  the 
room  where  the  women  are  even  though 
he  says,  "Let  us  go  and  make  our  visit"? 

Lines  13-14.  What  is  apparently  re- 
pelling about  the  women? 

Lines  15-34.  With  what  does  he 
identify  himself  in  these  lines  and  how 
does  he  rationalize  his  indecisiveness? 

Lines  35-36.  What  effect  is  gained 
by  repeating  these  two  lines? 

Lines  37-48.  How  does  Prufrock 
come  to  believe  that  even  the  slightest 
action  will  be  embarrassing  and  self- 
defeating? 

Lines  49-54.  How  does  Prufrock 
characterize  the  society  in  which  he  has 
been  living  a  kind  of  half-life?  Why 
does  the  very  thought  of  it  make  him 
more  incapable  of  action? 

Lines  55-69.  Show  how  these  lines 
suggest  more  positively  his  shyness  and 
terror  and  yet  indicate  that  the  thought 
of  the  visit  is  not  so  dreadful  that  he 
can  come  to  an  easy  decision  about 
it. 

Lines  70-74.  Why  does  Prufrock  re- 
call the  "lonely  men  in  shirt-sleeves"  at 
this  point  in  the  poem?  What  do  they 
mean  to  him? 

Lines  75-86.  What  quality  in  the 
evening  does  he  envy? 

Lines  87-98.  What  is  he  afraid  will 


happen  if  he  tells  "all"?  What  is  meant 
by  "all"? 

Lines  99-110.  How  is  this  stanza  re- 
lated to  the  preceding  one? 

Lines  111-119.  Is  Prufrock's  analysis 
of  himself  accurate?  What  is  the  im- 
portance of  this  section  in  the  poem  as 
a  whole? 

Lines  120-131.  What  is  Prufrock  go- 
ing to  do  and  with  what  does  he  iden- 
tify himself  in  these  closing  lines  of  the 
poem? 

15.  What  clues  to  the  overall  mean- 
ing of  the  poem  are  provided  by  the 
quotation  from  Dante?  by  the  title  of 
the  poem? 

16.  Is     Eliot     advocating     anything 
(e.g.,  action  rather  than  inaction)  or  is 
he  simply  stating  a  problem?  Defend 
your  answer. 

17.  What  is  behind  Prufrock's  pre- 
dicament?  Is   Eliot  saying   anyone  or 
anything  is  to  blame? 

18.  How  typical  of  modern  man  is 
Prufrock?  In  what  ways  can  you  gen- 
eralize from  his  problem  to  the  prob- 
lem of  man  in  the  modern  world?  Do 
not  answer  this  in  a  glib  sentence  or 
two.  Think  out  your  answer  and  make 
it  as  orderly,  specific,  and  informative 
as  you  can. 

19.  Summarize  the  meaning  of  the 
poem  as  briefly  but  as  cogently  as  you 
can. 


184 


MEANINGS 


part  2 
Evaluations 


EVALUATING   LITERATURE 


So  far,  you  have  considered  what 
makes  literature  what  it  is,  you  have 
examined  certain  aspects  of  its  form  and 
craftsmanship,  and  you  have  tried  to 
become  more  sensitive  to  tone  and  more 
aware  of  meanings.  But  now  consider 
this  problem:  A  sad  tale  from  a  journal 
that  we  might  call  True  Heartaches  has 
everything  that  we  have  talked  about 
so  far— happenings,  characters,  setting, 
language,  tone,  and  meanings— yet  no 
one  with  any  judgment  at  all  would  say 
that  this  melancholy  piece  of  prose  has 
the  same  power  over  the  reader  as,  for 
example,  a  story  by  Hawthorne  or  Wil- 
liam Faulkner.  Think  of  some  other 
combinations:  a  play  by  Shakespeare 
versus  a  soap  opera,  a  poem  by  Robert 
Frost  versus  a  jingle  on  a  valentine,  a 
novel  by  Joseph  Conrad  versus  a  Dick 
Merriwell  thriller.  In  every  case  the 
elements  we  observed  and  described  in 
the  last  section  are  present.  What,  then, 
makes  the  difference  between  the  good 
work  and  the  poor  one?  To  supply  a  few 
answers  for  such  a  question  is  the  pur- 
pose of  this  section. 

Putting  the  problem  in  other  words, 
we  might  say  that  in  the  last  section  we 
were  thinking  about  literature  in  a 
quantitative  way.  We  wanted  to  dis- 
cover what  the  main  aspects  of  a  piece 
of  writing  are  and  how  many  of  them 
there  are.  Now  we  are  interested  in 
looking  at  literature  qualitatively.  We 
want  to  know  what  makes  one  story  bet- 
ter than  another,  one  play  better  than 
another,  one  poem  better  than  another. 

There  is,  of  course,  no  one  way  of 


measuring  works  of  art  because  we  all 
use  different  yardsticks.  Loosely  we  call 
the  yardstick  "taste."  More  specifically, 
a  yardstick  is  a  compound  of  our  likes 
and  dislikes,  our  desires  and  needs,  our 
preconceptions,  our  knowledge  and 
wisdom  and  experience— everything,  in 
short,  that  makes  up  our  particular 
psycho-physiological  being.  Since  we 
are  all  different  we  like  different  things, 
and  since  we  like  different  things  we  are 
not  going  to  agree  wholly  on  what 
makes  one  piece  of  literature  better 
than  another.  Let  us  try  to  clear  this 
up  with  a  simple  example. 

You  and  four  friends  visit  an  automo- 
bile showroom.  On  anything  involving 
weight,  number,  or  size  you  can  agree 
perfectly  because  you  all  use  the  same 
methods  of  measurement.  You  all  agree 
that  the  model  on  display,  a  coupe, 
weighs  so  many  pounds,  has  a  wheel- 
base  of  so  many  inches,  has  six  cylinders, 
and  is  robin's-egg  blue  in  color.  There 
are  a  host  of  details  like  this  on  which 
there  is  not  the  slightest  difference  of 
opinion.  But— and  here  is  where  you 
start  arguing— you  say  this  is  just  the 
car  that  you  have  been  waiting  for, 
whereas  the  others  say  they  wouldn't 
have  it  if  the  dealer  gave  it  to  them. 
What  has  happened?  The  conversation 
has  passed  from  observation  and  de- 
scription to  evaluation.  And,  in  the 
process  of  evaluation,  you  are  all  em- 
ploying different  standards.  You  want 
the  car  because  you  have  always  wanted 
a  coupe  painted  robin's-egg  blue.  Friend 
A  wants  an  eight-cylinder  car  because 


136 


EVALUATING    LITERATURE 


he  values  power;  Friend  B  wants  a 
Willys  because  he  is  thinking  of  econ- 
omy; Friend  C  wants  a  car  with  greater 
speed;  and  Friend  D  disagrees  with  you 
out  of  sheer  cussedness.  The  Romans, 
not  the  Greeks  in  this  case,  had  a  word 
for  it:  de  gustibus  non  est  disputandum, 
"there  is  no  arguing  about  tastes." 

Something  of  the  same  situation  pre- 
vails when  we  try  to  argue  with  a  friend 
that  one  poem  is  better  than  another,  or 
one  play  is  better  than  another.  Maybe 
the  friend  will  agree;  and  then  maybe 
he  won't.  So  at  the  beginning  of  this 
discussion  of  evaluation  we  might  as 
well  face  up  frankly  to  the  fact  that 
there  is  no  single  rule  or  set  of  rules 
which  you  can  use  in  evaluating  litera- 
ture. Nor  are  the  authors  of  this  book 
going  to  recommend  any  single  rule  or 
set  of  rules.  Rather,  they  hope  to  show 
you  a  number  of  standards  which  people 
have  used  over  a  long  period  of  time  and 
have  found  satisfying.  Literary  criticism 
is  not  the  completely  chaotic  affair  that 
the  Roman  proverb  might  suggest.  It 
is  not  a  case  of  every  man  for  himself. 
Just  as  a  great  many  people  will  agree 
with  you  that  a  robin's-egg  blue  coupe 
is  the  right  car,  so  many  will  agree  with 
you  that  the  books  you  like  are  good 
books  and  the  poems  you  dislike  are 
poor  poems.  Many  people  agree  on 
standards,  but  not  all  people.  It  would 
be  a  dull  world  if  they  did. 

You  may  ask,  why  worry  about  stand- 
ards? Won't  I  reach  the  same  conclu- 
sions whether  I  am  conscious  of  my 
standards  or  not?  There  are  several 
answers  to  this.  You  may  come  to  the 
same  conclusions,  to  be  sure,  but  it  is 
highly  doubtful  that  you  will  under- 
stand them  so  well.  An  estimate  of 
twenty  inches  means  something  to  you 
only  if  you  know  what  inches  are;  the 


statement  "this  is  a  good  book"  has 
meaning  only  as  you  know  what  you 
mean  by  goodness.  Furthermore,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  through  a  knowl- 
edge of  standards  you  will  reach  a 
sounder  and  more  defensible  conclu- 
sion, that  you  will  see  many  things  in  a 
literary  work  that  you  would  otherwise 
miss.  Knowing  your  criterion  in  literary 
evaluation  is  analogous  to  knowing  your 
major  premise  in  an  argument.  It  is 
building  from  a  known  rather  than  an 
unknown.  It  stops  silly  criticisms  before 
they  begin.  A  friend  of  yours  says  he 
does  not  like  Wolfe's  Of  Time  and  the 
River  because  it  is  too  long.  Does  he 
realize  that  his  criterion  or  major  prem- 
ise is  that  "all  long  books  are  bad"? 
A  knowledge  of  standards,  in  short, 
makes  for  thoughtful  evaluations  which 
will  be  more  satisfying  to  you  and  more 
acceptable  to  your  friends. 

The  standards  which  are  employed  in 
evaluating  literature  can  be  classified  in 
many  ways.  In  this  discussion  we  shall 
divide  them  roughly  into  (a)  those 
which  apply  to  a  part  of  the  work,  and 
(b)  those  which  apply  to  the  whole 
work.  The  distinction  needs  a  brief  ex- 
planation. In  the  first  instance,  a  reader 
may  be  interested  only  in  the  way  stories 
turn  out.  His  standard  might  be  called 
"the  yardstick  of  happy  endings."  Meas- 
ured by  such  a  yardstick,  the  story  with 
a  happy  ending  becomes  good;  the  story 
without  it  becomes  a  waste  of  time. 
Other  aspects  of  the  work  mean  little 
or  nothing  in  the  judgment  he  makes. 
He  does  not  care  what  the  characters 
are  like,  what  the  setting  is,  or  how 
meaningless  the  story  may  be;  he  does 
not  even  care  whether  the  ending  is  ar- 
rived at  logically  or  not.  All  he  wants 
is  that  it  be  happy.  Indeed,  sometimes 
he  sneaks  a  look  at  the  last  few  pages 


EVALUATING    LITERATURE         137 


before  reading  a  story  in  order  to  see 
whether  it  is  worth  reading.  This,  of 
course,  is  a  rather  idiotic  example,  but 
it  demonstrates  what  a  standard  is  that 
involves  only  a  part.  One  involving  the 
whole  work  might  be  "the  yardstick 
of  internal  consistency."  According  to 
this  criterion,  a  story  to  be  good  must 
have  all  of  its  parts  harmoniously  related 
and  completely  interdependent.  The 
happenings  must  depend  upon  the  type 
of  people  involved;  the  setting  must  re- 
flect and  add  to  the  events  and  the 
characterization;  the  tone  must  be  ap- 
propriate; and  so  on. 

To  keep  before  you  the  fact  that  we 
are  considering  methods  of  evaluation 
in  this  section,  we  shall  constantly  refer 
to  our  standards  as  "yardsticks."  It  is 


measurement  we  are  interested  in,  not 
an  enumeration  of  parts  or  devices  or 
reading  problems.  Our  main  question  is: 
What  are  the  yardsticks  which  readers 
most  commonly  use  in  evaluating  litera- 
ture? In  considering  each  we  shall  try  to 
discover  what  it  is,  how  it  operates,  and 
what  its  peculiar  advantages  and  disad- 
vantages are.  Under  Evaluations  involv- 
ing parts  or  characteristics,  we  shall 
consider  the  following  yardsticks:  (1) 
clarity,  (2)  escape,  (3)  special  doc- 
trine, (4)  real  life,  and  (5)  pleasure  in 
artistic  details;  under  Evaluations  in- 
volving the  whole  work,  we  shall  take 
up  these  yardsticks:  (1)  the  effect  on 
the  reader,  (2)  the  personality  of  the 
author,  (3)  internal  consistency,  (4) 
insight. 


EVALUATIONS   INVOLVING 
PARTS   OR  CHARACTERISTICS 


Clarity 

THE  yardstick  of  clarity  is  a  very 
simple  standard  of  measurement 
according  to  which  everything  that  re- 
sists reasonably  careful  reading  is  con- 
sidered poor  writing.  Behind  such  a 
standard  is  the  assumption  that  all  writ- 
ing is  meant  to  be  communication. 

The  justification  for  such  a  yardstick 
is  obvious.  A  writer,  if  he  expects  read- 
ers to  spend  time  and  money  on  his 
works,  has  an  obligation  to  make  clear 
what  is  on  his  mind.  The  writer's  retort 
(to  the  charge  of  obscurity)  that  he  was 


interested  only  in  self-expression  will 
not  hold  water,  for  if  that  were  true  he 
should  not  have  pushed  the  work  into 
print.  By  the  act  of  publication  he  indi- 
cates that  he  wants  readers  and,  hence, 
that  communication  as  well  as  self-ex- 
pression is  involved.  Yet  there  is  some- 
thing to  be  said  against  too  rigorous  an 
application  of  this  standard.  Possibly 
the  writer  is  using  terms  which  as  yet 
you  have  not  encountered  and  conse- 
quently do  not  understand.  Possibly  his 
technique  is  a  new  one  to  you,  or,  as 
in  the  case  of  many  modern  poets,  pos- 
sibly he  has  compressed  his  material  so 


138        PARTS  OR  CHARACTERISTICS 


tightly  that  extraordinary  care  in  read- 
ing is  required.  In  any  event,  in  fairness 
to  the  author  you  should  take  into  ac- 
count your  own  relevant  limitations, 
and  you  should  be  sure  that  you  have 
read  the  work  with  sufficient  care,  be- 
fore branding  a  literary  work  inade- 
quate because  of  lack  of  clarity. 

Questions 

IN  "The  Cask  of  Amontillado"  (p.  72), 
Poe  fails  to  tell  us  how  Fortunate 
had  injured  and  insulted  the  "I"  of  the 
story.  Is  this  justification  for  lowering 
one's  estimate  of  the  work  on  the 
grounds  of  obscurity? 

2.  In  Dunsany's  A  Night  at  an  Inn 
(p.  42),  you  do  not  know  what  hap- 
pens to  the  characters  at  the  end  be- 
cause they  are  one  by  one  drawn  from 
the  stage  by  a  force  which  they  cannot 
resist.  Is  this  justification  for  branding 
the  play  unclear? 

3.  Mr.  I.  A.  Richards  criticizes  the 
last  lines  of  Keats'  "Ode  on  a  Grecian 
Urn"    (Part    III)    for    being    "pseudo- 


statement"  (that  is,   a  statement  that 
seems  to  make  sense  but  is  meaningless). 
You  will  recall  the  lines: 
"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty"-that  is 

all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 

know. 

Do  you  think  Mr.  Richards'  comment 
justified?  If  so,  why?  If  not,  what  do  the 
lines  mean?  Can  the  lines  be  justified 
for  reasons  other  than  meaning? 

4.  As  you  look  back  over  your  own 
reading,  how  frequently  have  you  em- 
ployed the  yardstick  of  clarity?  Can  you 
think  of  any  instances  in  which  you  have 
done  so  unfairly? 

5.  Evaluate  the  following  poem,  Em- 
erson's "Brahma,"  by  the  yardstick  of 
clarity.  In  doing  so,  consider  the  follow- 
ing questions:  Is  the  poem  sheer  non- 
sense? Is  it  obscure  but  understandable 
if  one  reads  carefully  enough?  Is  it  ob- 
scure but  understandable  if  one  knows 
something    about    the    principles    of 
Hindu  philosophy?  Is  it  clear  on  first 
reading? 


RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON 


Brahma 


IF  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 
They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same; 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and 
fame. 


They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings; 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 
And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  Seven; 

But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good! 
Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on 
heaven. 


139 


Escape 

IF  you  measure  by  the  yardstick  of 
escape,  the  literary  work  which 
causes  you  to  forget  yourself  and  the 
circumstances  of  your  own  life  is  by 
that  fact  good.  You  probably  employ 
this  yardstick  oftener  than  you  think,  for 
in  a  world  full  of  perplexities  and  frus- 
trations it  is  natural  for  you  and  every- 
one else  to  want  to  slip  away  into  a  land 
where  men  are  men  and  women  are  ex- 
quisite creatures  in  slinky  black  evening 
dresses.  Writing  that  is  most  success- 
ful in  effecting  escape  deals  with  adven- 
ture, love,  and  murder. 

"A  shot  rang  out  in  the  Silver  Star 
saloon!"  There's  the  beginning  of  ad- 
venture. You  can  visualize  the  rest:  the 
mustachioed  barkeeper;  the  beetle- 
browed  villain  with  his  shoestring  neck- 
tie; the  strong,  silent  hero  (inevitably 
called  Tex);  his  faithful  but  comically 
stupid  "pardner";  the  fresh-faced  girl 
who  can  ride  with  the  best  of  'em;  and 
honest  John,  her  father.  The  story,  if  it 
is  excellent  as  escape,  is  exciting,  fast- 
moving,  tense,  and  not  too  complicated. 
The  villain— curse  his  dirty  heart!— gets 
his  just  deserts,  and  Tex  gets  the  girl.  A 
few  implausibilities  in  the  story  will  not 
bother  you  if  events  move  fast  enough 
to  keep  your  interest.  In  general,  you 
demand  the  same  qualities  of  all  adven- 
ture stories,  whether  you  read  them  in 
books  or  magazines,  see  them  in  plays 
or  movies.  Whether  it  is  cloak-and-dag- 
ger stuff,  sports  stories,  or  sagas  of  the 
air  and  sea,  you  want  movement,  sus- 
pense, thrills,  and  an  emphasis  on  physi- 
cal action.  You  want  a  happy  ending. 
You  want  uncomplicated  characters  that 
are  clearly  either  good  or  bad.  Espe- 
cially, you  want  the  exotic  scene  and 
the  unfamiliar  adventure.  The  writers  in 
the  pulp  magazines  may  satisfy  you, 


but  the  great  romanticists  are  sure  to  do 
so:  Cooper,  Scott,  Stevenson,  Dumas, 
Hugo. 

Romances  need  not  necessarily  be  set 
at  so  fast  a  tempo  as  adventure  fiction. 
Indeed  the  good  ones,  you  probably 
feel,  are  at  their  best  when  they  are 
quiet:  a  hushed  night  with  a  silver  moon 
riding  overhead,  a  man  and  a  girl,  the 
soft  splashing  of  a  fountain,  a  whispered 
"I  love  you."  The  old  formula  is  always 
adequate:  boy  meets  girl,  boy  loses 
girl,  boy  gets  girl.  The  main  thing  is 
that  the  story  gets  you  away  from  the 
freckled  kid  next  door  with  whom  you 
go  to  the  movies  on  Saturday  nights. 

In  detective  fiction,  you  expect  the 
excitement,  suspense,  and  physical  ac- 
tion of  the  adventure  story,  plus,  pos- 
sibly, a  boy-girl  routine  that  is  interest- 
ing but  not  so  absorbing  that  it  inter- 
feres with  the  solution  of  the  crime.  In 
romance  and  adventure,  you  know  the 
villain  from  the  outset;  in  the  detective 
stories  you  are  not  so  sure.  The  fun 
comes  in  finding  out.  And  the  more  you 
are  fooled— provided  the  author  has 
played  fair— the  better  you  like  it.  In  a 
sense,  therefore,  the  detective  story 
combines  the  appeals  of  the  adventure 
and  the  romance  and  adds  to  them  a 
type  of  mystery  which  tantalizes  the  in- 
tellect. That  detective  stories  are  con- 
sidered good  reading  is  evidenced  by 
the  fact  that  Sherlock  Holmes,  Perry 
Mason,  Hercule  Poirot,  and  Lord  Peter 
Wimsey  are  probably  the  best  known 
characters  of  modern  fiction. 

Poems  which  help  us  best  to  escape 
from  the  complexities  of  modern  life 
have,  curiously  enough,  almost  none  of 
the  qualities  which  we  have  been  con- 
sidering with  regard  to  fiction  and 
drama.  The  most  popular  escapist  po- 
etry is  quiet,  soothing,  melodic.  It  is 
nonintellectual,  questions  nothing  about 


140 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


life,  death,  or  immortality.  It  is  like  a 
waltz  played  softly  and  dreamily.  By 
such  a  standard,  Longfellow  is  greater 
than  Whitman,  Poe  than  Emerson,  and 
Tennyson  than  Wordsworth.  You  might 
be  able  to  point  out  exceptions  to  these 
generalizations  in  the  form  of  poems 
like  Harte's  "Heathen  Chinee"  and  bal- 
lads like  "Frankie  and  Johnny"  (p.  39), 
but  it  would  generally  hold  that  readers 
wanting  escape  through  poetry  prefer 
something  like  Longfellow's  "The  Day 
Is  Done"  with  its  famous  final  stanza: 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 

Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

It  has  been  the  custom  for  many 
teachers  and  literary  sophisticates  to 
pooh-pooh  escapist  reading,  and  to  de- 
cry the  standard  by  which  it  can  be 
measured  and  considered  good.  Their 
point  is  that  other  and  more  serious 
works  of  art  bring  richer  pleasure  and 
a  better  understanding  of  your  own 
experiences.  The  point  is  well  taken. 
The  continual  practice  of  identifying 
yourself  with  a  hero  or  heroine  who  al- 
ways comes  off  triumphantly,  while  sat- 
isfying to  the  ego,  is  quite  likely  to  make 
you  less  capable  of  handling  real-life 
situations,  where  choices  between  right 
and  wrong  are  not  so  clear-cut  and 
where  happy  endings  are  often  the  ex- 
ception rather  than  the  rule.  Yet  there 
is  some  defense  for  considering  escapist 
reading  good  reading.  At  one  time  or 


another,  all  of  us  need  relaxation;  we  can 
not  always  go  to  the  movies  or  play  golf. 
On  such  occasions,  Sherlock  Holmes  or 
Longfellow  may  be  just  what  the  doc- 
tor ordered. 

Questions 

How  do  you  account  for  the  popu- 
larity of  the  Sherlock  Holmes  sto- 
ries? Would  you  say  that  more  recent 
detective  fiction  like  that  by  Dashiell 
Hammett  and  Erie  Stanley  Gardner  is 
more  absorbing?  What  elements  have 
been  added  or  have  been  dropped  in 
these  newer  works? 

2.  Is  "The  Cask  of  Amontillado"  (p. 
72)  good  as  escapist  reading?  Is  Bab- 
bitt, as  represented  by  the  passage  be- 
ginning on  page  55?  Is  "The  Idol's  Eye" 
(p.   105)?  In  each  case  give  your  rea- 
sons for  your  answer. 

3.  Why  is  prose  fiction  more  popular 
as  escape  reading  than  poetry? 

4.  Of  the  reading  which  you  do  that 
is  unconnected  with  school  work,  how 
much  of  it  rates  high  by  this  standard? 

5.  Do    you    find    that    those    works 
which  you  evaluate  highly  by  the  yard- 
stick of  escape  also  come  out  well  when 
measured  by  the  yardstick  of  clarity? 
Account  for  whatever  answer  you  make. 

6.  What  do  you  think  would  be  the 
effect  upon  society  if  we  read  nothing 
but  good  escapist  literature?  If  we  read 
no  escapist  literature? 

7.  Is  Emerson's  "Brahma"   (p.  139) 
good  by  the  yardstick  of  escape?  Is  the 
following  poem   by   Emily   Dickinson 
good  by  this  yardstick? 


I  NEVER  saw  a  moor, 
I  never  saw  the  sea; 
Yet  know  I  how  the  heather  looks, 
And  what  a  wave  must  be. 


I  never  spoke  with  God, 
Nor  visited  in  heaven; 
Yet  certain  am  I  of  the  spot 
As  if  the  chart  were  given. 


I   NEVER   SAW   A   MOOR        141 


Special  doctrine 

BY  the  yardstick  of  special  doctrine, 
a  literary  work  is  considered  good 
if  it  states  or  implies  ideas  which  are 
congenial  to  the  reader.  More  simply, 
this  means  that  we  like  what  we  agree 
with.  Phrased  so  baldly,  this  hardly 
seems  like  a  sound  standard  for  evalu- 
ation; yet  it  is  a  common  one,  and  de- 
serves a  franker  attention  than  it  nor- 
mally gets. 

In  considering  such  a  yardstick  as 
this  one,  we  could  range  through  the 
whole  gamut  of  human  interests,  for  to 
one  degree  or  another  everything  we 
have  opinions  about  affects  our  listening 
judgments.  Here  we  can  discuss  only 
those  concerns  which  most  radically  af- 
fect these  judgments:  morality,  religion, 
politics  and  economics,  philosophy,  and 
literary  criticism. 

MORALITY 

To  those  who  are  preoccupied  with 
questions  of  morality,  that  writing 
which  exemplifies  and  encourages  prop- 
er conduct  is  good  writing;  conversely, 
whatever  is  profane,  vulgar,  or  obscene, 
whatever  encourages  laxness  in  morals 
is  bad.  Behind  such  evaluation  is  the 
assumption  that  imaginative  writing, 
though  primarily  designed  to  be  pleas- 
urable, must  inevitably  lead  to  instruc- 
tion in  behavior. 

This  is  a  critical  standard  that  has 
been  employed  for  thousands  of  years. 
Plato,  for  example,  felt  that  parts  of 
Homer  and  Hesiod  should  be  kept  from 
the  young  because  they  contained  er- 
roneous representations  of  the  nature  of 
gods  and  heroes,  and  were  therefore 
not  conducive  to  proper  conduct.  In- 
deed, censorship  of  fiction  was  to  be 
one  of  the  first  concerns  of  the  rulers  of 


the  ideal  state.  In  the  Republic  Plato 
quotes  Socrates  as  saying: 

Then  the  first  thing  will  be  to  estab- 
lish a  censorship  of  the  writers  of  fiction, 
and  let  the  censors  receive  any  tale  of 
fiction  which  is  good  and  reject  the  bad; 
and  we  will  desire  mothers  and  nurses 
to  tell  their  children  the  authorized  ones 
only.  Let  them  fashion  the  mind  with 
such  tales,  even  more  fondly  than  they 
mould  the  body  with  their  hands;  but 
most  of  those  which  are  now  in  use  must 
be  discarded. 

In  every  land  there  have  been  those 
who,  like  Plato,  have  employed  the 
yardstick  of  morality:  Horace,  Ben  Jon- 
son,  Tolstoy,  and  William  Dean  How- 
ells,  to  name  only  a  few. 

Among  those  who  use  this  measure 
of  value,  however,  there  is  no  agree- 
ment as  to  what  "morality"  as  applied 
to  literature  means.1  To  some  it  means 
simply  that  the  author  has  been  honest 
with  himself  and  his  material,  that  his  is, 
in  short,  the  scientific  spirit.  In  a  para- 
doxical sense,  a  literary  work  is  moral 
to  such  critics  when  it  is  amoral— when 
it  does  not  take  sides  on  a  moral  ques- 
tion, but  merely  reports  what  the  author 
observes.  By  such  an  interpretation  of 
morality,  the  novels  of  Zola  could  be 
considered  highly  moral,  though  by 
other  interpretations  they  might  be 
blasted  as  vulgar  and  indecent. 

Other   readers,   though   refusing    to 


1It  is  worth  pointing  out  that  there  is  even  a 
misapprehension  as  to  what  morality  or  immo- 
rality in  any  context  means.  In  America  the  com- 
mon connotation  of  the  latter  term  is  sexual 
irregularity.  Actually,  of  course,  the  word  denotes 
any  deviation  from  the  mores,  and  thus  includes 
murder,  stealing,  lying,  cheating,  and  a  host  of 
other  activities. 


142 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


favor  amorality,  nevertheless  consider 
a  literary  work  immoral  only  when  in 
its  overall  implications  it  condones  mis- 
conduct. These  persons  believe  that  no 
worthy  literary  treatment  of  life  can 
leave  the  final  impression  that  adultery, 
for  instance,  is  socially  acceptable,  that 
lying  is  inconsequential,  that  murder  is 
of  no  moment.  They  argue  that  the  issue 
here  is  not  only  one  of  propriety  or  even 
of  divine  law,  but  of  human  survival. 
Society  would  disintegrate  overnight, 
they  insist,  if  individuals  suddenly 
ceased  to  have  regard  for  person  or 
property.  As  instruction,  they  conclude, 
literature  cannot  be  allowed  to  run 
counter  to  what  is  necessary  for  race 
preservation. 

Still  other  readers,  those  at  the  oppo- 
site extreme  from  the  first  group  men- 
tioned, believe  a  literary  work  is  im- 
moral if  it  in  any  fashion  exhibits  an 
indecent  act  or  employs  a  coarse  or  ob- 
scene word.  They  find  a  work  especially 
reprehensible  if  it  contains  swearing, 
drinking,  divorce,  or  any  suggestion  of 
improper  sexual  relations.  Literature 
should  be  uplifting;  it  should  protect 
its  readers  from  immoralities,  not  expose 
its  readers  to  them.  This  attitude  is 
most  dramatically  represented  today  in 
an  organization  like  Boston's  Watch  and 
Ward  Society,  which  agitates  for  a  po- 
lice ban  on  the  sale  of  any  work  which 
in  the  opinion  of  its  officers  is  morally 
offensive.  In  recent  years  such  works  as 
FarrelFs  Studs  Lonigan  and  Lillian 
Smith's  Strange  Fruit  became  court 
cases.  Tobacco  Road  and  The  Children's 
Hour  were  not  permitted  to  play  in 
Boston  theaters.  Today,  the  general  ef- 
fect of  such  censorship  is  to  make  a 
work  doubly  popular.  But  it  was  not  al- 
ways so.  Moral  criticism  kept  many  an 
author  from  getting  a  reading  public. 


Walt  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass  for 
many  years  was  a  volume  that  many 
respectable  people  did  not  want  in  their 
houses.  Theodore  Dreiser  through  a  stip- 
ulation in  the  contract  was  able  to  force 
publication  of  Sister  Carrie  but  then  was 
not  able  to  make  the  publisher  distribute 
it  to  booksellers.  Even  Huckleberry 
Finn  was  forced  off  the  library  shelves 
in  certain  cities  because  influential  citi- 
zens thought  it  crude  and  improper. 

The  problem  is  a  thorny  one.  On  two 
points  practically  all  are  agreed:  (1) 
that  literature  in  dealing  with  human 
experience  cannot  fail  to  become  in- 
volved with  what  is  right  and  wrong  in 
human  conduct;  (2)  that  literature,  like 
experience  itself,  is  a  teacher.  But  the 
question  still  remains,  to  what  extent 
should  it  consciously  teach  right  con- 
duct? Those  who  argue  that  literature 
should  not  be  expected  to  be  the  "hand- 
maiden of  morality"  point  out  that  an 
author  cannot  treat  life  intelligently  un- 
less he  is  permitted  to  show  evil  as  well 
as  good.  Even  obscene  passages  and 
vulgar  words  are  defensible,  they  say,  if 
they  contribute  to  the  air  of  reality,  and 
in  doing  so  make  the  literary  work  a 
more  profound  and  effective  delineation 
of  life.  Instruction  is  a  matter  of  creating 
understanding,  and  understanding  must 
be  based  upon  a  knowledge  of  all  the 
facts.  Those  who  want  literature  to  be 
morally  uplifting  retort  that  nothing  is 
to  be  gained  by  a  parading  of  what  is 
sordid  and  vulgar.  Indeed,  they  argue, 
much  may  be  lost  because  the  attitudes 
and  values  of  the  young  may  be  perma- 
nently warped.  Instruction,  they  insist, 
must  be  a  matter  of  indoctrination  in 
what  is  right,  right  being  determined 
by  divine  law  and  human  convention. 

The  basic  weakness  in  the  position  of 
those  who  believe  that  literature  should 


PARTS    OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


143 


not  be  expected  to  be  the  "handmaiden 
of  morality"  is  that  it  tails  to  recognize 
that  literature  in  admittedly  affecting 
men's  attitudes  and  conduct  imposes  a 
social  responsibility  upon  the  author.  To 
what  extent  fiction,  plays,  and  movie 
scenarios  are  responsible  for  juvenile  de- 
linquency is  an  open  question,  but  it  is 
a  question  nevertheless.  The  basic  weak- 
ness in  the  opposite  position  is  that  the 
extreme  moralist  too  often  assumes  that 
his  right  and  wrong  are  absolutes, 
whereas  in  reality  they  are  simply  a 
compound  of  his  own  traditions,  cus- 
toms, and  prejudices.  Frequently,  too, 
in  concentrating  on  a  detail  he  loses 
sight  of  the  fundamental  thesis. 

RELIGION 

That  religious  affiliations  and  doc- 
trines get  into  our  literary  evaluations 
cannot  be  denied.  Confirmed  Protestants 
have  been  less  enthusiastic  about  Evelyn 
Waugh  since  his  conversion  to  Cathol- 
icism, and  strict  Catholics  have  had  a 
difficult  time  becoming  enthusiastic 
about  Mark  Twain  because  of  his  criti- 
cism of  their  church.  Some  persons  of 
both  faiths  have  harbored  qualms  about 
a  writer  like  Dreiser  who  questions  the 
validity  of  all  religion.  In  many  cases, 
individual  evaluations  based  upon  reli- 
gious beliefs  have  been  fortified  by  offi- 
cial institutional  positions  which  appear 
in  the  literary  reviews  of  denomina- 
tional publications. 

POLITICS    AND   ECONOMICS 

Political  affiliation  and  economic  doc- 
trine affect  our  literary  judgments  also. 
At  its  best,  the  resulting  criticism  shows 
some  rather  astonishing  inequities  in 
treatment.  It  seems  clear  that  Dr.  John- 
son would  have  thought  more  highly  of 
"Lycidas"  had  Milton  been  a  Tory,  that 
English  Liberals  would  have  been  more 


enthusiastic  about  Southey's  writings  had 
he  not  deserted  their  party,  that  Brit- 
ish Laborites  would  be  fonder  of  Kip- 
ling had  he  not  sanctioned  imperialism. 
Contemporary  Americans  who  tend  to 
be  liberal  in  their  political  thinking  are 
likely  to  place  a  high  estimate  upon 
writers  like  Hemingway,  Dos  Passos, 
Upton  Sinclair,  and  Lillian  Hellman; 
more  conservative  readers,  by  the  same 
token,  prefer  authors  who  accept  the 
status  quo  or,  at  least,  are  not  particu- 
larly critical  of  it— authors  like  Kenneth 
Roberts  and  Clarence  Buddington  Kel- 
land.  Some  critics  in  this  country  have 
been  strongly  partisan  in  their  insist- 
ence that  literature  show  what  they 
called  "class  struggle";  others  that  liter- 
ature should  clearly  uphold  what  they 
called  "the  American  way  of  life."  It 
is  to  be  hoped  that  no  group  in  this 
country,  however,  will  go  to  the  ex- 
treme of  the  Nazis  or  the  Russians,  who 
actually  banned  or  burned  books  which 
they  considered  contrary  to  the  official 
"party  line." 


PHILOSOPHY 


Philosophical  beliefs  often  give  the 
assumptions  upon  which  literary  conclu- 
sions are  based.  Platonists,  believing  in 
a  world  of  ultimate  truth  beyond  the 
realm  of  our  senses  and  apprehensible 
only  through  our  intuition,  are  likely 
to  have  especially  high  regard  for  those 
works  which  suggest  that  the  material 
world  is  secondary,  imperfect,  and  tran- 
sitory. Thus  Emerson  found  such  writers 
as  Milton,  Goethe,  and  Coleridge  espe- 
cially exciting.  Non-Platonists  who  be- 
lieve that  truth  can  be  apprehended 
only  by  the  senses  look  not  for  evi- 
dences of  intuitive  insight  but  for  a 
detailed  and  faithful  representation  of 
life  based  on  careful  sensory  observa- 
tion. Such  thinkers  are  likely  to  put  a 


144 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


considerably  higher  estimate  than  the 
Platonists  would  upon  such  writers  as 
Zola,  Hardy,  Dostoevski,  Dreiser,  and 
Dos  Passos. 

The  relation  between  philosophy  and 
critical  yardsticks  is  a  vast  and  compli- 
cated problem,  which,  at  first  glance, 
may  seem  to  have  nothing  to  do  with 
your  own  reading.  Yet  to  the  extent 
that  you  have  notions  about  the  nature 
of  truth,  goodness,  and  beauty,  you  can 
be  said,  very  loosely,  to  be  a  philoso- 
pher. Obviously  what  you  think  about 
goodness  in  general  will  affect  what  you 
think  is  good  in  literature;  what  you 
think  about  truth  and  beauty  in  general 
will  determine  to  a  large  degree  what 
you  expect  of  them  in  literature. 

LITERARY  CRITICISM 

Special  doctrines  within  the  field  of 
literary  criticism  have  an  obvious  effect 
on  one's  evaluations.  Again,  this  might 
look  like  a  matter  only  for  the  experts 
but  not  for  you.  But,  again,  you  are  per- 
sonally involved,  for  every  age  has  its 
preferences,  and  you  as  well  as  the  lead- 
ing literary  critics  are  a  product  of  your 
age.  What  the  great  majority  of  eight- 
eenth-century readers  wanted  was  sim- 
plicity if  not  austerity  in  style,  ease  in 
reading,  and  neatness  of  form.  Depre- 
cating the  way  Shakespeare  played  fast 
and  loose  with  time  and  place,  they 
urged  their  dramatists  to  confine  a 
play  to  one  setting  and  the  time  span  of 
the  action  to  twenty-four  hours.  Poetry, 
they  felt,  should  be  written  in  rhymed 
couplets,  and  in  relatively  elegant  lan- 
guage. They  thought  the  conceits  of 
John  Donne  tiresome,  and  they  pre- 
ferred the  simpler  ideas  and  lines  of 
Alexander  Pope. 

But  what  happened  to  these  notions? 
To  a  great  extent  they  were  replaced 
by  other  standards  in  the  nineteenth 


century,  and  these  in  turn  were  super- 
seded by  new  points  of  view  in  the 
twentieth.  Today,  most  readers  want 
their  details  vigorous  and  realistic;  they 
care  very  little  about  traditional  forms; 
they  think  it  silly  for  all  poems  to  be 
written  in  rhymed  couplets  or  for  most 
of  them  to  be  about  nature;  they  like 
a  style  that  is  colorful,  jabby,  almost 
journalistic  in  flavor.  Are  these  timeless 
standards  of  greatness? 

Observe,  too,  that  within  the  general 
taste  pattern  of  an  age  there  are  all  sorts 
of  minor  groups  which  overlap  in  doc- 
trine but  still  retain  distinctive  empha- 
sis. Today,  there  are  the  realists,  natu- 
ralists, primitivists,  Freudians,  Marxists, 
and  a  host  of  others,  each  group  with  its 
special  tenets  and  each  evaluating  lit- 
erature according  to  those  tenets.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  you  are  a  naturalist, 
for  example,  without  knowing  it. 

The  yardstick  of  special  doctrine  is  a 
tricky  and  often  deceptive  affair.  One  of 
its  characteristic  weaknesses  is  that  it 
too  often  introduces  criteria  which  are 
irrelevant.  Worse  than  that,  it  too  often 
becomes  a  matter  of  evaluation  by  prej- 
udice, and  hence  ceases  to  be  evalua- 
tion at  all.  Conclusions  reached  by  this 
method  are  frequently  inconsequential, 
sometimes  crude  and  vicious.  Yet  we 
cannot  escape  from  our  age  or  our  tem- 
perament. We  should  be  a  pretty  sad  lot 
if  we  had  no  convictions  at  all  about 
religion,  politics  and  economics,  philos- 
ophy, or  literature.  Provided  a  doctrine 
is  reasonable  and  relevant,  no  one  can 
logically  argue  against  its  use  simply  be- 
cause it  is  the  result  of  your  private 
loyalties.  You  may  be  a  partisan,  but 
that  is  no  reason  for  your  becoming 
grossly  unreasonable.  This  yardstick, 
therefore,  can  be  manipulated  to  per- 
sonal, unintelligent,  and  evil  ends.  Too 
often  it  is.  But  it  need  not  be. 


PARTS    OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


145 


Questions 

DISCOVER  in  each  of  these  literary 
estimates    the    special    doctrine 
which  the  critic  is  employing  as  a  yard- 
stick: 

(a)  Dreiser's  Sister  Carrie: 

We  do  not  recommend  the  book  to 
the  fastidious  reader,  or  the  one  who 
clings  to  "old  fashioned  ideas."— New 
York  Times,  1907. 

And  one  feels  his  honesty,  his  deter- 
mination to  present  life  exactly  as  he 
sees  it.  He  may  not  approve  of  the  deed 
he  describes;  often  he  expresses  his  dis- 
approval in  ways  that  show  how  imper- 
fectly he  has  conquered  the  prejudices 
of  his  boyhood;  but  the  desire  to  under- 
stand triumphs  over  conventional  moral- 
ity, and  the  story  of  Carrie  Drouet 
and  Hurstwood  is  inexorably  unfolded.— 
GRANVILLE  HICKS,  The  Great  Tradi- 
tion, 1933. 

(b)  Dreiser's  The  Genius: 

His  readers  accompany  him  through 
more  than  700  pages  and  330,000  words, 
and  into  personal  details  that  even  a 
Zola  would  avoid.— Boston  Transcript, 
1915. 

Life  at  its  best  and  most  heroic  is 
rebellion.  All  artists,  big  and  little,  are 
in  their  degree  rebels.  You  [Dreiser] 
yourself  are  a  rebel.  .  .  .  Why  do  you 
not  write  the  American  novel  of  rebel- 
lion?—FLOYD  DELL,  The  Masses,  Au- 
gust 1916. 

(c)  Dreiser's  writing  in  general: 

I  am  not  quarreling  with  this  great- 
hearted writer  because  he  is  not  a  So- 
cialist in  the  narrow  sense.  Scientific 
socialism  is  only  a  part  of  a  man's  big 


job  of  understanding  the  blind  fortunes 
of  nature  and  subordinating  them  to  his 
will.  Read  a  little  book  by  a  true  scien- 
tist, Ray  Lankester's  "The  Kingdom  of 
Man/'  and  learn  what  is  the  matter  with 
our  world.— UPTON  SINCLAIR,  Money 
Writes,  1927. 

As  even  Henry  Adams  saw  and  every 
unclouded  mind  Jcnows,  the  terribly  sore 
spot  in  American  life  has  been  and  still 
is  in  the  sex  life  of  the  vast  majority. . . . 
Hence  Dreiser's  frank  and  sharp  and  pro- 
foundly serious  dealing  with  sex  as  a 
primordial  and  pervasive  and  creative 
force  was  from  the  start  and  still  is  an 
epoch-making  act  of  vicarious  liberation. 
...  It  remains  true  that  his  eminence, 
his  eminence  above  all  within  the  frame- 
work of  his  country's  literature  and  civi- 
lization, is  due  to  his  dealing  with  sex, 
to  his  constant  assertion  of  the  import 
and  in  truth,  the  sacredness  of  the  gen- 
erative process  and  function  which  is  at 
the  very  core  of  life.— LUD WIG  LEWI- 
SOHN,  Expression  in  America,  1932. 

2.  What  kinds  of  doctrines  and  atti- 
tudes  other  than  the  ones  mentioned 
here    frequently    affect    our    judgment 
(e.g.,   attitudes   toward  racial  minori- 
ties)? 

3.  What  special  doctrines  are  likely 
to  affect  the  reviews  and  comments  on 
books  which  appear  in  the  following 
periodicals  and  newspapers:  Time,  The 
New  Mosses,  The  New  Yorker,  Ladies9 
Home  Journal,  The  Nation,  The  Cath- 
olic  World,    The   Christian   Advocate, 
Hearst's  Journal  American,  McCormick's 
Chicago  Tribune,  Scripps-Howard  news- 
papers, The  Daily  Worker? 

4.  What  are  your  own  doctrines  and 
attitudes'  that  are  most  likely  to  affect 
your  literary  judgments?  Be  specific  in 
your  answer. 


146 


PARTS   OR  CHARACTERISTICS 


5.  Discover  what  a  materialist  is,  a 
humanist,  and  a  logical  positivist.  Then 
imagine,  in  turn,  that  you  are  each  of 
these  and  see  what  you  would  have  to 
say  about  a  work  like  Fry's  A  Phoenix 
Too  Frequent  (Part  III). 

6.  Do  any  special  doctrines  or  atti- 
tudes of  yours  affect  your  estimate  of 


the  following  poem  by  Gerard  Manley 
Hopkins?  Do  you  think  that  the  moral, 
religious,  social,  or  philosophical  doc- 
trine which  affects  your  judgment  ol 
this  poem  results  in  a  sounder  and  more 
defensible  estimate  of  the  poem  as  a 
literary  accomplishment  than  you  other- 
wise might  have  achieved? 


GEBARD    MANLEY    HOPKINS 

A  Nun  Takes  the  Veil 


Heaven-haven 


I  HAVE  desired  to  go  And  I  have  asked  to  be 

Where  springs  not  fail  Where  no  storms  come. 

To  fields  where  flies  no  sharp  and  Where   the   green   swell   is   in   the 

sided  hail  havens  dumb, 

And  a  few  lilies  blow.  And  out  of  the  swing  of  the  sea. 


Reprinted  from  The  Poems  of  Gerard  Manley  Hopkins  by  permission  of  the  Hopkins 
family  and  the  Oxford  University  Press. 


Real  life 

SENCE  the  rise  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
nineteenth  century  of  what  we  have 
come  to  call  realism,  a  special  emphasis 
has  been  placed  on  the  ability  of  the 
writer  to  report  life  as  it  is.  "Life  as  it 
is,"  however,  is  an  ambiguous  term  that 
can  mean,  among  other  things,  truth  to 
the  facts  of  human  life  or  truth  to  the 
general  nature  of  human  beings.  Be- 
cause these  two  interpretations  involve 
slightly  different  criteria,  we  shall  con- 
sider them  separately. 

TRUTH  TO  THE  FACTS  OF  HUMAN  LIFE 

Consciously  or  unconsciously  we  all 
probably  test  a  work  occasionally  by  the 
accuracy  of  its  facts.  According  to  this 
standard,  the  work  which  reports  ac- 
tuality in  a  flawless  manner  is  good;  the 
one  which  distorts  the  facts  as  we  know 


them  is  bad.  Essentially  what  we  are 
doing  here  is  demanding  that  the  man 
of  literature  be  also  a  historian  or  a 
scientist. 

Some  readers  prefer  to  get  their  his- 
tory through  imaginative  literature.  They 
know  the  Plantagenets  through  Shake- 
speare, the  Scottish  lairds  through  Scott, 
the  American  Indian  through  Cooper, 
and  the  Civil  War  through  Margaret 
Mitchell.  Since  such  persons  are  read- 
ing for  knowledge,  they  demand  strict 
adherence  to  the  known  facts,  and 
they  resent  any  deviations  from  them. 
Thus  they  demand  the  same  accuracy 
of  such  a  work  as  Gone  with  the 
Wind  as  another  person  might  de- 
mand of  the  Beards'  Rise  of  American 
Civilization.  Other  readers— all  of  us  at 
one  time  or  another— while  not  neces- 
sarily going  to  literature  for  history  are 
disturbed  by  inaccuracies.  Even  Keats 


HEAVEN-HAVEN 


147 


pulls  us  up  abruptly  when  in  "On  First 
Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer"  he  has 
Cortez  rather  than  Balboa  discovering 
the  Pacific. 

Often  we  treat  literature,  too,  as 
though  it  were  the  work  of  trained  so- 
cial scientists.  We  demand  that  Main 
Street  display  the  same  exhaustive  anal- 
ysis of  American  town  life  that  we  find 
in  a  work  like  the  Lynds'  Middletown, 
which  is  a  detailed  and  thorough  anal- 
ysis of  life  in  Muncie,  Indiana,  done  by 
two  of  the  country's  ablest  social  scien- 
tists. If  we  are  Brooklynites,  we  check 
on  streets  and  schools  and  bridges  in 
Betty  Smith's  A  Tree  Grows  in  Brook- 
lyn; if  we  are  Chicagoaiis,  we  read  Far- 
rell's  Studs  Lonigan  to  make  sure  that 
the  streets  are  properly  named  and  that 
Washington  Park  is  described  with  pre- 
cision. Often  a  work  is  called  inaccurate 
because  the  reader  does  not  agree  with 
the  selection  of  facts  or  with  the  inter- 
pretation that  the  author  has  given 
them.  Thus  Steinbeck's  Grapes  of 
Wrath  has  been  savagely  denounced  in 
both  Oklahoma  and  California  for  what 
the  editorial  writers  called  inaccuracy 
and  distortion.  And  Sinclair  Lewis  was 
roundly  criticized  by  businessmen  for 
Babbitt,  by  physicians  for  Arrowsmith, 
and  by  the  clergy  for  Elmer  Gantry. 

In  recent  years,  we  have  been  de- 
manding more  attention  to  the  facts  of 
psychology.  As  the  theories  of  men  like 
Freud,  Adler,  Jung,  and  Watson  have 
become  better  known,  the  terms  of  the 
psychiatrists  and  psychoanalysts  have 
gradually  crept  into  our  vocabularies. 
To  most  intelligent  readers  nowadays 
"schizophrenia"  is  no  longer  baffling; 
neither  is  "paranoiac,"  "manic  depres- 
sive," or  "psychotic."  Even  high-school 
students  speak  learnedly  of  a  "sense  of 
insecurity."  The  result  of  this  increas- 


ing awareness  of  the  terms  and  prob- 
lems of  maladjustment  is  that  many 
readers  have  come  to  treat  literary 
works  as  case  histories.  They  want  to 
analyze  the  main  characters  in  order 
to  diagnose  their  mental  diseases  and 
to  suggest  what  the  proper  cure  might 
be.  The  Freudians  have  been  particu- 
larly active  in  this  respect  with  the  re- 
sult that  every  character  from  Sophocles' 
Oedipus  to  Dreiser's  Clyde  Griffiths  has 
been  psychoanalyzed  over  and  over. 
Hamlet  has  been  an  especial  favorite. 
For  such  readers  the  handling  of  a 
psychological  abnormality  must  be  ac- 
curate. They  insist,  for  example,  that 
the  paranoiac  follow  a  plausible  pattern 
of  behavior  for  the  type  and  that  he  not 
suddenly,  because  of  the  demands  of 
the  plot  or  the  whimsy  of  the  author, 
become  a  well-adjusted  citizen.1 

Whether  you  approve  or  disapprove 
of  this  standard  of  factual  accuracy,  you 
cannot  deny  that  you— and  all  other 
readers— employ  it  from  time  to  time, 
and  that  sometimes  it  may  be  the  most 
important  single  element  leading  to  a 
literary  judgment.  The  unfairness  of  em- 
ploying this  standard  too  rigorously  is 
obvious.  Since  the  dramatist,  poet,  or 
fiction  writer  has  not  tried  to  write  his- 
tory as  such  or  a  scientific  treatise  as 
such,  it  is  unjust  to  demand  of  him  the 
factual  precision  of  history  or  science. 
Yet  we  do  expect  that  the  competent 
writer  face  his  material  seriously  and 
squarely.  Surely  this  would  imply  a  re- 
gard for  the  important  facts,  and  hence 


preoccupation  of  many  readers  has  led 
to  a  relatively  new  type  of  fiction  which  copies 
after  the  psychiatrist's  case  history  as  closely  as 
possible.  Two  of  the  most  popular  works  of  this 
nature  in  recent  years  have  been  Charles  R.  Jack- 
son's LOST  WEEKEND  and  Mary  Jane  Ward's 

THE  SNAKEPIT. 


148 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


some  obligation  to  see  them  clearly  and 
communicate  them  accurately.  You  can 
make  out  a  fairly  good  case,  conse- 
quently, for  the  employment  within 
reasonable  limits  of  the  standard  of  fac- 
tual accuracy. 

TRUTH  TO  HUMAN  NATURE 

More  than  simple  factual  accuracy, 
the  standard  of  truth  to  human  nature 
requires  that  the  work  create  a  believ- 
able place  and  characters.  If  factual 
accuracy  will  help,  well  and  good;  on 
the  other  hand,  if  representative  details 
imaginatively  conceived  establish  the 
effect,  that,  too,  is  well  and  good. 

In  many  respects  this  yardstick  in- 
volves a  work  of  art  as  a  whole,  since 
happenings,  characters,  setting,  and  dia- 
logue must  all  contribute  if  the  desired 
effect  is  to  be  achieved.  Most  readers 
who  employ  the  criterion,  however,  do 
so  without  regard  to  the  artistic  and  in- 
tellectual effects  which  also  may  be 
present.  Nor  do  they  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  the  necessary  function  of  a  char- 
acter. What  they  want  to  know  is 
whether  the  Tom  Jones  in  the  story  is, 
acts,  and  thinks  like  the  people  they 
know.  If  he  does,  the  story  is  well  writ- 
ten; if  he  does  not,  the  story  is  a  waste 
of  time— whatever  the  other  effects. 
When  used  in  this  fashion,  the  yardstick 
of  real  life  measures  an  effect  just  as 
partial  as  that  measured  for  morality  or 
factual  accuracy. 

Probably  the  best  way  to  see  what 
this  method  of  evaluation  requires  is  to 
see  what  it  excludes.  It  excludes,  clearly, 
what  Hawthorne  in  his  preface  to  the 
The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  calls  the 
"marvelous."  Strange  and  supernatural 
incidents  are  ruled  out.  The  misty  out- 
lines of  the  Flying  Dutchman  cannot 
be  seen  on  the  horizon  every  time  the 


moon  is  full;  no  ghost  may  appear  upon 
a  battlement—indeed  there  should  be 
no  battlement  in  the  first  place,  for 
the  locale  of  Gothic  terror  novels  is  sus- 
pect. Coincidence,  as  well,  comes  under 
the  heading  of  what  is  marvelous.  In 
this  sense,  fiction  must  be  less  strange 
than  life.  On  many  occasions,  probably, 
you  have  had  the  experience  of  think- 
ing about  a  person  just  before  meeting 
him,  or  even  of  prophesying  an  event 
before  it  came  true.  Yet  little  or  none  of 
this  sort  of  thing  can  get  into  a  literary 
work  if  the  effect  of  real  life  is  to  be 
achieved.  Events  must  operate  causally. 
The  story  should  proceed  like  a  string 
of  dominoes  upended  in  a  row.  All  the 
author  does  is  knock  the  first  into  the 
second,  and  the  rest  of  the  operation 
is  inevitable.  So  critical  of  forced  happy 
endings  are  many  readers  who  employ 
this  yardstick  that  they  lean  over  back- 
wards and  resent  anything  that  turns 
out  happily— however  logical  it  may  be 
shown  to  be. 

This  suggests  another  characteristic 
ruled  out  by  the  yardstick  of  real  life: 
undue  emphasis.  William  Dean  Howells 
had  this  in  mind,  for  example,  when  he 
wrote  that  the  delineation  of  sex  should 
be  kept  in  proper  proportion.  The 
French  novelists,  he  charged,  wrote  as 
though  sex  is  man's  only  interest,  where- 
as in  actuality  it  is  only  one  of  many 
interests.  The  effect  of  real  life,  many 
believe,  is  gained  not  only  by  excluding 
"marvelous"  details  but  also  by  putting 
believable  details  together  in  the  proper 
proportion. 

A  third  element  to  be  excluded  is 
what  we  loosely  call  the  type  character. 
This  term  requires  explanation.  Those 
who  divide  all  characters  into  two  neat 
little  groups— types  and  individuals— 
have  oversimplified  the  problem  to  the 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS         149 


point  where  they  are  essentially  falsify- 
ing. All  characters  who  are  at  all  be- 
lievable are  type  characters— in  the 
sense  that  they  are  representative  of  liv- 
ing people.  One  could,  if  he  wished, 
develop  a  personality  who  had  one  eye, 
two  noses,  talked  through  his  feet,  be- 
came angry  when  someone  flattered 
him,  and  was  delighted  when  someone 
punched  him  in  the  nose.  The  result 
would  be  an  individual,  certainly,  but 
he  would  just  as  certainly  be  a  monster. 
To  the  degree  that  a  character  operates 
and  reacts  the  way  normal  people  do, 
he  is  a  type.  Or  more  narrowly,  to  the 
extent  that  he  reacts  the  way  a  small 
group  of  people  do— paranoiacs,  for  ex- 
ample-he is  a  type.  What,  then,  is  the 
basis  for  the  antipathy  to  types  in  real- 
istic writing?  Briefly,  it  is  an  antipathy 
to  a  fictional  character  who  is  like  other 
fictional  characters:  the  stock  hero,  her- 
oine, villain,  Englishman,  Congressman, 
industrial  tycoon,  Kentucky  colonel,  and 
international  spy. 

If  you  had  to,  you  could  take  up  each 
of  these  and  tell  what  the  conventional 
trait  is.  The  international  spy  is  suavely 
mysterious,  the  Kentucky  colonel  is 
hospitable,  the  Congressman  is  windy, 
the  industrial  tycoon  is  domineering, 
and  so  it  goes.  In  effect,  each  is  an 
animated  quality.  You  know  what  he  is 
like  the  moment  he  appears  in  the 
story,  and  he  is  still  the  same  when  the 
story  ends.  His  choices  are  simple,  and 
he  always  decides  what  to  do  on  the 
basis  of  his  special  characteristic.  Real 
people  are  far  more  complicated  than 
this.  Take  yourself,  for  instance.  You 
may  be  patient  with  your  neighbor's 
children  and  altogether  impatient  with 
your  own  brother;  you  may  be  respect- 
ful to  your  college  instructor,  disrespect- 
ful to  your  parents,  or— what  is  more 


likely— respectful  to  your  instructor 
when  he  is  present,  alternately  respect- 
ful and  disrespectful  behind  his  back, 
and,  depending  upon  the  occasion,  re- 
spectful and  disrespectful  to  your  par- 
ents. The  point  is  that  you  are  never 
always  one  or  always  the  other.  Your 
decisions,  moreover,  are  not  easy  ones 
to  make. 

The  choice  of  the  typical  Western 
hero  between  shooting  it  out  and  tak- 
ing a  bribe  is  too  simple  a  moral  prob- 
lem to  be  representative  of  the  sort  of 
thing  we  encounter  in  real  life.  One 
alternative  is  clearly  good,  the  other 
clearly  evil.  But  what  should  one  do 
when  both  alternatives  are  part  good, 
part  evil?  If  you  will  recall  Huckleberry 
Finn,  you  will  remember  that  he  must 
make  a  choice  between  doing  what 
other  people  think  is  right  (and  turn 
Jim  over  to  the  authorities  as  a  runaway 
slave)  and  doing  what  he  feels  is  right 
(help  Jim  escape  into  a  free  state) .  This 
is  no  easy  choice  for  a  boy  to  make.  On 
the  one  side  are  the  minister,  the  Sun- 
day-school teacher,  the  judge,  and  all 
the  best  people  of  the  town;  on  the  other 
side  is  only  Jim.  Picture  the  bewilder- 
ment of  a  Western  hero  in  a  situation 
like  this! 

The  illusion  of  actual  life  will  disap- 
pear, also,  if  a  character  changes  his 
nature  too  quickly.  What  we  expect  of 
a  character  is  consistency:  either  he 
must  remain  the  same  or  he  must  change 
in  a  thoroughly  credible  manner.  As  a 
reader,  you  simply  cannot  swallow  sud- 
den "conversions."  You  say  that  people 
do  not  change  that  way,  and  you  are 
right.  The  yardstick  of  realism  will  not 
admit  any  change  as  good  unless  at 
least  three  elements  have  been  attended 
to:  a  temperament  that  makes  the 
change  possible,  circumstances  that  mo- 


150 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


tivate  the  change,  and  sufficient  time  for 
such  a  change  to  take  place. 

The  temperament,  or  basic  nature,  of 
the  character  is  important.  In  Sister 
Carrie  Dreiser  has  Hurstwood  disinte- 
grate from  a  well-to-do,  polished,  tavern 
"front-man"  to  a  Bowery  bum.  The  germ 
for  this  collapse  is  in  Hurst  wood's  gen- 
eral tendency  to  let  things  drift.  When 
we  first  meet  him,  we  observe  that  he 
has  let  his  home  life  drift  to  the  point 
where  his  family  is  emotionally  inde- 
pendent of  him  and  that  he  has  let  his 
business  life  drift  to  where  he  is  an  ele- 
gant decoration  and  nothing  else.  We 
are  not  surprised,  therefore,  when 
events  begin  turning  against  him,  that 
he  still  lets  things  slide.  It  would  have 
been  astonishing  had  he  done  anything 
else.  But  temperament  is  not  enough; 
people  don't  change  unless  something 
happens  to  them.  Thus  circumstances 
must  develop  which  believably  propel  a 
character  toward  what  his  final  nature 
is  to  be.  King  Lear  changes  from  a 
haughty  monarch  to  a  pitiably  weak  old 
man  only  after  his  daughters  Goneril 
and  Regan  have  subjected  him  to  one 
indignity  after  another.  To  be  sure,  the 
germ  of  this  collapse  is  in  Lear,  but  the 
collapse  itself  is  made  believable  by  the 
constant  banging  he  takes  from  circum- 
stance. Finally,  enough  time  must 
elapse  or  the  shift  in  character  will  seem 
too  sudden  to  be  real.  Henry  James  in 
speaking  of  one  of  his  first  novels,  Rod- 
erick Hudson,  felt  that  he  had  lost 
some  of  the  air  of  reality  because  he 
had  had  his  main  character,  an  Ameri- 
can, go  to  pieces  too  quickly  when 
placed  in  the  older  and  richer  culture  of 
Italy. 

What  we  have  just  been  implying  is 
that  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  char- 
acters, to  be  acceptable  according  to  a 


real-life  standard,  must  be  well  moti- 
vated. The  characters  must  not  be  pup- 
pets dangling  at  the  end  of  a  string 
which  the  author  is  wiggling;  their 
thoughts  must  be  the  result  of  events 
and  other  thoughts,  and  their  actions 
must  be  the  result  of  thoughts  and  other 
actions.  Hamlet's  motive  for  revenge  is 
clear  enough  for  a  six-year-old:  his 
uncle  has  murdered  his  father.  But  how 
about  the  cross-motives  behind  his  inde- 
cision? It  is  in  making  Hamlet's  indeci- 
sion believable  that  Shakespeare  shows 
his  genius,  for  a  less  able  writer  might 
easily  have  made  the  character  hesitate 
without  making  the  reasons  for  the  hesi- 
tation clear  and  believable. 

Finally,  this  standard  requires  that 
the  characters  must  talk  like  real  people. 
Actually,  no  well-drawn  character  ever 
does,  for  real  conversation  is  too  dull 
and  too  incoherent.  But  we  expect 
characters  to  give  the  effect  of  actual 
speech.  American  humorists  caught 
the  dialect  of  particular  localities  long 
before  the  more  serious  writers  did,  and 
their  stepchildren,  the  radio  comedians, 
still  rely  on  dialect  for  many  of  their 
laughs.  Dialect,  though,  is  not  enough 
for  more  serious  treatment.  To  be  real- 
istic, book  speech  must  represent  the 
actual  in  rhythm,  sentence  length  and 
emphasis,  diction,  imagery,  idioms,  and 
grammar.  Farrell,  Hemingway,  and  Sin- 
clair Lewis  have  all  been  praised  for 
catching  the  flavor  of  real  talk;  Henry 
James  has  been  criticized  for  having  all 
his  characters  talk  like  Henry  James. 

For  a  literary  work  to  measure  up 
well  against  a  strict  real-life  standard, 
then,  its  events  must  be  commonplace 
rather  than  "marvelous/*  its  details  must 
be  proportioned  according  to  their  im- 
portance in  actuality,  the  characters 
must  be  relatively  complicated,  the 


PARTS   OR  CHARACTERISTICS        151 


choices  they  make  must  not  be  too  easy, 
change  in  character  must  be  under- 
standable, every  action  must  be  moti- 
vated, and  dialogue  must  give  the  effect 
of  real  conversation.  There  are  plenty 
of  drawbacks  in  the  practice  of  employ- 
ing so  strict  a  standard.  In  the  first 
place,  you  rule  out  any  number  of  de- 
lightful works  like  Shakespeare's  A  Mid- 
summer-Night's Dream,  Foe's  "Fall  of 
the  House  of  Usher,"  and  Twain's  A 
Connecticut  Yankee  in  King  Arthur's 
Court— all  of  which  make  use  of  the 
"marvelous."  Then,  in  demanding  that 
the  characters  be  complicated,  you  for- 
get that  many  characters  are  simply 
functional.  They  are  in  the  play  or  story 
simply  to  do  something— to  get  the  main 
characters  together,  to  give  them  a 
chance  to  talk,  to  provide  excuses  for 
them  to  come  and  go.  Furthermore,  if 
the  characters,  even  the  minor  ones,  do 
not  have  dominant  traits,  we  cannot  see 
the  basis  for  anything  they  do  or  say. 
Observe  King  Lear  again.  Certainly  he 
is  complex  in  the  sense  that  he  has  many 
characteristics  and  that  his  characteris- 
tics change;  but  dominant,  particularly 
at  the  beginning,  is  his  love  for  flattery 
and  adulation.  Unless  we  see  that  trait 
clearly,  we  shall  have  great  trouble  in 
making  sense  of  what  happens.  Then, 
again,  in  demanding  that  characters  be 
real  according  to  the  standards  of  the 
real  world,  we  are  likely  to  forget  that 
they  can  be  equally  acceptable  if  they 
are  plausible  according  to  the  standards 
of  the  world  of  the  book  or  play.  To  put 
it  another  way,  the  yardstick  of  real  life 
measures  the  people  and  occurrences  of 
a  book  or  play  against  something  which 
takes  place  outside  that  book  or  play; 
the  criterion  of  plausibility  measures 
them  against  what  can  believably  take 
place  within.  About  the  latter,  we  shall 


have  more  to  say  later.  Lastly,  literature 
obviously  cannot  be  so  lengthy,  so  form- 
less, so  dull  and  unpointed  as  the  events 
of  actuality.  (Imagine  the  reaction  of  an 
audience  if  your  last  dinner-table  con- 
versation were  repeated  verbatim  on 
the  stagel) 

When  all  the  weaknesses  of  this  yard- 
stick are  listed,  however,  the  fact  still 
remains  that  the  illusion  of  reality  gives 
us  literature  that  the  twentieth-century 
mind  is  most  likely  to  read  with  thought- 
ful attention.  Judgments  made  by  this 
standard,  therefore,  are  likely  to  stand 
up  well  under  scrutiny,  probably  better 
than  the  judgments  made  according  to 
any  other  standard  so  far  mentioned. 

Questions 

WHAT  standard  for  judging  litera- 
ture are  these  critics  employing? 

Melville  attacked  his  problems  in  Moby 
Dick  so  courageously  and  resourcefully 
that  one  marvels  at  the  failure  of  the 
book  to  impress  and  influence  the  gen- 
eration after  the  war.  But  the  explana- 
tion is  simple:  after  the  war  men  were 
wrestling  with  the  problem  of  evil  as 
it  presented  itself  in  concrete  economic 
phenomena.  Melville's  problem  was 
evil  enough,  but  the  terms  in  which 
he  stated  it  were  irrelevant.— GRANVILLE 
HICKS. 

One  half  of  the  man's  [Dreiser's] 
brain,  so  to  speak,  wars  with  the  other 
half.  He  is  intelligent,  he  is  thoughtful, 
he  is  a  sound  artist— but  there  come  mo- 
ments when  a  dead  hand  falls  upon  him, 
and  he  is  once  more  the  Indiana  peas- 
ant, snuffling  absurdly  over  imbecile 
sentimentalities,  giving  a  grave  ear  to 
quackeries,  snorting  and  eye-rolling  with 
the  best  of  them.-H.  L.  MENCKEN. 


152 


PARTS   OR  CHARACTERISTICS 


2.  There  seems  good  reason  to  be-  world?  Does  this  last  question  suggest 
lieve  that  the  historical  character  on  a  possible  weakness  in  the  yardstick  of 
which    Hawthorne    modeled    his    Mr.  real  life  that  must  be  watched  for?  Is 
Hooper  in  "The  Minister's  Black  Veil"  the  fact  that  this  is  a  translation  of  any 
(p.  117)  actually  wore  a  black  handker-  importance? 

chief  instead  of  a  veil,  and  did  it  in          5.  Would     the     book     Huckleberry 

memory  of  his  dead  wife.  Do  you  find  Finn  have  been  more  real  had  certain 

that  this  lack  of  historical  accuracy  on  of   the   characters   (Pap,   for  instance) 

Hawthorne's  part  robs  the  story  of  ef-  been  profane?  If  so,  would  the  book 

fectiveness?  Why  or  why  not?  have  been  a  better  work  according  to 

3.  Is  the  change  in  the  Reverend  Mr.  this  yardstick? 

Hooper  made  believable  through  the          6.  Of  the  various  storm  descriptions 

handling  of  temperament,  circumstance,  in  the  section  on  Language  (pp.  86-92), 

time  lapse,  and  motivation?  If  so,  would  which  is  the  most  like  a  real  storm?  Is 

you   call   it  "true   to   human  nature"?  it  also  the  most  moving?  Is  there  any 

Answer  this  in  some  detail.  necessary  connection  between  what  is 

4.  Do   the  characters  in   Chekhov's  realistic  and  what  is  moving? 

The  Swan  Song   (p.  63)  talk  as  they          7.  Evaluate  the  following  sketch  ac- 

would  in  real  life?  Can  you  tell  whether  cording  to  the  criteria  of  reality.  Give 

they  talk  like  real  persons  if  you  have  all  the  reasons  you  can  think  of  for  your 

never  met  people  from  their  part  of  the  evaluation. 


WESSEL   SMITTER 


On  the  assembly  line 


IT  WAS  like  I  told  Russ  the  next  morning  while  we  were  waiting  for  the 
timekeep  to  give  us  our  badges  and  make  out  our  cards: 

"A  fellow  ain't  really  worked  in  an  automobile  factory  until  he's  been  on 
the  line— knows  what  it's  like  to  hold  up  his  end  on  production." 

"Looks  to  me,"  he  said,  "like  any  man  could  hold  up  his  end  along  with 
these  fellows.  They're  not  the  same  breed  we  had  in  the  drop  forge  depart- 
ment. Kids,  mostly,  and  those  that  ain't  kids  are  pot-bellied.  What  would  a 
man  do  with  a  bunch  like  this  in  the  woods?  Pick  up  chips—that's  all  he 
could  use  'em  for." 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said.  "You'll  have  more  respect  for  them  after  you've 
watched  their  duet  for  awhile.  You'll  find  out  that  they  can  get  out  the  work. 
They's  fellows  here,  that  when  they  step  out  for  relief,  four  men  like  you 
couldn't  hold  down  their  jobs  on  the  line." 

It  was  good  to  get  back  where  things  were  humming;  where  I  knew  the 
fellows  and  where  I  didn't  have  to  worry  about  somebody  dropping  a  piece 

From  F.  O.  B.  Detroit,  copyright,  1938,  by  Wessel  Smitter.  Used  by  permission  of 
Harper  &  Brothers,  the  publishers. 

ON   THE   ASSEMBLY   LINE        153 


of  steel  the  size  of  a  house  on  my  head.  The  graveyard  shift  had  punched 
out  and  the  day  shift  was  on  and  the  noise  made  you  feel  as  though  you 
wanted  to  get  going  at  something.  In  one  end  of  the  building  were  the 
automatics,  machining  cylinder  blocks—boring  and  drilling,  cutting  and 
honing  and  milling.  In  die  other  end,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  was  the 
assembly  line— a  moving  conveyor  system— hundreds  of  little  four-wheeled 
buggies,  moving  slowly  along,  pulled  by  an  endless  chain  driven  by  electric 
motors  over  a  track  eighteen  inches  above  the  floor.  Starting  out,  each  buggy 
carried  a  cylinder  block— a  single  piece  of  cast  iron;  and  as  it  moved  along 
each  man  did  his  work,  adding  this  part  and  that,  until  at  the  end  it  was 
a  complete  motor— ready  to  run.  At  right  angles  to  the  assembly  line  were 
the  over-head  conveyors,  bringing  in  materials  and  parts  where  and  when 
needed.  These  were  monorail  conveyors,  mostly,  attached  to  the  ceiling- 
little  streams  of  pistons,  little  streams  of  valves,  starters,  transmissions, 
cylinder  heads  and  gaskets— streams  that  came  into  the  main  assembly  line— 
the  big  river. 

The  line  got  into  its  swing.  The  fellows  stopped  joking  and  talking. 
There  was  no  whistling  or  singing  or  horseplay— no  time  for  nothing  but 
work.  It  was  good  to  be  back  in  the  noise  and  the  racket;  it  was  like  getting 
back  to  city  streets  after  being  in  the  country  for  a  long  time.  It  made  you 
feel  good;  it  made  you  feel  like  you  were  a  part  of  the  factory.  On  the  line 
there  was  the  rat-a-tat-tat-tat  of  pneumatic  hammers,  the  sharp  pft-pft-pft 
and  snarl  of  air  hoses,  the  whine  of  electric  drills  and  the  hum  of  power 
wrenches  and  screwdrivers.  But  above  it  all  rose  the  beat  and  the  peculiar 
vibrating  hum  of  the  high-speed  automatics.  The  vibrations  from  these 
filled  the  whole  place  and  got  into  your  blood  and  your  nerves.  It  made  you 
breathe  faster,  work  faster;  if  you  wanted  to  go  slow  you  couldn't,  and  if 
your  work  didn't  keep  you  busy  you  jiggled  around  on  one  foot,  or  made 
some  extra  motions  with  your  hands  or  your  arms  just  to  keep  in  tune  with 
the  noise.  Just  to  be  there— to  be  making  your  share  of  the  noise— it  made 
you  feel  good.  It  made  you  feel  as  though  you  were  a  part  of  something 
pretty  darn  big  and  important. 

Russ  wasn't  satisfied  with  trying  to  get  four  or  five  nuts  on  each  motor. 
He'd  made  up  his  mind  he  was  going  to  get  all  of  them  right  off  the  bat. 
He  stood  there  with  his  feet  wide  apart,  jaws  set,  and  went  at  his  work  as 
though  he  personally  had  to  lick  the  tar  out  of  every  motor  that  came 
towards  him  down  the  long  line— as  though  he  wanted  to  hold  them  back- 
keep  them  from  coming  at  him— tear  them  apart  with  his  hands.  Not  being 
used  to  the  work,  his  fingers  were  clumsy.  He'd  drop  a  nut,  start  picking  it 
up,  get  mad  at  himself,  and  then  drop  another.  By  that  time  the  motor 
he  was  on  would  be  in  Jeff's  station— another  one  coming— no  nuts  for  Jeff 

154        PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


to  run  down,  and  I'd  have  to  jump  In  and  work  to  beat  the  band  to  catch  up. 

After  lunch  things  went  the  same.  I  didn't  tell  him  anything.  Sometimes 
when  a  fellow  has  ideas  of  his  own  it's  better  to  let  him  find  out  for  himself 
they're  no  good.  Tomorrow,  I  figured,  he'd  be  in  the  right  mood  to  listen. 
He'd  be  ready  to  take  some  advice  and  I'd  get  him  straightened  out.  When 
the  bell  rang,  and  we  were  standing  in  line  to  punch  out,  I  said:  "How  do 
you  like  it— so  far?" 

He  let  out  a  snort. 

"That's  no  job  I  got  there,"  he  said.  "It's  a  pain  in  the  neck." 

"Tonight,"  I  said,  "you'll  be  putting  on  nuts  in  your  sleep." 

"Tomorrow,"  he  said,  "I'll  have  that  job  learnt.  I'll  either  get  all  those 
nuts— or  I'll  eat  my  shirt." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "you'd  better  wear  a  shirt  that  goes  down  easy." 

He  didn't  have  the  right  attitude,  yet. 


Pleasure  in  artistic  details 

BY  the  standard  of  pleasure  in  artistic 
details  a  work  is  good  if  it  provides 
enough  pleasurable  moments  through 
effectively  handled  details  to  compen- 
sate for  the  time  spent  on  it.  For  many 
readers,  a  single  moment  of  intense 
pleasure  is  enough  to  justify  an  other- 
wise rather  tedious  book  or  poem. 

This  is  the  yardstick  of  the  hedonist, 
the  type  of  person  who  believes  that  one 
should  like  or  dislike  things  for  them- 
selves, that  values  lie  in  feelings  of 
pleasure  and  pain.  As  Walter  Pater 
points  out,  it  is  not  the  fruit  of  experi- 
ence that  is  important,  but  the  experi- 
ence itself.  In  using  such  a  yardstick, 
therefore,  you  read  not  to  learn  facts  or 
to  weigh  moral  concepts  or  to  discover 
what  real  life  is  like,  but  to  find  as 
much  delight  in  the  present  as  you  can. 
Your  basic  assumption  is  that  all  pleas- 
ure is  good,  and  all  pain  bad. 

Many  Americans  find  this  a  difficult 
yardstick  to  employ.  Most  of  us  are  so 
trained  in  the  concepts  of  "usefulness," 
of  making  every  minute  count  toward 


something  else,  that  we  find  it  hard  to 
value  experience  for  its  own  sake.  Auto- 
mobile riding  is  pleasant  because  it  gets 
us  some  place;  swimming  is  valuable 
because  it  develops  our  muscles;  going 
to  school  is  valuable  because  it  prepares 
us  for  intelligent  citizenship  and  our 
vocations;  reading  is  useful  because 
through  it  we  learn  something  that  some 
day  we  may  be  able  to  use.  Rarely  do 
we  enjoy  automobile  riding  just  because 
it  is  automobile  riding,  swimming  just 
because  it  is  swimming,  and  so  on. 
Ahead  of  almost  everything  we  do  is 
some  future  and  often  rather  indefinite 
goal.  Experience  is  usually  a  means, 
seldom  an  end.  Someone  has  said  that 
the  only  times  that  we  ever  really  live 
in  the  present  are  when  we  take  an 
ocean  voyage  or  when  we  fall  in  love. 
Then,  we  surrender  ourselves  to  the  mo- 
ment and  enjoy  it  thoroughly.  This  is 
the  attitude  that  must  be  taken  toward 
reading  if  we  are  to  employ  the  standard 
of  pleasure  in  artistic  details. 

What  can  provide  this  pleasure?  This 
is  a  hard  question  to  answer,  for  it  can 
be  almost  anything.  Furthermore,  it  will 


ON   THE   ASSEMBLY   LIKE        155 


not  be  the  same  thing  in  quite  the  same 
way  for  any  two  persons.  Probably  the 
best  way  to  answer  the  question  is  to 
take  a  poem  (for  the  sake  of  space  only; 
a  short  story,  play,  or  novel  would  do 
just  as  well)  and  discover  what  some 
of  the  elements  are  which  might  give 
pleasure.  Here  is  Robert  Frost's  "Stop- 
ping by  Woods  on  a  Snowy  Evening": 

Whose  woods  these  are  I  think  I  know. 
His  house  is  in  the  village  though; 
He  will  not  see  me  stopping  here 
To  watch  his  woods  fill  up  with  snow. 

My  little  horse  must  think  it  queer 
To  stop  without  a  farmhouse  near 
Between  the  woods  and  frozen  lake 
The  darkest  evening  of  the  year. 

He  gives  his  harness  bells  a  shake 
To  ask  if  there  is  some  mistake. 
The  only  other  sound's  the  sweep 
Of  easy  wind  and  downy  flake. 

The  woods  are  lovely,  dark  and  deep. 
But  I  have  promises  to  keep, 
And  miles  to  go  before  I  sleep, 
And  miles  to  go  before  I  sleep. 

You  may  find  your  pleasure  here  pri- 
marily in  the  language,  in  the  sort  of 
things  discussed  in  the  section  on  Lan- 
guage (pp.  81-86).  After  the  generali- 
zations of  international  arguments  and 
the  high-flown  exaggerations  of  movie 
advertisements,  you  may  find  delightful 
relief  in  the  simple,  concrete  terms  of 
this  poem.  Or  the  sound  patterns  may 
be  especially  appealing.  Here  are  simple 
four-beat  lines  which  proceed  quietly- 
just  as  they  should  to  suggest  a  woods 
on  a  snowy  evening.  You  may  enjoy 
reading  the  lines  aloud  and  listening  to 
the  play  on  o's  and  r*s  and  s's.  The 


rhymes  are  clear  and  obvious,  yet  not 
forced.  Notice  how  the  last  word  in  the 
third  line  of  each  stanza  except  the  last 
establishes  the  rhyme  for  the  next 
stanza.  You  may  find  it  especially  satis- 
fying that  the  ending  of  the  third  line 
of  the  last  stanza  does  not  introduce  a 
new  rhyme,  thus  indicating  that  the 
poem  is  being  closed  off.  You  may  find 
the  semi-refrain  in  the  last  stanza  a 
quietly  melodic  device  which  is  ap- 
propriate to  the  feeling  and  meaning. 

The  poem  may  give  you  special  pleas- 
ure in  what  it  calls  to  mind.  Possibly 
you  have  had  a  similar  experience  which 
is  suggested  by  these  lines.  Or  possibly 
the  poem  suggests  what  you  nostalgical- 
ly look  back  upon  as  a  simpler  and  more 
delightful  age  when  men  did  have 
time  to  relax  before  hurrying  on  because 
there  are  "promises  to  keep/'  Or  pos- 
sibly phrases  or  single  words  call  to 
mind  associations  which  you  treasure. 
"Harness  bells"  may  suggest  your  grand- 
father's farm  with  the  barn  smelling 
sweetly  of  hay  and  the  cherry  tree  in 
the  front  yard  afoam  with  blossoms. 

You  may  find  enjoyment  in  the  pat- 
tern of  the  work,  the  four  stanzas  of  four 
lines  each.  There  may  be  a  neatness  and 
compression  here  that  you  like.  Or  you 
may  be  pleased  by  the  ease  of  compre- 
hension made  possible  by  the  fact  that 
the  elements  of  the  poem  fit  so  com- 
fortably within  the  structure.  Or  you 
may  like  a  pattern  like  this  because  it  is 
brief,  because  you  can  give  a  maximum 
amount  of  your  attention  to  it  and  yet 
not  tire  before  you  reach  its  end.  Or  you 
may  enjoy  the  pattern  of  the  contrast 
established  between  the  horse  and  the 
man.  The  horse,  a  being  with  a  material 
sense  of  values,  is  indignant  at  the  stop 
because  it  serves  no  useful  purpose.  In 
the  first  stanza,  the  man  with  his  sensory 


156 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


delight  in  an  experience  for  its  own 
sake  is  the  master— he  stops  the  horse. 
In  the  second  stanza,  the  horse  shows  a 
mental  reaction— he  is  puzzled.  In  the 
third  stanza,  he  exhibits  physical  im- 
patience—he gives  his  harness  bells  a 
shake.  In  the  fourth  stanza,  he  is  suc- 
cessful—he has  reminded  the  man  of  his 
promises  in  the  world  of  affairs,  and  the 
man,  surrendering,  does  what  the  horse 
has  been  urging  him  to  do— drives  on. 
(Note  that  the  theme  here  is  precisely 
the  problem  of  this  section,  the  use  of 
the  yardstick  of  pleasurable  moments.) 
Or,  finally,  you  may  find  delight  in  the 
pattern  because  of  the  interplay  of  va- 
riety and  repetition.  The  meter  is  the 
same  throughout;  so  are  the  line  lengths, 
the  stanza  form,  and,  with  one  excep- 
tion, the  rhyme  pattern.  But  within  this 
relatively  unvaried  structure  are  infinite 
variations  in  sound  values.  Notice,  more- 
over, that  even  though  the  structure  re- 
mains the  same,  the  lines  perceptibly 
change  in  tempo.  The  speed  accelerates 
through  the  second  line  of  the  third 
stanza,  when  a  reversal  takes  place.  By 
the  time  the  last  two  lines  are  reached, 
you  are  reading  the  poem  very  slowly 
indeed. 

These  are  only  a  few  of  the  details 
in  this  poem  that  may  give  you  pleasur- 
able moments.  In  the  case  of  a  play  or  a 
piece  of  fiction,  it  might  be  a  single 
character,  one  or  two  especially  well- 
written  descriptions,  a  particularly  mov- 
ing scene  or  speech,  an  unexpected  but 
yet  plausible  twist  in  plot.  Many  critics 
deride  the  use  of  this  yardstick  and  say 
that  it  results  only  in  simple-minded  im- 
pressionism. Admittedly,  evaluation  ac- 
cording to  this  method  can  be  subjective 
and  undisciplined.  Indeed,  the  person 
using  this  yardstick  may  talk  about  him- 
self as  much  as  he  talks  about  the  work. 


He  may  even  hypnotize  himself  and 
others  into  thinking  the  work  had  a 
more  powerful  effect  upon  him  than  it 
really  had.  All  this  must  be  recognized 
and  guarded  against.  But,  as  you  discov- 
ered from  the  example  given  above, 
pleasurable  moments  can  be  the  result 
of  detailed  and  analytical  reading.  The 
method,  therefore,  need  not  simply  be 
a  subjective  operation  which  results 
in  a  Zane  Grey  novel  seeming  to  be 
as  good  as  one  written  by  Thomas 
Hardy.  There  are  different  kinds  of 
pleasure,  varying  from  a  superficial 
emotional  titillation  to  the  deeply  com- 
pelling satisfaction  coming  from  an 
awareness  of  the  greatest  artistic 
achievement.  The  quantitative  criteria 
are  the  number  and  duration  of  the 
pleasurable  moments;  the  qualitative 
criteria  are  the  intensity  and  nature  of 
the  pleasure  itself.  When  these  are  all 
taken  into  consideration,  the  yardstick 
of  pleasure  in  artistic  details  affords  a 
standard  for  mature  and  defensible 
judgments.  Even  if  it  did  not,  it  would 
still  be  valuable  in  that  it  brings  to  our 
attention  the  fact  that  reading  can  be 
delightful  for  its  own  sake. 

Questions 

rT^HiNK  back  over  the  works  which 
JL  you  have  read  which  on  the  whole 
did  not  interest  you  but  which  had 
details  in  them  that  you  enjoyed  and 
that  you  still  remember.  What  kinds  of 
details  were  these:  happenings,  bits  of 
characterization,  description,  dialogue, 
or  what? 

2.  What  kinds  of  details  are  likely  to 
give  most  pleasure  to  the  person  who 
has  read  very  little?  (Refer  to  the  kinds 
mentioned  in  the  analysis  of  "Stopping 
by  Woods  on  a  Snowy  Evening.")  An 
appreciation  of  which  details  is  likely 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


157 


to  come  only  after  one  becomes  more  3.  Rate  "The  Open  Window"  accord- 
sophisticated  in  literary  matters?  Re-  ing  to  all  the  standards  that  we  have 
read  the  Frost  poem.  Which  details  give  discussed  so  far.  Be  prepared  to  defend 
you  most  pleasure?  your  ratings. 

Rating  chart 

Make  checks  in  the  boxes,  or  on  a  separate  sheet  of  paper,  according  to 
the  following  ratings— first  box:  excellent;  second  box:  good;  third  box: 
average;  fourth  box:  poor;  fifth  box:  total  failure. 

THE  YARDSTICK  THE  RATING 

Clarity  D   D   D   D   D 

Escape  D   D   D  D  D 

tygri/r/  farhrin*   (nflmp  i>)»  D     D     D     D     D 

Real  life  D   D   D   D   D 

Pleasure  in  artistic  details  D   D   D   D   D 


SAKI 


The  open  window 


MY  AUNT  will  be  down  presently,  Mr.  Nuttel,"  said  a  very  self-possessed 
young  lady  of  fifteen;  "in  the  meantime  you  must  try  and  put  up 
with  me." 

Framton  Nuttel  endeavoured  to  say  the  correct  something  which  should 
duly  flatter  the  niece  of  the  moment  without  unduly  discounting  the  aunt 
that  was  to  come.  Privately  he  doubted  more  than  ever  whether  these 
formal  visits  on  a  succession  of  total  strangers  would  do  much  towards 
helping  the  nerve  cure  which  he  was  supposed  to  be  undergoing. 

"I  know  how  it  will  be,"  his  sister  had  said  when  he  was  preparing  to 
migrate  to  this  rural  retreat;  "you  will  bury  yourself  down  there  and  not 
speak  to  a  living  soul,  and  your  nerves  will  be  worse  than  ever  from 
moping.  I  shall  just  give  you  letters  of  introduction  to  all  the  people  I 
know  there.  Some  of  them,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  were  quite  nice." 

Framton  wondered  whether  Mrs.  Sappleton,  the  lady  to  whom  he  was 
presenting  one  of  the  letters  of  introduction,  came  into  the  nice  division. 

"Do  you  know  many  of  the  people  round  here?"  asked  the  niece,  when 
she  judged  that  they  had  had  sufficient  silent  communion. 


From  H.  H.  Munro's  The  Short  Stories  of  Saki.  Copyright,  1930  by  the  Viking  Press, 
Inc.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Viking  Press,  Inc.,  New  York. 

158        PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


"Hardly  a  soul,"  said  Framton.  "My  sister  was  staying  here,  at  the 
rectory,  you  know,  some  four  years  ago,  and  she  gave  me  letters  of  intro- 
duction to  some  of  the  people  here." 

He  made  the  last  statement  in  a  tone  of  distinct  regret. 

"Then  you  know  practically  nothing  about  my  aunt?"  pursued  the  self- 
possessed  young  lady. 

"Only  her  name  and  address,"  admitted  the  caller.  He  was  wondering 
whether  Mrs.  Sappleton  was  in  the  married  or  widowed  state.  An  undefin- 
able  something  about  the  room  seemed  to  suggest  masculine  habitation. 

"Her  great  tragedy  happened  just  three  years  ago,"  said  the  child;  "that 
would  be  since  your  sister's  time." 

"Her  tragedy?"  asked  Framton;  somehow  in  this  restful  country  spot 
tragedies  seemed  out  of  place. 

"You  may  wonder  why  we  keep  that  window  wide  open  on  an  October 
afternoon,"  said  the  niece,  indicating  a  large  French  window  that  opened 
on  to  a  lawn. 

"It  is  quite  warm  for  the  time  of  the  year,"  said  Framton;  "but  has  that 
window  got  anything  to  do  with  the  tragedy?" 

"Out  through  that  window,  three  years  ago  to  a  day,  her  husband  and 
her  two  young  brothers  went  off  for  their  day's  shooting.  They  never  came 
back.  In  crossing  the  moor  to  their  favourite  snipe-shooting  ground  they 
were  all  three  engulfed  in  a  treacherous  piece  of  bog.  It  had  been  that 
dreadful  wet  summer,  you  know,  and  places  that  were  safe  in  other  years 
gave  way  suddenly  without  warning.  Their  bodies  were  never  recovered. 
That  was  the  dreadful  part  of  it."  Here  the  child's  voice  lost  its  self-possessed 
note  and  became  falteringly  human.  "Poor  aunt  always  thinks  that  they 
will  come  back  some  day,  they  and  the  little  brown  spaniel  that  was  lost 
with  them,  and  walk  in  at  that  window  just  as  they  used  to  do.  That  is 
why  the  window  is  kept  open  every  evening  till  it  is  quite  dusk.  Poor  dear 
aunt,  she  has  often  told  me  how  they  went  out,  her  husband  with  his 
white  waterproof  coat  over  his  arm,  and  Ronnie,  her  youngest  brother, 
singing,  'Bertie,  why  do  you  bound?*  as  he  always  did  to  tease  her,  because 
she  said  it  got  on  her  nerves.  Do  you  know,  sometimes  on  still,  quiet  evenings 
like  this,  I  almost  get  a  creepy  feeling  that  they  will  all  walk  in  through 
that  window—" 

She  broke  off  with  a  little  shudder.  It  was  a  relief  to  Framton  when  the 
aunt  bustled  into  the  room  with  a  whirl  of  apologies  for  being  late  in 
making  her  appearance. 

"I  hope  Vera  has  been  amusing  you?"  she  said. 

"She  has  been  very  interesting,"  said  Framton. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  the  open  window,"  said  Mrs.  Sappkton  briskly; 

THE  OPEN  WINDOW        159 


"my  husband  and  brothers  will  be  home  directly  from  shooting,  and  they 
always  come  in  this  way.  They've  been  out  for  snipe  in  the  marshes  today, 
so  they'll  make  a  fine  mess  over  my  poor  carpets.  So  like  you  men-folk, 
isn't  it?" 

She  rattled  on  cheerfully  about  the  shooting  and  the  scarcity  of  birds, 
and  the  prospects  for  duck  in  the  winter.  To  Framton  it  was  all  purely 
horrible.  He  made  a  desperate  but  only  partially  successful  effort  to  turn 
the  talk  on  to  a  less  ghastly  topic;  he  was  conscious  that  his  hostess  was 
giving  him  only  a  fragment  of  her  attention,  and  her  eyes  were  constantly 
straying  past  him  to  the  open  window  and  the  lawn  beyond.  It  was  cer- 
tainly an  unfortunate  coincidence  that  he  should  have  paid  his  visit  on 
this  tragic  anniversary. 

"The  doctors  agree  in  ordering  me  complete  rest,  an  absence  of  mental 
excitement,  and  avoidance  of  anything  in  the  nature  of  violent  physical 
exercise,"  announced  Framton,  who  laboured  under  the  tolerably  wide- 
spread delusion  that  total  strangers  and  chance  acquaintances  are  hungry 
for  the  least  detail  of  one's  ailments  and  infirmities,  their  cause  and  cure. 
"On  the  matter  of  diet  they  are  not  so  much  in  agreement,"  he  continued. 

"No?"  said  Mrs.  Sappleton,  in  a  voice  which  only  replaced  a  yawn  at 
the  last  moment.  Then  she  suddenly  brightened  into  alert  attention— but  not 
to  what  Framton  was  saying. 

"Here  they  are  at  last!"  she  cried.  "Just  in  time  for  tea,  and  don't  they 
look  as  if  they  were  muddy  up  to  the  eyes!" 

Framton  shivered  slightly  and  turned  towards  the  niece  with  a  look 
intended  to  convey  sympathetic  comprehension.  The  child  was  staring  out 
through  the  open  window  with  dazed  horror  in  her  eyes.  In  a  chill  shock 
of  nameless  fear  Framton  swung  round  in  his  seat  and  looked  in  the  same 
direction. 

In  the  deepening  twilight  three  figures  were  walking  across  the  lawn 
towards  the  window;  they  all  carried  guns  under  their  arms,  and  one  of 
them  was  additionally  burdened  with  a  white  coat  hung  over  his  shoulders. 
A  tired  brown  spaniel  kept  close  at  their  heels.  Noiselessly  they  neared  the 
house,  and  then  a  hoarse  young  voice  chanted  out  of  the  dusk:  "I  said, 
Bertie,  why  do  you  bound?" 

Framton  grabbed  wildly  at  his  stick  and  hat;  the  hall-door,  the  gravel- 
drive,  and  the  front  gate  were  dimly  noted  stages  in  his  headlong  retreat. 
A  cyclist  coming  along  the  road  had  to  run  into  the  hedge  to  avoid 
imminent  collision. 

"Here  we  are,  my  dear,"  said  the  bearer  of  the  white  mackintosh,  coming 
in  through  the  window;  "fairly  muddy,  but  most  of  it's  dry.  Who  was  that 
who  bolted  out  as  we  came  up?" 


160 


PARTS   OR   CHARACTERISTICS 


"A  most  extraordinary  man,  a  Mr.  Nuttel,"  said  Mrs.  Sappleton;  "could 
only  talk  about  his  illness,  and  dashed  off  without  a  word  of  good-bye  or 
apology  when  you  arrived.  One  would  think  he  had  seen  a  ghost." 

"I  expect  it  was  the  spaniel,"  said  the  niece  calmly;  "he  told  me  he  had 
a  horror  of  dogs.  He  was  once  hunted  into  a  cemetery  somewhere  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges  by  a  pack  of  pariah  dogs,  and  had  to  spend  the  night 
in  a  newly  dug  grave  with  the  creatures  snarling  and  grinning  and  foaming 
just  above  him.  Enough  to  make  any  one  lose  their  nerve." 

Romance  at  short  notice  was  her  specialty. 


EVALUATIONS   INVOLVING   THE 
WHOLE   WORK 


WE  have  given  rather  detailed  at- 
tention to  methods  of  evaluation 
which  involve  only  parts  or  aspects  of 
a  literary  work  because  these  are  prob- 
ably the  methods  which  are  used  most 
commonly.  As  a  general  rule,  however, 
they  leave  much  to  be  desired.  Often 
they  have  little  to  do  with  the  nature 
and  intent  of  literature,  being  standards 
which  are  more  properly  identified  with 
ethical,  historical,  and  scientific  dis- 
courses. Often,  too,  they  indicate  liter- 
ary naivete  and  intellectual  inadequacy. 
At  worst,  they  may  not  be  standards  at 
all  but  simply  personal  prejudices.  Such 
criticisms  cannot  be  so  forcefully  leveled 
at  methods  of  evaluation  which  involve 
the  work  as  a  whole.  As  you  will  see, 
these  require  more  careful  analysis  and 
a  more  highly  developed  taste. 

Evaluation  of  a  literary  work  as  a 
whole  can  be  based  upon  four  different 
kinds  of  relations:  (1)  the  relation  be- 
tween the  work  and  the  reader,  (2)  the 
relation  between  the  work  and  the  au- 
thor, (3)  the  relations  of  the  various 


elements  within  the  work  itself,  to  one 
another  and  to  the  whole,  and  (4)  the 
relation  between  the  work  and  human 
thought  and  understanding.  Evalua- 
tion based  on  each  of  these  relations 
proceeds  from  special  assumptions  and 
results  in  its  own  set  of  conclusions.  At 
its  best,  each  type  represents  the  appli- 
cation of  a  sound  philosophy  to  a  work 
of  art. 

The  work  and  the  reader 

THE  basic  premise  in  the  first  method 
of  evaluation  is  that  the  most  im- 
portant aspect  of  a  literary  work  is  its 
effect  upon  the  reader.  Its  concerns, 
therefore,  are  chiefly  psychological,  and 
they  deal  with  the  type  of  effect,  its 
intensity,  its  components,  its  duration, 
and  its  universality. 

Observe  that  we  are  speaking  here  of 
the  overall  or  unified  effect  of  a  literary 
work,  not  of  the  partial  effects  which 
were  previously  discussed  in  the  section 
on  pleasure  through  artistic  details.  This 
yardstick  bears  upon  the  overall  pleas- 


THE  WHOLE  WORK        161 


lire  which  rises  out  of  the  merging  of 
many  momentary  pleasures:  it  is  the 
quality  which  results  through  the  ac- 
cumulation of  many  minor  qualities;  it 
is  the  tonal  unity  which  develops  out  of 
complexity.  Although  Macbeth,  for  ex- 
ample, through  its  plot,  characters,  set- 
tings, and  language  may  incite  horror, 
humor,  grudging  admiration,  repulsion, 
and  a  sense  of  weirdness,  the  great  uni- 
fied sweep  is  through  pity  and  fear  to  a 
final  catharsis  in  which  one's  dammed- 
up  emotions  seem  suddenly  purged  of 
all  that  is  nasty  and  evil.  The  intensity 
of  this  emotional  reaction  would  by  this 
yardstick  of  effect  make  Macbeth  a 
great  play. 

The  type  or  quality  of  effect  can  be 
only  roughly  designated  in  words  like 
fear,  pity,  horror,  joy,  rapture,  quiet 
resignation— all  words  which  name  emo- 
tions. In  every  case  the  name  falls  far 
short  of  communicating  the  sensation 
itself.  You  have  had  the  frustrating  ex- 
perience of  trying  to  tell  the  family  how 
horrible  an  accident  was  and  of  finding 
words  completely  inadequate.  The  same 
is  true  here.  The  peculiar  quality  of  the 
effect  of  a  piece  of  literature  upon  you 
is  largely  a  private  quality— it  is  yours 
and  yours  only.  For  example,  you  see  a 
competent  production  of  Dunsany's  A 
Night  at  an  Inn,  at  which  you  are  almost 
frightened  out  of  your  wits.  But  when 
you  tell  your  best  friend  about  it,  he 
laughs  and  says  it  sounds  silly  to  him. 
Unless  you  are  almost  as  competent  as 
the  author,  your  only  recourse  is  to 
have  him  see  the  play,  too.  We  must 
do  the  best  we  can  in  naming  the  effect 
a  work  has  on  us.  But  the  best  will  be 
none  too  good. 

If  you  find  that  you  have  difficulty 
communicating  the  exact  nature  of  the 
effect  of  a  work,  however,  you  can  still 


be  relatively  articulate  about  certain  of 
its  aspects.  For  instance,  you  can  point 
out  what  creates  the  work's  special  de- 
gree of  intensity.  The  plot  may  be  novel 
or  hackneyed,  the  details  general  or  spe- 
cific, the  dialogue  stilted  or  sparkling, 
the  words  trite  or  vivid,  the  meaning 
provocative  or  platitudinous.  You  can 
point  out,  in  addition,  the  components 
in  the  effect.  In  a  short  poem  or  novel, 
there  is  ordinarily  a  single  component— 
everything  contributes  to  one  effect. 
Poe,  you  may  recall,  insisted  that  there 
was  no  such  thing  as  a  long  poem,  for  a 
poem  by  his  definition  was  a  metrical 
composition  that  created  one  effect.  For 
him,  therefore,  a  long  poem  was  simply 
a  series  of  short  poems.  Likewise  he  in- 
sisted that  the  major  requirement  of  the 
short  story  is  that  it  create  a  unified 
effect.  His  own  stories  were  written  with 
this  in  mind.  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of 
Usher,"  for  example,  was  composed  with 
the  intention  that  every  detail,  every 
word  even,  should  contribute  to  an 
overall  effect  of  fear.  All  of  this  often 
holds  equally  well  for  the  one-act  play. 
But  longer  plays,  novels,  and  long  poems 
must  gain  their  unity  of  effect  through 
a  blending  of  components,  of  many 
minor  effects.  As  a  critical  reader,  it  is 
your  duty,  if  you  are  using  this  method 
of  evaluation,  to  indicate  what  various 
minor  effects  compose  the  parts  of  which 
the  major  effect  is  the  whole.  You  would 
indicate  the  function  and  the  relative 
importance  of  each  of  the  minor  effects, 
and  suggest  at  what  point  in  the  work 
you  first  begin  to  become  conscious  of 
the  major  effect. 

The  duration  of  effect  is  another  as- 
pect about  which  you  can  be  fairly 
articulate.  How  long  did  the  mood  of 
the  work  stay  with  you?  How  long  and 
how  well  do  you  remember  the  charac- 


162 


THE   WHOLJK   WORK 


ters,  the  setting,  the  happenings?  How 
long  did  you  continue  to  mull  over  the 
author's  ideas?  Of  these,  the  mood  is 
most  likely  to  wear  off  first.  You  can 
remember  being  terrorized  by  Poe's  "Pit 
and  the  Pendulum,"  but  you  do  not  re- 
main terrorized  very  long.  On  the  other 
hand,  Mr.  Pickwick  may  stay  with  you 
almost  indefinitely;  so  may  Hardy's 
heath  in  The  Return  of  the  Native  or 
Whitman's  ideas  about  comradeship  in 
Leaves  of  Grass.  How  long  do  you  re- 
member the  hero  of  the  latest  movie  as 
compared  with  Hamlet,  supposing  that 
you  have  seen  a  good  production  of  the 
play?  To  be  sure,  if  you  talk  about  these 
details  as  ends  in  themselves  you  are 
not  concerned  with  the  work  as  a  whole; 
but  if  you  discuss  them  as  a  means  of 
arriving  at  and  of  estimating  the  effect 
of  the  work  upon  you,  then  your  pri- 
mary concern  is  with  its  totality. 

One  of  the  most  important  elements 
in  this  method  of  criticism  concerns  the 
recurrence  of  the  effect.  Does  the  book 
hold  up  on  rereading?  Did  you  find  it 
more  effective  or  less  effective?  This 
probably  is  the  hardest  test  any  literary 
work  must  pass,  and  it  immediately 
separates  the  so-called  "thriller"  from 
the  more  profound  performance.  The 
good  work  may  be  even  more  exciting 
and  provocative  the  second  time,  since 
you  will  discover  in  it  all  sorts  of  de- 
tails and  ideas  which  you  missed  before; 
the  second-rate  work  will  be  insufferably 
dull  on  second  reading,  since  ideas  are 
lacking,  the  characters  are  types,  and 
you  already  know  how  the  plot  turns 
out.  Many  people  read  Huckleberry 
Finn  and  the  Scarlet  Letter  almost 
every  year;  yet  these  same  people  never 
reread  Tom  Sawyer  Abroad  or  The 
Blithedale  Romance.  Twain  and  Haw- 
thorne are  the  authors  in  both  cases. 


Would  it  be  fair  to  say,  on  the  basis  of 
this  evidence,  that  the  first  two  books 
are  greater  literary  works  than  the  sec- 
ond two? 

The  final  major  aspect  of  this  method 
concerns  the  spread  of  the  work's  effec- 
tiveness. How  many  people  over  how 
long  a  period  have  found  the  work  en- 
joyable? With  older  books,  this  can  be 
determined  without  much  difficulty,  for 
the  inferior  works  with  the  passage  of 
time  drop  out  of  sight  and  are  forgotten. 
Melville  and  Whitman  remain  but  not 
T.  S.  Arthur  or  Lydia  Sigourney,  who 
were  their  contemporaries.  With  current 
works,  one  must  look  to  the  testimony 
of  his  friends  and  of  the  professional 
critics.  The  fact  that  no  one  else  whom 
you  know  likes  a  book  is  not  proof  per  se 
that  it  is  an  inferior  work.  But  it  is  cer- 
tainly a  fact  you  should  take  into  ac- 
count in  making  a  final  judgment.  The 
mood  which  you  take  to  the  book  may 
be  a  more  powerful  influence  than  the 
mood  created  by  the  book  itself.  A  man 
or  woman  in  love  is  likely  to  overrate  a 
romance  that  under  other  circumstances 
would  provoke  ridicule. 

The  chief  disadvantages  of  evaluat- 
ing a  work  by  its  effect  on  the  reader 
have  already  been  suggested.  The  meth- 
od requires  that  you  be  articulate  about 
emotional  experiences,  phenomena  that 
are  difficult  to  name  with  precision  and 
next  to  impossible  to  communicate.  Fur- 
thermore, in  making  it  necessary  for  you 
to  be  analytical  about  your  reactions,  it 
may  actually  inhibit  those  reactions.  For 
when  pushed  to  an  extreme  the  method 
focuses  your  attention  upon  your  own 
mind  and  emotions  and  away  from  the 
work.  You  feel  about  feeling  and  think 
about  thinking.  This  is  no  way  to  enjoy 
a  story  or  poem  or  play.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  method  makes  you  concen- 


THE   WHOLE  WORK         163 


trate  on  certain  valuable  and  relatively  Do  you  think  you  are  successful  in  corn- 
reliable  criteria  like  intensity,  duration,  municating  the  effect?  Do  your  words 
and  universality  of  effect.  It  keeps  up-  seem  to  change  the  effect  for  you?  Do 
permost  the  fact  that  literature  involves  you  find  that  you  have  talked  more 
not  only  the  mind  but  the  emotions,  about  yourself  than  the  works? 
that  its  peculiar  function  is  to  re-create  2.  In  the  text  above,  we  said  that 
human  experience,  and  that  its  special  it  is  difficult,  unless  one  is  a  competent 
power  lies  in  its  ability  to  make  its  point  writer  himself,  to  communicate  the  ef- 
with  vividness  and  force.  Intelligently  feet  of  a  literary  work.  At  the  bottom  of 
employed,  this  method  of  evaluation  this  page  is  James  Russell  Lowell's  at- 
should  make  you  a  more  sensitive  reader  tempt  to  show  us  how  he  felt  after  read- 
and  a  more  discerning  critic.  ing  Dante's  Divine  Comedy.  Can  you 
.  catch  something  of  the  effect  of  Dante's 
Questions  work  upon  Lowell?  What,  precisely, 

How  would  you  characterize  the  ef-  does  Lowell  do  in  his  attempt  to  com- 

fect  of   (a)   A  Night  at  an  Inn  municate  it?  Comment  upon  the  nature 

(p.  42)  and  (b)  Chekhov's  The  Swan  of  his  diction,  sentences,  imagery,  and 

Song  (p.  63)?  Be  as  specific  as  you  can.  the  like. 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 


Dante's  jDwrna  Commedia 


THERE  ARE  no  doubt  in  the  Divina  Commedia  (regarded  merely  as 
poetry)  sandy  spaces  enough  both  of  physics  and  metaphysics,  but 
with  every  deduction  Dante  remains  the  first  of  descriptive  as  well  as  moral 
poets.  His  verse  is  as  various  as  the  feeling  it  conveys;  now  it  has  the  terse- 
ness and  edge  of  steel,  and  now  palpitates  with  iridescent  softness  like  the 
breast  of  a  dove.  In  vividness  he  is  without  a  rival.  He  drags  back  by  its 
tangled  locks  the  unwilling  head  of  some  petty  traitor  of  an  Italian  provincial 
town,  lets  the  fire  glare  on  the  sullen  face  for  a  moment,  and  it  sears  itself 
into  the  memory  forever.  He  shows  us  an  angel  glowing  with  that  love  of 
God  which  makes  him  a  star  even  amid  the  glory  of  heaven,  and  the  holy 
shape  keeps  lifelong  watch  in  our  fantasy,  constant  as  a  sentinel.  He  has  the 
skill  of  conveying  impressions  indirectly.  In  the  gloom  of  hell  his  bodily 
presence  is  revealed  by  his  stirring  something,  on  the  mount  of  expiation  by 
casting  a  shadow.  Would  he  have  us  feel  the  brightness  of  an  angel?  He 
makes  him  whiten  afar  through  the  smoke  like  a  dawn,  or,  walking  straight 
toward  the  setting  sun,  he  finds  his  eyes  suddenly  unable  to  withstand  a 
greater  splendor  against  which  his  hand  is  unavailing  to  shield  him.  Even 
its  reflected  light,  then,  is  brighter  than  the  direct  ray  of  the  sun.  And  how 
much  more  keenly  do  we  feel  the  parched  lips  of  Master  Adam  for  those 
rivulets  of  the  Casentino  which  run  down  into  the  Arno,  "making  their 

164        THE  WHOLE  WORK 


channels  cool  and  soft!"  His  comparisons  are  as  fresh,  as  simple,  and  as 
directly  from  nature  as  those  of  Homer.  Sometimes  they  show  a  more 
subtle  observation,  as  where  he  compares  the  stooping  of  Antaeus  over  him 
to  the  leaning  tower  of  Carisenda,  to  which  the  clouds,  flying  in  an 
opposite  direction  to  its  inclination,  give  away  their  motion.  His  suggestions 
of  individuality,  too,  from  attitude  or  speech,  as  in  Farinata,  Sordello,  or  Pia, 
give  in  a  hint  what  is  worth  acres  of  so-called  character-painting.  In 
straightforward  pathos,  the  single  and  sufficient  thrust  of  phrase,  he  has 
no  competitor.  He  is  too  sternly  touched  to  be  effusive  and  tearful: 

"lo  non  piangeva,  si  dentro  impietrai."1 

His  is  always  the  true  coin  of  speech,  and  never  the  highly  ornamented 
promise  to  pay  token  of  insolvency. 


1"I  did  not  weep;  so  stony  grew  I  within." 

3.  Which  of  the  following  poems  produces  a  more  intense  effect  upon  you? 
Try  to  account  for  the  difference  in  every  way  possible. 


DEATH  to  most  is  a  fearsome  thought 
Of  dark,  of  silence,  and  of  night. 
Ere  life's  hands  their  work  hath  wrought 
Their  spirit  soars  in  flight. 

Yet  death  need  not  be  total  loss 
If  one  dies  for  love  of  truth; 

Then  what  disappears  is  dross 
And  good  lives  on  in  youth. 
— Anonymous 


I  DIED  for  beauty,  but  was  scarce  He  questioned  softly  why  I  failed. 

Adjusted  in  the  tomb,  Tor  beauty,"  I  replied. 

When  one  who  died  for  truth  was  lain  "And  I  for  truth,— the  two  are  one; 

In  an  adjoining  room.  We  brethren  are,"  he  said. 

And  so,  as  kinsmen  met  a  night, 
We  talked  between  the  rooms, 
Until  the  moss  had  reached  our  lips 
And  covered  up  our  names. 

—Emily  Dickinson 

I   DIED   FOR    BEAUTY         165 


The  work  and  the  author 

THE  basic  premise  of  those  who  use 
the  yardstick  of  personality  is  that 
the  most  significant  aspect  of  the  liter- 
ary product  is  the  unique  personal  qual- 
ity given  the  material  as  it  passes 
through  the  mind  and  personality  of 
the  author.  When  that  quality  emerges 
as  something  distinct,  something  that  is 
provocative,  attractive,  and  enriching, 
then,  according  to  this  method  of  evalu- 
ation, the  literary  work  is  a  great  one. 
The  problem  of  such  criticism,  therefore, 
is  to  discover  the  author  in  the  work. 
It  is  a  matter  of  discovering  such  ele- 
ments as  his  dominant  traits,  his  charac- 
teristic moods  and  ways  of  thought,  his 
attitudes  and  values,  the  ways  in  which 
he  suggests  his  period,  and  his  unique 
abilities  in  expression. 

To  make  this  clearer,  let  us  examine 
what  happens  to  similar  material  when 
handled,  on  the  one  hand,  by  an  anony- 
mous writer  and,  on  the  other,  by  Mark 
Twain. 

In  the  middle  of  the  prairie,  miles 
from  nowhere,  we  stopped  briefly  to 
look  about  us  and  observe  the  wild  life. 
Of  a  truth  there  was  little  to  see  except 
for  the  sage-brush  which  stretched  away 
in  every  direction.  Suddenly  one  of  our 
party  descried  a  "jackass  rabbit/'  a 
large  brownish  creature  with  long  ears. 
It  was  sitting  on  its  haunches  under  a 
clump  of  sage-brush,  its  color  harmoniz- 
ing so  well  with  the  background  that  if 
it  had  not  been  pointed  out  to  us,  many 
of  us  would  have  missed  it  altogether. 
We  were  told  that  it  could  run  very 
rapidly  because  of  the  size  and  great 
strength  of  its  legs.  Like  other  rabbits,  it 
is  herbivorous  and  eats  what  leaves  and 


roots  are  available  on  the  prairie.  Like 
other  rabbits,  too,  it  multiplies  rapidly, 
and  only  the  paucity  of  food  keeps  its 
numbers  from  swelling  into  the  tens  of 
millions.  Even  so,  the  species  is  so  com- 
mon throughout  this  part  of  the  country 
that  it  is  the  bane  of  the  few  farmers 
who  here  and  there  try  to  wrest  a  meager 
living  from  the  dry  soil.— ANONYMOUS 

As  the  sun  was  going  down,  we  saw 
the  first  specimen  of  an  animal  known 
familiarly  over  two  thousand  miles  of 
mountain  and  desert— from  Kansas  clear 
to  the  Pacific  Ocean— as  the  "jackass 
rabbit/'  He  is  well  named.  He  is  just 
like  any  other  rabbit,  except  that  he  is 
from  one-third  to  twice  as  large,  has 
longer  legs  in  proportion  to  his  size,  and 
has  the  most  preposterous  ears  that  ever 
were  mounted  on  any  creature  but  a 
jackass.  When  he  is  sitting  quiet,  think- 
ing about  his  sins,  or  is  absent-minded 
or  unapprehensive  of  danger,  his  ma- 
jestic ears  project  above  him  conspicu- 
ously; but  the  breaking  of  a  twig  will 
scare  him  nearly  to  death,  and  then  he 
tilts  his  ears  back  gently  and  starts  for 
home.  All  you  can  see,  then,  for  the  next 
minute,  is  his  long  gray  form  stretched 
out  straight  and  "streaking  it"  through 
the  low  sage-brush,  head  erect,  eyes 
right,  and  ears  just  canted  a  little  to  the 
rear,  but  showing  you  where  the  animal 
is,  all  the  time,  the  same  as  if  he  carried 
a  jib.  Now  and  then  he  makes  a  marvel- 
ous spring  with  his  long  legs,  high  over 
the  stunted  sage-brush,  and  scores  a  leap 
that  would  make  a  horse  envious.  Pres- 
ently, he  comes  down  to  a  long,  graceful 
"lope,"  and  shortly  he  mysteriously  dis- 
appears. He  has  crouched  behind  a  sage- 
brush, and  will  sit  there  and  listen  and 
tremble  until  you  get  within  six  feet  of 


166 


THE  WHOLE  WORK 


him,  when  he  will  get  under  way  again. 
But  one  must  shoot  at  this  creature  once, 
if  he  wishes  to  see  him  throw  his  heart 
into  his  heels,  and  do  the  best  he  knows 
how.  He  is  frightened  clear  through, 
now,  and  he  lays  his  long  ears  down  on 
his  back,  straightens  himself  out  like  a 
yard-stick  every  spring  he  makes,  and 
scatters  miles  behind  him  with  an  easy 
indifference  that  is  enchanting. 

One  party  made  this  specimen  "hump 
himself/'  as  the  conductor  said.  The 
Secretary  started  him  with  a  shot  from 
the  Colt;  I  commenced  spitting  at  him 
with  my  weapon;  and  all  in  the  same 
instant  the  old  "Allen's"  whole  broad- 
side let  go  with  a  rattling  crash,  and  it 
is  not  putting  it  too  strong  to  say  that 
the  rabbit  was  frantic/  He  dropped  his 
ears,  set  up  his  tail,  and  left  for  San  Fran- 
cisco at  a  speed  which  can  only  be  de- 
scribed as  a  flash  and  vanish/  Long  after 
he  was  out  of  sight  we  could  hear  him 
whiz.— MARK  TWAIN,  Roughing  It 

Observe  how  relatively  little  you  get 
to  know  about  the  author  of  the  first 
selection.  Aside  from  the  fact  that  fac- 
tual details  seem  to  interest  him,  you 
know  almost  nothing  about  his  traits 
of  personality.  Nor  do  you  know  what 
his  characteristic  moods  or  ways  of 
thinking  are.  It  is  difficult,  too,  to 
discern  anything  about  his  attitudes. 
Does  he  like  the  rabbit?  think  it  beauti- 
ful? think  it  a  pest?  Almost  nothing  of 
the  author's  background  creeps  through. 
Could  you  hazard  a  guess,  for  instance, 
about  the  region  he  comes  from  or  the 
temper  of  his  age?  And  finally,  there  is 
little  to  say  about  his  artistic  accom- 
plishments. The  prose  is  correct  and 
pedestrian,  with  almost  no  special  qual- 
ity that  gives  it  life.  In  short,  by  the 


yardstick  of  personality  this  is  pretty  un- 
satisfying writing. 

The  contrast  with  the  Twain  passage 
is,  of  course,  obvious.  You  see  Twain 
as  observant  and  alive.  He  can  admire 
the  speed  and  the  rough  beauty  of  the 
rabbit  without  becoming  mawkishly  sen- 
timental. Beyond  that,  he  has  a  clear 
admiration  for  any  creature  that  can 
throw  its  heart  into  things  and  do  the 
best  it  knows  how.  He  has  a  keen  sense 
of  humor.  He  has  the  idiom  and  the 
sense  for  detail  which  mark  him  as  a 
late  nineteenth-century  American  and 
Westerner.  (If  you  doubt  this,  imagine 
Dickens  or  Cooper  or  Hemingway  writ- 
ing in  this  manner.)  He  has  a  stylistic 
flair  for  the  climactic,  the  figurative, 
and  the  colloquial.  Even  in  so  brief  a 
passage,  Twain  has  emerged  as  a  dis- 
tinct and  colorful  personality.  But  an 
excerpt  alone  cannot  do  the  job  prop- 
erly. It  can  show  only  a  facet  of  the 
author.  Most  importantly,  it  cannot  in- 
dicate what  inferences  the  reader  may 
make  about  the  author  from  the  struc- 
tural, stylistic,  and  thematic  handling 
of  a  literary  work  as  a  whole. 

There  are  several  disadvantages  to 
this  kind  of  criticism.  Consciously  or  un- 
consciously the  author  may  keep  him- 
self so  well  hidden  that  he  is  little  more 
than  an  enigma.  The  classic  example  of 
this  is  William  Shakespeare.  His  basic 
moral  attitudes  are  evident  enough,  and 
of  course  his  stylistic  flair.  But  no  one 
has  been  able  to  pin  down  his  specific 
attitudes  with  any  degree  of  success.  As 
a  result,  he  is  accused  of  being  both 
pious  and  agnostic,  Catholic  and  anti- 
Catholic,  democratic  and  aristocratic. 
What  happens  is  that  most  readers, 
foiled  in  the  search  in  the  plays  for  evi- 
dence about  the  nature  of  the  author, 


THE   WHOLE  WORK 


167 


attribute  characteristics  to  him  that  they 
want  him  to  have.  Or  they  attribute 
characteristics  which  he  manufactured 
for  some  of  his  characters  and  which 
may  or  may  not  have  relevance  for 
Shakespeare  himself.  Such  procedure 
amounts  to  wishful  thinking  or  sheer 
guessing.  A  sounder  procedure,  and  also 
a  harder  one,  is  to  study  all  the  avail- 
able external  evidence.  Thus  a  reader 
who  wants  to  evaluate  Othello  by  this 
method  might  read  all  of  the  other 
Shakespearean  plays  and  the  Shake- 
spearean sonnets;  he  might  read  what 
Shakespeare's  contemporaries  like  Ben 
Jonson  had  to  say  about  him;  and  he 
might  study  what  the  scholars  have 
discovered  about  his  life.  Then  he 
might  return  to  Othello  and  see  how 
much  of  what  he  knows  about  Shake- 
speare becomes  clear  in  the  play  and 
evaluate  it  accordingly.  What  all  this 
means  is  that  to  employ  this  mode  of 
criticism  successfully  a  person  some- 
times has  to  be  a  historical  scholar  first 
and  a  critic  second. 

Care  must  be  taken,  too,  in  making 
inferences  from  units  which  are  too 
small.  A  single  story  or  poem  can  pro- 
vide a  glimpse  of  only  one  aspect  of  a 
writer's  mind  or  character.  In  this  re- 
spect a  novel  is  much  more  adequate 
since  you  are  with  the  author  longer 
and  have  a  chance  to  see  him  in  many 
moods  and  to  watch  him  reflect  upon 
many  issues.  In  any  event,  no  part  of  a 
literary  work  can  be  expected  to  give 
reliable  evidence  unless  you  know  that 
it  checks  with  what  is  revealed  by  the 
work  as  a  whole. 

This  way  of  evaluating  is  limited  also 
in  that  it  fails  to  deal  directly  with  mat- 
ters of  meaning,  structure,  and  overall 
effect.  These  become  pertinent  consider- 
ations only  as  they  throw  light  upon  the 


nature  of  the  author.  Thus  the  literary 
work  at  best  may  be  considered  as  a 
clean  pane  of  glass  which  we  are  anxious 
to  look  through  in  order  to  see  the  glass- 
maker. 

What  is  appealing  about  the  method 
is  that  it  enlarges  our  circle  of  ac- 
quaintances. Through  their  works  we 
come  to  know  the  great  of  the  world, 
men  like  Dante,  Milton,  Turgenev, 
Whitman,  and  O'Neill.  Since  most  of  us 
have  little  opportunity  to  meet  such 
wise  and  talented  persons  in  everyday 
life,  this  provides  us  with  that  oppor- 
tunity. Reading  becomes  an  intimate 
and  revealing  conversation— a  one-way 
conversation,  to  be  sure,  but  potentially 
richer  than  real  conversation  since  the 
author  is  likely  to  be  a  wiser  man  than 
you  would  ordinarily  meet  and  since 
you  always  have  the  chance  to  go  back 
over  what  he  has  written  in  order  to 
exhaust  its  possibilities.  According  to 
this  method  of  evaluation,  one  might 
well  consider  the  greatest  literature  as 
nothing  more  than  the  conversation  of 
the  greatest  men. 

At  least  four  other  values  should  grow 
out  of  this  intimate  study  of  the  author 
behind  the  work.  You  should  be  better 
prepared  to  understand  and  appreciate 
other  works  by  the  same  author.  This  is 
open  to  objection,  of  course,  in  that  you 
may  develop  pre judgments  which  slant 
your  outlook.  (You  came  to  dislike  Mel- 
ville through  Pierre,  we'll  say,  so  you  are 
prepared  to  dislike  him  in  Moby  Dick.) 
But,  in  general,  knowing  an  author 
through  one  work  will  make  you  a  more 
intelligent  reader  of  his  other  works. 
Second,  you  should  understand  other 
people  better.  In  searching  through  lit- 
erature for  the  traits  and  attitudes  of 
authors,  you  develop  a  technique  of 
pushing  through  what  your  friends  do 


168 


THE    WHOLE    WORK 


and  say  to  their  motives  and  funda- 
mental characteristics.  Third,  you  should 
gain  insight  into  the  creative  process. 
Seeing  an  author  through  his  works 
must  inevitably  help  you  see  how  a 
work  grows  out  of  an  author.  That  this 
is  true  is  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  so 
many  of  our  writers  employ  this  method 
of  criticism.  Interested  in  developing 
sharper  techniques  themselves,  they 
constantly  study  the  relation  between 
other  authors  and  their  works,  and  eval- 
uate the  works  in  the  light  of  their  suc- 
cess in  making  clear  their  ideas  and 
emotions.  Finally,  you  should  gain  in- 
sight into  the  country  and  age  of  the 
author.  If  a  writer  is  to  a  very  large 
degree  the  child  of  his  age,  and  if  you 
know  the  writer  intimately,  then  it  must 
follow  that  to  a  large  degree  you  know 
his  age.  Through  Chaucer  we  have 
come  to  know  the  fourteenth  century, 
through  Milton  the  seventeenth,  and  un- 
doubtedly future  readers  will  get  to 
know  us  partly  through  men  like  Hem- 
ingway and  Steinbeck.  Sometimes  this 
is  a  matter  of  learning  the  facts  of  the 
age.  More  often  and  more  importantly, 
it  is  a  matter  of  learning  the  peculiar 
temper  of  the  age,  its  attitudes,  beliefs, 
hopes,  likes  and  dislikes,  its  especial 
values.  History  can  report  these  as  data; 
literature  through  the  personality  of  the 
author  can  make  us  feel  them  as  reali- 
ties in  the  lives  of  our  ancestors. 


Questions 

WHAT  inferences  can  you  make 
about  Browning  from  "My  Last 
Duchess"  (p.  60)?  about  Eliot  from 
"The  Love  Song  of  J.  Alfred  Prufrock" 
(p.  128)?  about  Dickinson  from  "I  Died 
for  Beauty"  (p.  165)? 

2.  What   inferences   can   you  make 
about  Dorothy  Parker  from  "Nocturne" 
(p.   102)?  about  S.  J.  Perelman  from 
"The  Idol's  Eye"  (p.  105)?  From  what 
you  have   inferred  about  them,   how 
would  you  say  that  they  differ  from 
Mark  Twain?  What  characteristics  of 
their  writing  stamp  them  as  twentieth- 
century  authors? 

3.  Compare  Poe  and  Saki  from  what 
you  can  infer  of  their  personalities  and 
backgrounds  as  revealed  in  "The  Cask 
of  Amontillado"  (p.  72)  and  "The  Open 
Window"  (p.  158).  In  the  case  of  Poe, 
would  the  inferences  about  background 
be  generally  correct?  What  clues  indi- 
cate that  "The  Open  Window"  was  writ- 
ten considerably  later  than  "The  Cask 
of  Amontillado"? 

4.  The  following  selections  were  writ- 
ten, respectively,  in  the  1720's,  1820's, 
and  1920's.  What  inferences  can  you 
make  from  them  about  the  change  in 
American  life,  both  physical  and  spirit- 
ual? From  what  you  know  about  Ainer- 
ican  history  would  you  say  that  your 
inferences  are  largely  correct? 


JONATHAN    EDWARDS 


^3X3,11 


THEY  SAY  THERE  is  a  young  lady  in  [New  Haven]  who  is  beloved  of  that 
Great  Being,  who  made  and  rules  the  world,  and  that  there  are  certain 
seasons  in  which  this  Great  Being,  in  some  way  or  other  invisible,  comes 
to  her  and  fills  her  mind  .with  exceeding  sweet  delight,  and  that  she  hardly 


SARAH   PIERREPONT         169 


cares  for  any  thing,  except  to  meditate  on  him— that  she  expects  after  a  while 
to  be  received  up  where  he  is,  to  be  raised  up  out  of  the  world  and  caught 
up  into  heaven;  being  assured  that  he  loves  her  too  well  to  let  her  remain 
at  a  distance  from  him  always.  There  she  is  to  dwell  with  him,  and  to  be 
ravished  with  his  love  and  delight  for  ever.  Therefore,  if  you  present  all 
the  world  before  her,  with  the  richest  of  its  treasures,  she  disregards  it  and 
cares  not  for  it,  and  is  unmindful  of  any  pain  or  affliction.  She  has  a  strange 
sweetness  in  her  mind,  and  singular  purity  in  her  affections;  is  most  just  and 
conscientious  in  all  her  conduct;  and  you  could  not  persuade  her  to  do  any 
thing  wrong  or  sinful,  if  you  would  give  her  all  the  world,  lest  she  should 
offend  this  Great  Being.  She  is  of  a  wonderful  sweetness,  calmness,  and 
universal  benevolence  of  mind;  especially  after  this  Great  God  has  mani- 
fested himself  to  her  mind.  She  will  sometimes  go  about  from  place  to  place, 
singing  sweetly;  and  seems  to  be  always  full  of  joy  and  pleasure;  and  no 
one  knows  for  what.  She  loves  to  be  alone,  walking  in  the  fields  and  groves, 
and  seems  to  have  some  one  invisible  always  conversing  with  her. 


JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER 


A  I1C 


IF  THERE  be  anything  wanting  to  your  comfort,  name  it,  Leather-stocking; 
if  it  be  attainable  it  is  yours." 

"You  mean  all  for  the  best,  lad;  I  know  it;  and  so  does  Madam,  too:  but 
your  ways  isn't  my  ways.  'Tis  like  the  dead  there,  who  thought,  when  the 
breath  was  in  them,  that  one  went  east,  and  one  went  west,  to  find  their 
heavens;  but  they'll  meet  at  last;  and  so  shall  we,  children.  Yes,  ind  as 
you've  begun,  and  we  shall  meet  in  the  land  of  the  just  at  last." 

"This  is  so  newl  so  unexpected!"  said  Elizabeth,  in  almost  breathless 
excitement;  "I  had  thought  you  meant  to  live  with  us  and  die  with  us,  Natty." 

"Words  are  of  no  avail,"  exclaimed  her  husband;  "the  habits  of  forty 
years  are  not  to  be  dispossessed  by  the  ties  of  a  day.  I  know  you  too  well  to 
urge  you  further,  Natty;  unless  you  will  let  me  build  you  a  hut  on  one  of 
the  distant  hills,  where  we  can  sometimes  see  you,  and  know  that  you  are 
comfortable." 

"Don't  fear  for  the  Leather-stocking,  children;  God  will  see  that  his  days 
be  provided  for,  and  his  ind  happy.  I  know  you  mean  all  for  the  best,  but 
our  ways  doesn't  agree.  I  love  the  woods,  and  ye  relish  the  face  of  man;  I 
eat  when  hungry,  and  drink  when  a-dry;  and  ye  keep  stated  hours  and 
rules:  nay,  nay,  you  even  over-feed  the  dogs,  lad,  from  pure  kindness;  and 

170       THE  WHOLE  WORE 


hounds  should  be  gaunty  to  run  well.  The  meanest  of  God's  creaters  be 
made  for  some  use,  and  I'm  formed  for  the  wilderness;  if  ye  love  me,  let  me 
go  where  my  soul  craves  to  be  ag'inl" 

The  appeal  was  decisive;  and  not  another  word  of  entreaty  for  him  to 
remain  was  then  uttered;  but  Elizabeth  bent  her  head  to  her  bosom  and 
wept,  while  her  husband  dashed  away  the  tears  from  his  eyes;  and,  with 
hands  that  almost  refused  to  perform  their  office,  he  produced  his  pocket- 
book,  and  extended  a  parcel  of  bank-notes  to  the  hunter. 

"Take  these,"  he  said,  "at  least  take  these;  secure  them  about  your  person, 
and  in  the  hour  of  need,  they  will  do  you  good  service." 

The  old  man  took  the  notes,  and  examined  them  with  a  curious  eye. 

"This,  then,  is  some  of  the  new-fashioned  money  that  they've  been  making 
at  Albany,  out  of  paperl  It  can't  be  worth  much  to  they  that  hasn't  laming! 
No,  no,  lad— take  back  the  stuff;  it  will  do  me  no  sarvice.  I  took  kear  to  get 
all  the  Frenchman's  powder  afore  he  broke  up,  and  they  say  lead  grows 
where  I'm  going.  It  isn't  even  fit  for  wads,  seeing  that  I  use  none  but 
leather!— Madam  Effingham,  let  an  old  man  kiss  your  hand,  and  wish  God's 
choicest  blessings  on  you  and  your'n." 

"Once  more  let  me  beseech  you,  stay!"  cried  Elizabeth.  "Do  not,  Leather- 
stocking,  leave  me  to  grieve  for  the  man  who  has  twice  rescued  me  from 
death,  and  who  has  served  those  I  love  so  faithfully.  For  my  sake,  if  not  for 
your  own,  stay.  I  shall  see  you  in  those  frightful  dreams  that  still  haunt 
my  nights,  dying  in  poverty  and  age,  by  the  side  of  those  terrific  beasts 
you  slew.  There  will  be  no  evil,  that  sickness,  want,  and  solitude  can  inflict, 
that  my  fancy  will  not  conjure  as  your  fate.  Stay  with  us,  old  man,  if  not 
for  your  own  sake,  at  least  for  ours." 

"Such  thoughts  and  bitter  dreams,  Madam  Effingham,"  returned  the 
hunter,  solemnly,  "will  never  haunt  an  innocent  parson  long.  They'll  pass 
away  with  God's  pleasure.  And  if  the  cat-a-mounts  be  yet  brought  to  your 
eyes  in  sleep,  'tis  not  for  my  sake,  but  to  show  you  the  power  of  Him  that 
led  me  there  to  save  you.  Trust  in  God,  Madam,  and  your  honorable  hus- 
band, and  the  thoughts  for  an  old  man  like  me  can  never  be  long  nor 
bitter.  I  pray  that  the  Lord  will  keep  you  in  mind— the  Lord  that  lives  in 
clearings  as  well  as  in  the  wilderness— and  bless  you,  and  all  that  belong 
to  you,  from  this  time  till  the  great  day  when  the  whites  shall  meet  the 
red-skins  in  judgment,  and  justice  shall  be  the  law,  and  not  power." 

Elizabeth  raised  her  head,  and  offered  her  colorless  cheek  to  his  salute, 
when  he  lifted  his  cap  and  touched  it  respectfully.  His  hand  was  grasped 
with  convulsive  fervor  by  the  youth,  who  continued  silent.  The  hunter 
prepared  himself  for  his  journey,  drawing  his  belt  tighter,  and  wasting 
his  moments  in  the  little  reluctant  movements  of  a  sorrowful  departure, 

THE    PIONEERS        171 


Once  or  twice  he  essayed  to  speak,  but  a  rising  in  his  throat  prevented  it. 
At  length  he  shouldered  his  rifle,  and  cried  with  a  clear  huntsman's  call  that 
echoed  through  the  woods— 

"He-e-e-re,  he-e-e-re,  pups— away,  dogs,  away;— yell  be  footsore  afore 
ye  see  the  ind  of  the  journey!" 

The  hounds  leaped  from  the  earth  at  this  cry,  and  scenting  around  the 
graves  and  the  silent  pair,  as  if  conscious  of  their  own  destination,  they 
followed  humbly  at  the  heels  of  their  master.  A  short  pause  succeeded, 
during  which  even  the  youth  concealed  his  face  on  his  grandfather's  tomb. 
When  the  pride  of  manhood,  however,  had  suppressed  the  feelings  of 
nature,  he  turned  to  renew  his  entreaties,  but  saw  that  the  cemetery  was 
occupied  only  by  himself  and  his  wife. 

"He  is  gone!"  cried  Effingham. 

Elizabeth  raised  her  face,  and  saw  the  old  hunter  standing,  looking  back 
for  a  moment,  on  the  verge  of  the  wood.  As  he  caught  their  glances,  he 
drew  his  hard  hand  hastily  across  his  eyes  again,  waved  it  on  high  for  an 
adieu,  and  uttering  a  forced  cry  to  his  dogs,  who  were  crouching  at  his 
feet,  he  entered  the  forest. 

This  was  the  last  that  they  ever  saw  of  the  Leather-stocking,  whose 
rapid  movements  preceded  the  pursuit  which  Judge  Temple  both  ordered 
and  conducted.  He  had  gone  far  toward  the  setting  sun,— the  foremost  in 
that  band  of  pioneers  who  are  opening  the  way  for  the  march  of  the  nation 
across  the  continent. 


F.  SCOTT  FITZGERALD 


from  The  Great  Gatsby 


THERE  WAS  DANCING  now  on  the  canvas  in  the  garden;  old  men  pushing 
young  girls  backward  in  eternal  graceless  circles,  superior  couples 
holding  each  other  tortuously,  fashionably,  and  keeping  in  the  corners— 
and  a  great  number  of  single  girls  dancing  individualistically  or  relieving 
the  orchestra  for  a  moment  of  the  burden  of  the  banjo  or  the  traps.  By 
midnight  the  hilarity  had  increased.  A  celebrated  tenor  had  sung  in  Italian, 
and  a  notorious  contralto  had  sung  in  jazz,  and  between  the  numbers  people 
were  doing  "stunts"  all  over  the  garden,  while  happy,  vacuous  bursts  of 
laughter  rose  toward  the  summer  sky.  A  pair  of  stage  twins,  who  turned  out 

From  The  Great  Gatsby.  Used  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
172       THE  WHOLE  WORK 


to  be  the  girls  in  yellow,  did  a  baby  act  in  costume,  and  champagne  was 
served  in  glasses  bigger  than  finger-bowls.  The  moon  had  risen  higher,  and 
floating  in  the  Sound  was  a  triangle  of  silver  scales,  trembling  a  little  to 
the  stiff,  tinny  drip  of  the  banjoes  on  the  lawn. 

I  was  still  with  Jordan  Baker.  We  were  sitting  at  a  table  with  a  man  of 
about  my  age  and  a  rowdy  little  girl,  who  gave  way  upon  the  slightest 
provocation  to  uncontrollable  laughter.  I  was  enjoying  myself  now.  I  had 
taken  two  finger-bowls  of  champagne,  and  the  scene  had  changed  before 
my  eyes  into  something  significant,  elemental,  and  profound. 

At  a  lull  in  the  entertainment  the  man  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 

"Your  face  is  familiar,"  he  said,  politely.  "Weren't  you  in  the  First  Division 
during  the  war?" 

"Why,  yes.  I  was  in  the  Twenty-eighth  Infantry." 

"I  was  in  the  Sixteenth  until  June  nine  teen-eight  een.  I  knew  I'd  seen 
you  somewhere  before." 

We  talked  for  a  moment  about  some  wet,  gray  little  villages  in  France. 
Evidently  he  lived  in  this  vicinity,  for  he  told  me  that  he  had  just  bought 
a  hydroplane,  and  was  going  to  try  it  out  in  the  morning. 

"Want  to  go  with  me,  old  sport?  Just  near  the  shore  along  the  Sound." 

"What  time?" 

"Any  time  that  suits  you  best." 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  ask  his  name  when  Jordan  looked 
around  and  smiled. 

"Having  a  gay  time  now?"  she  inquired. 

"Much  better."  I  turned  again  to  my  new  acquaintance.  "This  is  an 
unusual  party  for  me.  I  haven't  even  seen  the  host.  I  live  over  there—"  I 
waved  my  hand  at  the  invisible  hedge  in  the  distance,  "and  this  man 
Gatsby  sent  over  his  chauffeur  with  an  invitation." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he  failed  to  understand. 

"I'm  Gatsby,"  he  said  suddenly. 

"What!"  I  exclaimed.  "Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  thought  you  knew,  old  sport.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  very  good  host." 

He  smiled  understandingly— much  more  than  understandingly.  It  was 
one  of  those  rare  smiles  with  a  quality  of  eternal  reassurance  in  it,  that 
you  may  come  across  four  or  five  times  in  life.  It  faced— or  seemed  to  face— 
the  whole  eternal  world  for  an  instant,  and  then  concentrated  on  you  with 
an  irresistible  prejudice  in  your  favor.  It  understood  you  just  as  far  as 
you  wanted  to  be  understood,  believed  in  you  as  you  would  like  to  believe 
in  yourself,  and  assured  you  that  it  had  precisely  the  impression  of  you 
that,  at  your  best,  you  hoped  to  convey.  Precisely  at  that  point  it  vanished— 
and  I  was  looking  at  an  elegant  young  roughneck,  a  year  or  two  over 

THE   GREAT   GATSBY         173 


thirty,  whose  elaborate  formality  of  speech  just  missed  being  absurd.  Some 
time  before  he  introduced  himself  I'd  got  a  strong  impression  that  he 
was  picking  his  words  with  care. 

Almost  at  the  moment  when  Mr.  Gatsby  identified  himself,  a  butler 
hurried  toward  him  with  the  information  that  Chicago  was  calling  him  on 
the  wire.  He  excused  himself  with  a  small  bow  that  included  each  of 
us  in  turn. 

"If  you  want  anything  just  ask  for  it,  old  sport,"  he  urged  me.  "Excuse 
me.  I  will  rejoin  you  later/' 

When  he  was  gone  I  turned  immediately  to  Jordan—constrained  to  assure 
her  of  my  surprise.  I  had  expected  that  Mr.  Gatsby  would  be  a  florid  and 
corpulent  person  in  his  middle  years. 

"Who  is  he?"  I  demanded.  "Do  you  know?" 

"He's  just  a  man  named  Gatsby." 

"Where  is  he  from,  I  mean?  And  what  does  he  do?" 

"Now  youre  started  on  the  subject,"  she  answered  with  a  wan  smile. 
"Well,  he  told  me  once  he  was  an  Oxford  man." 

A  dim  background  started  to  take  shape  behind  him,  but  at  her  next 
remark  it  faded  away. 

"However,  I  don't  believe  it." 

"Why  not?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  insisted,  "I  just  don't  think  he  went  there." 

Something  in  her  tone  reminded  me  of  the  other  girl's  "I  think  he  killed 
a  man,"  and  had  the  effect  of  stimulating  my  curiosity.  I  would  have 
accepted  without  question  the  information  that  Gatsby  sprang  from  the 
swamps  of  Louisiana  or  from  the  lower  East  Side  of  New  York.  That  was 
comprehensible.  But  young  men  didn't— at  least  in  my  provincial  inexperi- 
ence I  believed  they  didn't— drift  coolly  out  of  nowhere  and  buy  a  palace 
on  Long  Island  Sound. 

"Anyhow,  he  gives  large  parties,"  said  Jordan,  changing  the  subject  with 
an  urban  distaste  for  the  concrete.  "And  I  like  large  parties.  They're  so 
intimate.  At  small  parties  there  isn't  any  privacy." 

There  was  the  boom  of  a  bass  drum,  and  the  voice  of  the  orchestra 
leader  rang  out  suddenly  above  the  echolalia  of  the  garden. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  cried.  "At  the  request  of  Mr.  Gatsby  we  are 
going  to  play  for  you  Mr.  Vladimir  Tostoff's  latest  work,  which  attracted 
so  much  attention  at  Carnegie  Hall  last  May.  If  you  read  the  papers,  you 
know  there  was  a  big  sensation."  He  smiled  with  jovial  condescension,  and 
added:  "Some  sensation!"  Whereupon  everybody  laughed. 

"The  piece  is  known,"  he  concluded  lustily,  "as  Vladimir  Tostoff's  Jazz 
History  of  the  World." 


174 


THE  WHOLE  WORK 


The  nature  of  Mr.  Tostoffs  composition  eluded  me,  because  just  as  it 
began  my  eyes  fell  on  Gatsby,  standing  alone  on  the  marble  steps  and 
looking  from  one  group  to  another  with  approving  eyes.  His  tanned  skin 
was  drawn  attractively  tight  on  his  face  and  his  short  hair  looked  as  though 
it  were  trimmed  every  day.  I  could  see  nothing  sinister  about  him.  I  won- 
dered if  the  fact  that  he  was  not  drinking  helped  to  set  him  off  from  his 
guests,  for  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  grew  more  correct  as  the  fraternal  hilarity 
increased.  When  the  Jazz  History  of  the  World  was  over,  girls  were  putting 
their  heads  on  men's  shoulders  in  a  puppyish,  convivial  way,  girls  were 
swooning  backward  playfully  into  men's  arms,  even  into  groups,  knowing 
that  some  one  would  arrest  their  falls—but  no  one  swooned  backward  on 
Gatsby,  and  no  French  bob  touched  Gatsby 's  shoulder,  and  no  singing 
quartets  were  formed  for  Gatsby's  head  for  one  link. 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

Gatsby's  butler  was  suddenly  standing  beside  us. 

"Miss  Baker?"  he  inquired.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  but  Mr.  Gatsby  would 
like  to  speak  to  you  alone." 

"With  me?"  she  exclaimed  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  madame." 

She  got  up  slowly,  raising  her  eyebrows  at  me  in  astonishment,  and 
followed  the  butler  toward  the  house.  I  noticed  that  she  wore  her  evening- 
dress,  all  her  dresses,  like  sports  clothes— there  was  a  jauntiness  about  her 
movements  as  if  she  had  first  learned  to  walk  upon  golf  courses  on  clean, 
crisp  mornings. 

I  was  alone  and  it  was  almost  two.  For  some  time  confused  and  intriguing 
sounds  had  issued  from  a  long,  many-windowed  room  which  overhung  the 
terrace.  Eluding  Jordan's  undergraduate,  who  was  now  engaged  in  an 
obstetrical  conversation  with  two  chorus  girls,  and  who  implored  me  to 
join  him,  I  went  inside. 

The  large  room  was  full  of  people.  One  of  the  girls  in  yellow  was  playing 
the  piano,  and  beside  her  stood  a  tall,  red-haired  young  lady  from  a  famous 
chorus,  engaged  in  song.  She  had  drunk  a  quantity  of  champagne,  and 
during  the  course  of  her  song  she  had  decided,  ineptly,  that  everything 
was  very,  very  sad— she  was  not  only  singing,  she  was  weeping  too.  When- 
ever there  was  a  pause  in  the  song  she  filled  it  with  gasping,  broken  sobs, 
and  then  took  up  the  lyric  again  in  a  quavering  soprano.  The  tears  coursed 
down  her  cheeks— not  freely,  however,  for  when  they  came  into  contact  with 
her  heavily  beaded  eyelashes  they  assumed  an  inky  color,  and  pursued 
the  rest  of  their  way  in  slow  black  rivulets.  A  humorous  suggestion  was 
made  that  she  sing  the  notes  on  her  face,  whereupon  she  threw  up  her 
hands,  sank  into  a  chair,  and  went  off  into  a  deep  vinous  sleep. 

THE   GREAT   GATSBY        175 


"She  had  a  fight  with  a  man  who  says  he's  her  husband/'  explained  a 
girl  at  my  elbow. 

I  looked  around.  Most  of  the  remaining  women  were  now  having  fights 
with  men  said  to  be  their  husbands.  Even  Jordan's  party,  the  quartet  from 
East  Egg,  were  rent  asunder  by  dissension.  One  of  the  men  was  talking 
with  curious  intensity  to  a  young  actress,  and  his  wife,  after  attempting  to 
laugh  at  the  situation  in  a  dignified  and  indifferent  way,  broke  down 
entirely  and  resorted  to  flank  attacks— at  intervals  she  appeared  suddenly 
at  his  side  like  an  angry  diamond,  and  hissed:  "You  promised!"  into  his  ear. 


The  work  itself 

CRITICS  who  apply  the  yardstick  of 
internal  consistency  to  a  piece  of 
work  take  as  their  basic  premise  that 
the  work  of  art  is  a  unique  product  of 
the  human  genius  and  should  be  judged 
by  criteria  which  are  applicable  to  it 
and  to  it  alone.  Who  the  writer  is  or 
what  the  individual  effect  of  the  work 
on  the  reader  is,  are  matters  which  are 
irrelevant.  The  problem  here  is  to  dis- 
cover what  the  relation  of  the  parts  is 
to  the  whole  and  to  one  another.  The 
competent  work,  presumably,  is  the  one 
in  which  the  parts  are  so  consistent  and 
harmonious  that  the  work  as  a  totality  is 
an  organism  in  which  no  part  could  be 
changed  without  detriment  to  the  whole 
work. 

Although  the  nature  of  the  internal 
consistence  varies  with  each  work,  in 
its  largest  terms  it  is  always  a  matter  of 
congruity  between  form  and  content. 
In  the  case  of  the  lyric  poem,  to  take 
one  example,  it  is  a  matter  of  seeing 
whether  the  words,  lines,  stanzas,  and 
overall  form  harmonize  with  the  mate- 
rial and  ideas.  Let  us  examine  briefly 
a  very  simple  lyric,  Masefield's  "Car- 
goes/' 

Quinquireme  of  Nineveh  from  distant 
Ophir 


Rowing  home  to  haven  in  sunny  Pales- 
tine, 

With  a  cargo  of  ivory, 

And  apes  and  peacocks, 

Sandalwood,  cedanvood,  and  sweet  white 
wine. 

Stately  Spanish  galleon  coining  from  the 

Isthmus 
Dipping   through    the   Tropics    by   the 

palm-tree  shores, 
With  a  cargo  of  diamonds, 
Emeralds,  amethysts, 
Topazes,  and  cinnamon,  and  gold  moi- 

dores. 

Dirty    British    coaster    with    salt-caked 

smoke-stack 
Butting  through   the  Channel  in   the 

mad  March  days, 
With  a  cargo  of  Tyne  coal, 
Road-rail,  pig-lead, 
Firewood,  iron-ware,  and  cheap  tin  trays. 

In  the  first  stanza  here,  the  material  is 
exotic  and  romantically  delightful.  No- 
tice how  all  matters  of  form  correspond: 
the  words  are  melodic,  the  connotations 
appealing,  the  lines  smoothly  flowing. 
As  we  come  closer  to  the  present,  as 
we  do  in  the  second  stanza,  the  mate- 
rial, though  attractive,  is  somewhat  less 
exotic.  Notice  that  the  sounds  are 
somewhat  less  melodic,  the  connotations 
less  enchanting,  and  the  lines  slightly 


176 


THE  WHOLE  WORK 


less  liquid.  Then,  when  the  material 
becomes  contemporary,  as  it  does  in  the 
third  stanza,  a  marked  change  takes 
place.  The  words  are  stubby  and  mono- 
syllabic; the  connotations  are  distasteful; 
and  the  lines  are  jerky.  Note,  too,  that 
the  color  images,  brilliant  and  sparkling 
at  the  start,  are  replaced  by  dull,  drab 
ones  at  the  end. 

The  stanzas  give  the  material  both 
unity  and  coherence.  Unity  is  achieved 
through  a  repetition  of  stanza  form. 
Since  the  poet  is  merely  listing  three 
details,  and  not  even  presenting  them 
in  complete  sentences,  he  must  find  a 
way  to  hold  them  together.  He  does 
this  through  a  precise  paralleling  of 
material.  In  each  stanza  the  first  line 
is  devoted  to  the  ship,  the  second  to 
the  motion  and  location  of  the  ship,  and 
the  next  three  are  devoted  to  the  cargo. 
The  number  of  stanzas  indicates  the 
number  of  concepts;  the  arrangement 
indicates  movement  from  past  to  pres- 
ent, from  the  romantic  to  the  workaday. 
For  these  reasons  and  others,  we  may 
say  that  in  "Cargoes"  Masefield  has 
achieved  harmony  between  form  and 
content,  and  that  according  to  the  stand- 
ard of  internal  consistence  this  poem 
ranks  high. 

There  is  too  little  space  here  to  make 
a  similar  analysis  of  a  longer  work,  but 
we  can  suggest  some  of  the  elements 
which  might  have  to  be  considered.  In 
the  novel,  play,  short  story,  epic,  or  nar- 
rative poem,  the  reader  ordinarily  fo- 
cuses his  attention  upon  people.  The 
primary  question  is  what  happens  to 
them:  do  they  remain  the  same?  make 
a  simple  change?  change  and  then  re- 
verse themselves?  or  make  a  series  of 
changes?  Only  as  you  know  what  hap- 
pens to  them  can  you  determine 
whether  they  have  been  consistent. 


In  discovering  this,  the  first  step  Is 
to  determine  what  state  of  affairs  pre- 
vails at  the  opening  of  the  work:  Who 
are  the  people?  What  are  their  essential 
characteristics?  What  are  the  conflicts 
within  their  minds?  What  are  the  con- 
flicts which  face  them  with  outside 
forces?  What  is  the  nature  of  the  world 
they  live  in— whimsical?  romantic?  real- 
istic but  responsive  to  human  effort? 
realistic  and  unresponsive  to  human  ef- 
fort? Once  you  know  the  answers  to 
questions  like  these,  you  are  in  a  posi* 
tion  to  determine  whether  what  the 
characters  do  and  say  is  plausible  or 
probable. 

Note  that  internal  consistency  is  not 
dependent  upon  lifelike  action  unless 
the  air  of  reality  has  been  established  at 
the  beginning.  For  example,  what  Ulys- 
ses does  in  the  Odyssey  is  quite  plausi- 
ble in  the  world  which  Homer  creates. 
The  accomplishments  of  Swift's  Gul- 
liver, of  Barrie's  Peter  Pan,  and  of  Mel- 
ville's Ahab  are  plausible  and  probable, 
too,  in  the  worlds  of  the  books  in  which 
they  appear.  But  imagine  Gulliver  or 
Peter  Pan  on  the  main  street  of  Sinclair 
Lewis'  Gopher  Prairie,  and  you  have 
inconsistency  carried  to  an  absurdity. 
Let  us  repeat.  Consistency  is  not  de- 
pendent upon  accuracy;  it  is  a  matter  of 
the  characters  thinking,  speaking,  and 
acting  in  a  manner  which  seems  har- 
monious with  their  natures  and  setting. 

Where  there  is  no  change  in  the 
characters  of  the  short  stoiy,  narrative 
poem,  or  one-act  play,  an  analysis  of 
internal  consistency  is  a  matter  of  seeing 
that  what  occurs  is  in  accord  with  the 
basic  motives  of  the  people  and  the 
nature  of  the  circumstances.  Even  in 
very  short  works,  however,  changes 
may  take  place.  Three  familiar  lyrical 
patterns,  for  example,  are  as  follows: 


THE  WHOLE  WORK 


177 


One,  the  poet  repeats  explicitly  or  in 
figures  the  same  emotion:  I'm  sad;  I'm 
sad;  how  sad  I  am.  Two,  the  poet  ex- 
plores various  aspects  of  his  thought- 
emotion:  I'm  sad  for  a  number  of  rea- 
sons; how  sad  I  am;  my  sadness  will 
end  only  when  I  win  my  love.  Three, 
the  poet's  feeling  changes:  I'm  sad;  as  I 
sit  and  think  about  it,  a  new  thought 
comes  to  me;  now  my  sadness  is  gone. 
For  internal  consistency,  the  potential 
change  in  the  second  case  and  the  ac- 
tual change  in  the  third  must  be  plausi- 
ble in  the  light  of  the  poet's  nature  and 
his  original  disturbance. 

In  the  novel  and  longer  play  changes 
inevitably  take  place.  In  Hawthorne's 
short  story  about  Wakefield,  the  main 
character  remains  the  same  throughout: 
canny,  egotistic,  and  cruel.  His  consist- 
ency lies  in  the  fact  that  he  does  remain 
the  same.  In  the  Scarlet  Letter,  how- 
ever, all  of  the  main  characters  because 
of  sin  and  a  resulting  sense  of  isolation 
change  rather  markedly.  The  consist- 
ency here  comes  in  the  fact  that  the 
change  grows  logically  out  of  the  cir- 
cumstances and  the  temperaments  of 
the  characters.  The  attitudes  and  actions 
of  Hester  Prynne  at  the  end  of  the  book 
are  not  at  all  what  they  were  at  the  be- 
ginning, but  the  shift  is  both  plausible 
and  probable.  There  are  other  concerns 
of  the  novel  and  play  many  of  which 
were  suggested  in  our  analysis  of  "Car- 
goes." Just  as  in  the  lyrical  poem,  the 
words,  sentences,  and  larger  structural 
units  of  the  novel  should  be  suited  to 
the  sense,  and  should  fit  into  the  main 
artistic  pattern.  A  nice  problem  in  an 
analysis  of  Moby  Dick,  for  instance, 
is  whether  the  scientific  and  historical 
material  on  whales  is  intellectually  or 
artistically  justifiable  in  the  light  of  the 
form  and  content  of  the  whole. 


The  advantages  of  this  "formal"  or 
"organic"  yardstick  are  numerous.  It 
brings  attention  to  bear  upon  the  work 
itself  and  in  doing  so  eliminates  a  great 
many  irrelevancies  that  sometimes  oc- 
cupy our  attention  and  get  us  no  place. 
As  the  formalistic  critic  points  out,  what 
difference  does  it  make  in  reading  By- 
ron's Don  Juan  that  Byron  had  a  club 
foot  or  swam  the  Hellespont?  Or  of 
what  importance  is  it  to  the  intrinsic 
worth  of  the  poem  that  it  reminds  you 
of  Marlowe's  "Hero  and  Leander"  or 
of  the  man  your  great-aunt  Tillie  mar- 
ried? In  making  you  concentrate  upon 
the  work  itself,  this  method  of  evalua- 
tion is  likely  to  make  you  conscious  of 
many  aspects  of  a  literary  work  which 
you  never  noticed  before.  Furthermore, 
this  mode  of  criticism  is  likely  to  result 
in  a  more  disciplined  and  a  more  precise 
kind  of  statement.  There  is  no  excuse 
for  vague  impressions,  for  well-meaning 
but  often  weak-minded  "appreciation." 
In  many  ways  this  method  takes  over 
the  spirit  and  the  method  of  scientific 
inquiry  and  adapts  them  to  literary 
evaluation. 

The  system  also  has  fairly  serious 
drawbacks.  It  is  doubtful,  for  example, 
that  it  provides  any  criterion  for  making 
comparative  judgments.  When  you  use 
it,  you  are  concerned  only  with  the 
unique  work  itself.  Indeed,  when 
pushed  to  its  logical  extreme,  the  meth- 
od involves  only  description  and  not 
evaluation  at  all.  Evaluation  gets  in  only 
when  the  description  of  the  work  con- 
forms to  what  you  think  is  excellent. 
But  your  notion  of  excellence  must  come 
from  other  sources.  To  put  it  another 
way,  the  function  of  this  method  is  to 
show  that  the  parts  of  a  work  are  related 
harmoniously  to  the  whole  and  to  one 
another.  One  might  well  ask,  then,  what 


178 


THE  WHOLE  WORK 


if  they  are?  By  this  method  there  would  a  habit  which  many  of  its  practitioners 

be  no  answer  except  that  they  are.  By  fall  into— with  the  result  that  their  han- 

introducing  the  yardstick  of  effect,  how-  dling  of  literary  works  becomes  a  series 

ever,  one  might  go  on  to  say,  This  work  of  problems  in  mental  acrobatics  and 

is  good  because  anything  which  is  har-  these  persons  themselves  become  de- 

monious  and  consistent  gives  me  ass-  sensitized  to  the  emotional  effects  which 

thetic  pleasure.  I  like  a  forward  pass  give  literature  its  distinctive  quality, 
cleanly  executed,  an  orchestral  compo-^         Each  of  the  analyses  in  the  following 

sition  without  dissonance,  a  novel  with-  group  of  selections  illustrates  for  you  the 

out  inconsistencies.  type  of  criticism  which  we  have  just 

Another  drawback  is  that  the  method  been  describing.  Notice  how  in  each  es- 

tends  to  result  in  such  an  emphasis  upon  say  the  critic  concentrates  his  attention 

structure  that  matters  like  mood,  color,  on  the  work  itself  in  an  attempt  to  bring 

connotation,  and  melody  are  almost  ig-  out  the  internal  consistency  and  the  re- 

nored.  Inattention  to  such  elements  is  lationship  of  parts  that  less  observant 

not  enforced  by  the  method;  it  is  simply  readers  might  miss. 


ROBERT    HERRICK 


Upon  Julia's  clothes 


WHENAS  in  silks  my  Julia  goes, 
Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 
The  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration,  each  way  free, 
Oh,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me! 


EARL  DANIELS 


Herrick's  "Upon  Julia's  Clothes" 

SUPERFICIALLY,  the  poem  is  obvious  to  the  point  of  seeming  to  depreciate 
analysis,  not  to  be  worth  it.  A  pretty  girl  moves  through  six  lines,  for  a 
moment  only  catches  an  observer's  eye,  passes,  and  is  gone.  So  slight  is  the 


Reprinted  from  The  Explicator,  March  1943.  By  permission. 

HERRICK'S  "UPON  JULIA'S  CLOTHES"      179 


impact  of  the  experience  that  he  writes  not  about  the  girl  but  about  her 
clothes.  Costume  is  defined  by  silks,  and  each  stanza  is  centered  in  a  single 
quality  of  silk  in  movement,  and  in  light  ("liquefaction,"  line  3,  and  "glitter- 
ing," line  6).  The  positions  of  these  words  in  the  last  lines  of  each  stanza 
should  be  noted  and,  more  particularly,  the  increased  sharpness  lent  to  "glit- 
tering" by  the  necessity,  here,  of  pronunciation  in  two  syllables  only:  the 
vowel  sound  of  an  acute  and  pointed  short  "i"  is  closed  tightly  in  by  con- 
sonants, "g"  and  "t"  in  one  syllable,  "tT  and  "ng"  in  the  other.  The  stab  of 
that  word,  a  superb  mine-eyes-dazzle  effect,  suggests  the  poem  is  not  so 
simple  as  it  seems:  that  Julia-in-clothes  is  more  important  than  clothes,  the 
apparent  subject;  that  the  observer  is  more  deeply  moved  than  he  wants  a 
careless  reader  to  suppose,  possibly  than  he  himself  knows. 

Attention  to  sound  and  movement  reveals  the  implications  of  the  single 
word  "glittering"  to  be  a  clue  worth  following.  The  poem  is  Julia  and  Julia's 
clothes.  But  each  stanza  contains  lines  (I,  2;  II,  1,  3)  which  turn  to  the 
observer,  and  seem  to  hint  in  sound  and  movement  at  a  central  ironic  con- 
trast between  the  states  of  mind  of  the  observer  and  the  girl.  The  Julia  lines 
flow,  as  easy  and  as  liquid  as  the  smooth  silks  which  dress  and  conceal  a 
lovely  body.  But  the  observer  lines  throb  unevenly;  they  start  and  stop;  they 
image  the  excitement  and  disturbance  of  the  poet.  It  may  not  be  too  far- 
fetched to  wonder  if  they  are  not  symbol  for  the  quickened  beating  of  a 
heart,  the  surprised  catch  of  breath,  in  the  presence  of  beauty,  especially 
beauty  of  a  woman.  An  attentive  reader  now  begins  to  understand  it  is  not 
Julia's  clothes  but  Julia  herself  who  is  the  subject  of  the  poem;  and  the  poem 
begins  to  grow  and  to  take  on  new  richness  of  meaning.  To  be  especially 
noted  is  the  contrast  in  stanza  I  between  lines  1  and  2:  in  line  1,  word 
ripples  into  word,  sound  into  sound,  the  caesural  pause  is  so  slight  as  to  be 
almost  not  noticeable;  in  line  2,  the  opening  repetition  of  "then,  then," 
where  each  word  must  be  distinctly  separated  by  pauses,  where  vowels  are 
imbedded  between  inescapable  consonants,  announces  a  change,  further 
stressed  by  the  parenthetical  "methinks."  (Even  the  parenthesis  plays  its 
part  here. )  Only  as  this  line,  toward  the  end,  moves  to  Julia  and  her  costume 
does  it  begin  to  glide,  to  be  liquefied  again.  The  point  is  Julia  moves  through 
the  poem  serene,  untouched;  she  may  not  even  know  the  poet  has  so  much 
as  seen  her.  But  he  is  in  a  different  situation,  for  though  he  is  ostensibly 
doing  nothing  more  than  writing  a  pretty  lyric  about  a  pretty  dress,  yet  he 
reveals,  in  the  sound,  the  movement,  the  pace  of  his  words,  how  deeply  he 
has  been  stirred  by  what  seems  so  unimportant. 

This  makes  for  a  basic  ironic  contrast,  central  to  the  poem :  the  ironic  con- 
trast between  the  girl  and  the  man.  Is  it  the  irony  of  man  ( male )  set  over 
against  woman  (female)— a  contrast  as  old  as  the  Garden  of  Eden  itself— 

180        THE   WHOLE  WORK 


or  is  it  the  profounder  suggestion  of  the  situation  of  man  (not  a  man)  in  the 
presence  of  beauty— beauty  here,  as  so  often,  being  symbolized  by  a  woman? 
I  am  reasonably  certain  that  by  implication  -aiyi  suggestion,  by  the  subtlest 
of  overtones,  both  ideas  are  in  their  way*  present,  contwbuting  rich  values 
for  a  poem  too  often  looked  upon  as  too  slight  fef  serious  consideration. 
Herrick  has  too  long  suffered  from  that  kind  of  treatment. 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


Dover  Beach 


THF  SEA  is  calm  tonight, 
The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 
Upon  the  straits;— on  the  French  co^st  the  hght 
gleams  and  is  gong:  the  cliffs  of  England  stand, 
Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay.  5 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanched  land, 
Listen!  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling,  i« 

At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago  15 

Heard  it  on  the  Aegean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea.  20 


tie  Sea  of,      ^ 

Was  once,  too^t  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 
Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled. 
But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  longT  withdrawing  roar,  25 

JRetreating,  to  the  breath 

DOVER  BEACH        181 


Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 


To  oneanctotar!  fome  world,  which  seems  30 

To  lie  before  uSS^e  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so 

Hath  rggjly 

Nor  ^ertitu3e^yior  peace,  noHfelp  for  pain; 

And  we  areliere  as  on  a.  (rfc^l^g  pl^  35 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  inorant  armies  plpcK  V     ^ph 


JOHN    P.    KIRBY 

Arnold's  "Dover  Beach"" 

PROFESSORS  Tinker  and  Lowry  in  The  Poetry  of  Matthew  Arnold  (pp. 
173-175)  have  pointed  out  the  evidence  that  establishes  the  writing  of 
the  last  nine  lines  as  previous  to  the  rest  of  the  poem—the  separate  draft  of 
the  first  28  lines  from  the  library  of  T.  G.  Wise,  and  the  shift  in  metaphor 
from  the  sea  and  the  tides  to  the  "darkling  plain." 

As  critics  we  accept  these  findings,  however,  without  inferring  that  the 
commentators  meant  necessarily  to  suggest  a  serious  lack  of  organic  unity 
in  the  poem,  or  a  lamentable  lapse  in  the  continuity  of  the  theme  in  lines 
29-30,  sometimes  deemed  an  inappropriate  shift  in  emphasis. 

if*seems  unnecessary  to  examine  in  detail  the  especially  happy  wedding 
of  the  imagery,  rhythm,  and  alliteration  to  the  theme  in  the  first  28  lines 
[on  some  of  these,  see  Theodore  Morrison's  "Dover  Beach  Revisited,"  re- 
printed in  Better  Reading:  Factual  Prose].  The,  irony  of  the  poem  lies 
essentially  in  the  contrast  between  the  calm  sea,  the  tranquil  moonlight 
scene,  and  the  restless  incertitude  of  the  speaker.  If  this  contrast  be  kept  in 
mind,  it  will  be  evident  that  the  lines  of  the  last  stpnza,  "for  the  world, 
which  seems/To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreapis~  refers  to  the  moonlit 
cliffs  of  the  first  stanza.  In  line  33,  the  assertion  that  the  world  has  "neither 
joy,  nor  love,  nor  light"  closes  significantly  with  a  reference  to  light,  a  return 
not  only  upon  the  "land  of  dreams"  and  the  earlier  description  of  the  moon- 


Reprinted  from  The  Explicator,  April  1943.  By  permission. 

182        THB  WHOLE  WORK 


lit  cliffs,  but  even  to  the  "bright  girdle0  of  line  23.  The  "Ah,  love"  of  line 
29  may  well  be  anticipated  in  the  directive  of  line  6,  "Come  to  the  window." 

The  simile  of  the  armies  struggling  confusedly  is  not  really  a  discontinuity 
in  image,  for  the  "darkling  plain"  continues  the  contrast  between  the  bright 
land-  and  seascape  and  the  gloomy  moral  chaos  of  the  world.  Still  more 
significantly,  it  develops  Arnold's  imagery  further:  the  "Sea  of  Fa 
retreated)  its  "bright  girdle"  has  been  dissipated,  and  only  the  "naked 
sliingles  of  the  world"  are  left  in  darkness;  that  is,  a  dark  plain  of  detritus 
remains  where  "ignorant  armies  clash  by  night."  It  is  even  possible  that 
Arnold  had  some  geological  phenomena  in  mind  (his  use  of  "shingles"). 
The  more  recurrent  rhymes  of  the  last  stanza  are  the  poetical  device  for 
focusing  the  reader's  attention  upon  the  "message"  of  the  poem. 

It  may  be  worth  noting  that  the  last  stanza  illustrates  a  method  Arnold 
uses  in  other  poems:  a  conclusion  which  first  states  the  theme  explicitly 
(cf.  lines  221-230  in  "The  Scholar-Gypsy")  and  then  closes  with  a  striking 
figure  of  speech,  the  "end  note  of  relief."  Surely  no  one  would  ever  assert 
a  lack  of  organic  unity  in  "The  Scholar-Gypsy"  because  Arnold  shifts  his 
figurative  language  from  the  Oxford  countryside  to  the  Mediterranean  Sea; 
yet  there  the  change  may  seem  less  justified  than  in  "Dover  Beach." 


ARCHIBALD    MACLEISH 


Ars  poetica 


A 


POEM  should  be  palpable  and  mute 
As  a  globed  fruit 


Dumb 

As  old  medallions  to  the  thumb 

Silent  as  the  sleeve-worn  stone 

Of  casement  ledges  where  the  moss  has  grown— 

A  poem  should  be  wordless 
As  the  flight  of  birds 

A  poem  should  be  motionless  in  time 
As  the  moon  climbs 


From  Collected  Poems  of  Archibald  MacLeish  1927-1952,  Houghton  Mifflin  Company. 

ARS   POETICA         183 


Leaving,  as  the  moon  releases 

Twig  by  twig  the  night-entangled  trees, 

Leaving,  as  the  moon  behind  the  winter  leaves, 
Memory  by  memory  the  mind— 

A  poem  should  be  motionless  in  time  15 

As  the  moon  climbs 

A  poem  should  be  equal  to: 
Not  true 

For  all  the  history  of  grief 

An  empty  doorway  and  a  maple  leaf  20 

For  love 

The  leaning  grasses  and  two  lights  above  the  sea— 

A  poem  should  not  mean 
But  be 


DONALD   STAUFFER 


MacLeish's  "Ars  Poetica" 


HOWEVER  we  may  interpret  its  significance,  Mr.  MacLeish  has  unmis- 
takably given  us  his  first  demand  in  five  overlapping  adjectives:  a 
poem  should  be  palpable,  mute,  dumb,  silent,  and  wordless.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  in  these  lines  Mr.  MacLeish  has  wished  to  give  a  general  state- 
ment of  the  necessary  qualities,  or  quality,  of  a  poem.  But  immediately  these 
ideas— and  a  quality  must  necessarily  be  an  idea  abstracted  from  some  thing 
or  some  things  more  complex— are  illustrated  concretely,  in  images  that 
might  have  been  drawn  from  Keats  or  Tennyson  or  Rossetti,  and  we  have 
in  the  first  section  a  globed  fruit,  old  medallions,  stone,  and  birds  in  flight. 
This  tendency  to  think  of  the  idea,  or  the  quality,  in  concrete  terms  is  car- 
ried even  further  by  the  modifying  adjectives  and  phrases  that  will  compel 
a  more  vivid  realization  of  the  object  imagined  as  so  very  quiet.  A  poem  is 
as  silent  as  a  stone.  Such  a  comparison  might  be  overlooked  because  we  have 

Reprinted  from  The  Nature  of  Poetry  by  Donald  A.  Stauffer.  By  permission  of  W.  W. 
Norton  &  Company,  Inc.  Copyright  1946  by  W.  W.  Norton  &  Company,  Inc. 


184 


THE   WHOLE   WORK 


heard  the  phrase  "still  as  a  stone"  so  often.  Therefore,  to  rouse  our  attention, 
the  poem  is  as  silent  as  a  particular  worn  stone;  and  to  make  us  believe  that 
it  is  worn  the  coined  adjective  "sleeve-worn"  (akin  to  "thread-bare"?  worn 
by  sleeves  resting  upon  it?  worn  out  at  elbow  and  cuff,  like  a  sleeve? )  turns 
us  to  yet  another  image  from  concrete  experience.  And  then  the  sleeve-worn 
stone  is  particularized  and  modified  by  a  tangible  ledge,  which  in  turn  is 
modified  by  a  tangible  casement,  and  the  whole  is  modified  by  an  arresting 
specific  detail,  designed  to  catch  or  convince  our  imagination:  "where  the 
moss  has  grown." 

The  other  sections  develop  in  like  fashion,  but  in  place  of  the  four 
similitudes  of  the  first  section,  the  second  section  repeats  the  same  image- 
that  a  poem  in  some  way  is  like  the  moon— four  times.  Here  again  the  par- 
ticular interpretation  may  vary  from  reader  to  reader,  although  most  would 
probably  feel  that  a  poem  wakens  in  the  reader's  consciousness  memory  after 
memory,  complex,  minute,  and  exact,  just  as  moonlight,  against  the  motion- 
less, durable,  illimitable  night,  etches  out  twigs  and  leaves  and  innumerable 
silhouettes.  But  all  readers  would  agree  that  the  writer  is  saying  a  poem  is 
timeless,  although  even  this  idea  is  seemingly  given  more  tangible  form  by 
translating  it  from  time  to  space— "motionless  in  time."  Particularly  inter- 
esting is  the  device  of  suggesting  timelessness  through  repetition  rather  than 
through  change  of  images.  In  this  section  the  final  pair  of  lines  mirrors  the 
first,  so  that  we  are  meant  to  feel,  in  the  changeless  concrete  image  of  the 
moon,  that  time  has  not  elapsed,  or  that  if  it  has,  it  has  made  no  difference, 
for  the  end  and  the  beginning  are  the  same. 

The  third  section  continues  the  minuet  between  meaning  and  its  concrete 
embodiment.  The  first  and  fourth  pairs  of  lines  are  direct  statements,  and  as 
such,  considered  purely  by  themselves  rather  than  in  the  light  of  the  whole, 
are  not  poetic  because  they  defy  this  very  law  of  concreteness  that  the  poem 
is  designed  to  proclaim.  Most  readers  would  agree  that  they  present  the 
argument  that  a  poem  does  not  state  its  meaning  directly,  syllogistically, 
logically,  rationally;  its  meaning  rather  exists  in  the  recognition  of  unstated, 
sometimes  unformulated,  equivalences  between  its  concrete  symbols  and 
what  they  symbolize.  In  this  last  section  of  the  poem,  the  two  middle  pairs 
of  lines  are  excellent  illustrations  of  the  doctrine  of  concreteness  which  Mr. 
MacLeish  has  so  unconcretely  expounded  in  the  first  pair  and  the  last. 
Within  a  poem  we  come  upon  an  empty  doorway  and  a  maple  leaf;  in  the 
crucible  of  our  imagination  these  objects  assume  a  general  significance  and 
become  "all  the  history  of  grief."  Similarly  the  leaning  grasses  and  two  lights 
above  the  sea  become  in  our  minds  the  symbols  of  love.  This  is  the  way 
poetry  works.  The  significance  of  a  poem  to  any  individual  reader  need  be 
no  less  sharp  than  the  significance  of  a  mathematical  proposition,  though 

MACLEISH'S  "ARS  POETICA"      185 


within  limits  this  significance  may  vary  from  reader  to  reader  as  the  mathe- 
matical proposition  cannot  do.  But  the  technique  of  expressing  significance 
in  poetry  demands  sharp,  specific  detail  The  concrete  symbols,  the  things 
of  this  world  as  we  know  it— these  are  the  invariable  stuff  of  poetry,  as,  to 
the  same  extent,  they  need  be  of  no  other  form  of  verbal  communication. 
Poetry  must  operate  through  such  concrete  symbols. 


RICHARD  FOGLE 


Hawthorne's  "The  Minister's 
Black  Veil'" 

HAWTHORNE'S  characteristic  fusion  of  surface  simplicity  and  underlying 
complexity  is  perhaps  nowhere  more  clearly  evident  than  in  "The 
Minister's  Black  Veil,"  a  brief,  highly  typical,  and  thoroughly  successful 
story.  It  is  subtitled  "A  Parable,"  and  the  outer  meaning  of  the  parable  is 
abundantly  clear.  An  apparently  blameless  minister  inexplicably  dons  a 
black  veil  and  wears  it  throughout  his  lifetime,  despite  many  well-meant 
pleas  to  cast  it  off.  On  his  deathbed  he  reveals  its  secret  and  its  justification: 

"What,  but  the  mystery  which  it  obscurely  typifies,  has  made  this  piece  of  crape 
so  awful?  When  the  friend  shows  his  inmost  heart  to  his  friend;  the  lover  to  his 
best  beloved;  when  man  does  not  vainly  shrink  from  the  eye  of  his  Creator,  loath- 
somely treasuring  up  the  secret  of  his  sin;  then  deem  me  a  monster,  for  the  symbol 
beneath  which  I  have  lived,  and  die!  I  look  around  me,  and,  lo!  on  every  visage  a 
Black  Veil!" 

The  moral  is  impressive;  but  as  a  proposition  it  is  not  difficult  to  grasp, 
however  it  may  wind  and  reverberate  within  the  deeps  of  the  imagination. 
The  veil  as  the  visible  symbol  of  secret  sin  was  suggested  by  Hawthorne's 
reading  in  New  England  history  and  legend.  The  veil's  solid  actuality  has 
the  effect  of  isolating  the  minister  from  human  society,  which  unhappy 
result  presumably  differs  only  in  degree  from  the  self-isolation  of  every 
living  soul.  The  minister  is  Everyman,  bearing  his  lonely  fate  in  order  to 
demonstrate  a  tragic  truth. 

The  moral  is  explicit  and  orthodox.  The  explicit  statement,  however, 
leads  to  more  than  a  single  possibility.  The  self-imposed  martyrdom  of 

Reprinted  from  Richard  Harter  Fogle,  Hawthorne's  Fiction,  copyright  1952,  by  the 
University  of  Oklahoma  Press.  Reprinted  by  kind  permission  of  the  publisher. 
1  "The  Minister's  Black  Veil"  appears  on  pp.  117-127. 

186        THE  WHOLE  WORK 


Father  Hooper  must  correspond  with  some  deep  necessity  of  his  nature. 
He  who  isolates  himself  in  the  outward  fact  must  already  have  performed 
the  deed  in  spirit.  The  act  of  donning  the  veil  has  in  it  something  of  caprice; 
it  is  entirely  out  of  proportion  to  any  obvious  necessity  or  benefit.  By  it  the 
minister  forfeits  the  affection  of  his  congregation,  the  chance  of  human  love 
and  marriage,  and  the  sympathy  of  society  in  general—and  to  what  end?  No 
note  of  triumph  sounds  for  him.  With  remorseless  consistency,  Hawthorne 
pursues  him  even  into  the  grave.  "Still  veiled,  they  laid  him  in  his  coffin,  and 
a  veiled  corpse  they  bore  him  to  the  grave.  The  grass  of  many  years  has 
sprung  up  and  withered  on  that  grave,  the  burial-stone  is  moss-grown,  and 
good  Mr.  Hooper's  face  is  dust;  but  awful  still  is  the  thought  that  it 
mouldered  beneath  the  Black  Veil!" 

One  may  feel  that  the  veil  is  less  representative  of  mankind  than  of  the 
eccentricity  of  the  minister  himself,  who  severs  himself  from  men  either 
through  perverse  pride  or  through  some  other  obscure  and  tragic  com- 
pulsion. His  preoccupation  with  sin  has  blunted  his  perceptions  of  the 
normal  and  the  good,  which  lie  as  ready  to  his  hand  as  evil.  In  rejecting  the 
love  of  his  betrothed,  Elizabeth,  he  casts  away  a  gift  of  inestimable  value 
in  order  to  satisfy  a  wild  obsession. 

If  we  continue  with  this  reading  of  the  story,  we  shall  take  Elizabeth  to 
exemplify  the  normal  and  well-ordered  human  being,  as  Mr.  Hooper  repre- 
sents the  abnormal,  who  has  lost  the  power  of  seeing  life  steadily  and  whole. 
The  "calm  energy"  of  her  character,  her  "direct  simplicity,"  contrasts  with 
the  "gentle,  but  unconquerable  obstinacy"  of  the  minister,  whom  her  good 
counsel  fails  to  persuade,  and  with  his  infatuated  love  of  mystification. 
Hawthorne  inherited  the  psychology,  but  not  the  theology  nor  the  morality 
of  his  Puritan  ancestors;  and  Elizabeth  is  more  likely  to  represent  his  ideal 
than  is  the  gloomy  and  sin-crazed  Hooper. 

Which,  then,  of  these  two  interpretations  shall  we  accept?  Both,  I  believe 
—they  are  both  in  the  story.  Eit!  er  presents  its  difficulties.  If  we  take  "The 
Minister's  Black  Veil"  at  its  face  value  as  a  homily  on  secret  sin,  we  are 
confronted  with  the  apparent  disproportion  between  the  act  and  its  causes. 
The  minister  himself  is  to  outward  gaze  the  gentlest  and  least  sinful  of  men; 
and  we  have  no  vivid  sense  of  that  presence  of  Evil  which  would  necessitate 
so  heroic  an  object  lesson.  But  if  we  wholly  accede  to  the  second  interpreta- 
tion, which  makes  the  steady  view  of  life,  the  aurea  mediocritas,  the  highest 
good,  then  the  tone  and  emphasis  of  the  story  remain  to  be  explained.  It  is 
too  deeply  gloomy  and  intense  to  harmonize  fully  with  such  a  moral,  which 
should  demand  a  certain  dry  sparkle  and  lightness. 

This  ambivalence  of  meaning  is  realized  in  ambiguity,  which  occurs  with 
unusual  frequency  in  "The  Minister's  Black  Veil."  Here  its  most  marked 

HAWTHORNE'S  "THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL"      187 


effect  is  to  maintain  a  balance  between  subjective  and  objective  in  the  por- 
trait of  the  minister,  to  invite  us  inside  his  character  while  excluding  us  from 
any  final  certainty  about  it,  and,  of  course,  to  preserve  the  objectivity  of  the 
narrator,  who  simultaneously  offers  and  reserves  his  judgment.  Thus,  for 
example,  we  do  not  quite  know  what  Mr.  Hooper  saw  through  the  veil, 
"which  entirely  concealed  his  features,  except  the  mouth  and  chin,  but 
probably  did  not  intercept  his  sight,  further  than  to  give  a  darkened  aspect 
to  all  living  and  inanimate  things."  The  word  "probably"  bars  us  from  cer- 
tainty on  the  point.  Again,  as  the  minister  preaches  for  the  first  time  from 
beneath  the  veil,  it  "lay  heavily  on  his  uplifted  countenance.  Did  he  seek  to 
hide  it  from  the  dread  Being  whom  he  was  addressing?"  Hawthorne  pro- 
poses the  question,  but  does  not  answer  it. 

Pressed  by  Elizabeth  to  expound  the  meaning  of  the  veil,  Mr.  Hooper 
will  reply  only  darkly.  "  'If  it  be  sign  of  mourning/  "  says  he,  "  1,  perhaps, 
like  most  other  mortals,  have  sorrows  dark  enough  to  be  typified  by  a  black 
veil/  "  When  she  further  relates  the  scandalous  whispers  in  the  village  that 
he  hides  his  face  from  consciousness  of  secret  sin,  he  will  not  deny  the 
imputation.  "  'If  I  hide  my  face  for  sorrow,  there  is  cause  enough/ "  he 
merely  replies;  "  'and  if  I  cover  it  for  secret  sin,  what  mortal  might  not  do 
the  same?' "  Hawthorne  holds  out  the  suggestion  that  the  veil  is  a  penance 
for  an  actual  and  serious  crime,  while  at  the  same  time  permitting  no  real 
grounds  for  it.  The  vulgar  interpret  the  meaning  vulgarly,  the  complacent 
complacently,  and  men  of  good  will  regretfully.  The  calm  good  sense  of 
Elizabeth  forces  her  to  regard  the  veil  as  the  emblem  of  a  tragic  but  un- 
based  obsession.  She  believes  at  first  that  "  'there  is  nothing  terrible  in  this 
piece  of  crape' "  but  at  length  yields  to  its  influence,  not  from  a  dread  of  the 
veil  itself,  but  of  what  the  veil  tells  her  of  her  lover's  state  of  mind. 

The  mystery  of  the  veil  is  hidden  to  the  end  among  these  artfully  con- 
trived ambiguities.  As  Elizabeth  leaves  him,  "Mr.  Hooper  smiled  to  think 
that  only  a  material  emblem  had  separated  him  from  happiness,  though  the 
horrors,  which  it  shadowed  forth,  must  be  drawn  darkly  between  the 
fondest  of  lovers."  It  is  confusing  to  have  the  symbol  detached  from  its 
meaning  in  this  fashion;  and  the  passage  calls  up  another  consideration.  If 
the  veil  alone  has  separated  the  minister  from  happiness,  what  are  we  to  do 
with  "the  horrors,  which  it  shadowed  forth?"  Surely  it  is  they  which  shut 
him  off  from  earthly  good.  The  effect  is  at  once  to  assert  and  to  cast  doubt 
on  the  reality  of  what  the  veil  portrays  but  also  hides.  And  the  smile  itself, 
shining  dimly  from  beneath  the  black  cloth,  emphasizes  in  its  self-irony 
the  ambiguity  of  the  minister's  character. 

The  veil  has  varying  effects  on  different  minds  and  different  levels  of 


188 


THE   WHOLE   WORK 


society.  To  those  who  claimed  a  superiority  to  popular  prejudice,"  it  is 
merely  "an  eccentric  whim."  In  the  multitude  it  occasions  either  imperti- 
nence or  superstitious  dread,  reactions  equally  grievous  to  its  unhappy 
wearer.  It  is  whispered  that  the  veil  is  the  obscure  intimation  of  a  horrible 
crime;  and  there  are  hints  of  supernatural  forces: 

Thus,  from  beneath  the  black  veil,  there  rolled  a  cloud  into  the  sunshine,  an 
ambiguity  of  sin  or  sorrow,  which  enveloped  the  poor  minister,  so  that  love  or 
sympathy  could  never  reach  him.  It  was  said  that  ghost  and  fiend  consorted  with 
him  there.  With  self-shudderings  and  outward  terrors,  he  walked  continually  in 
its  shadow,  groping  darkly  within  his  own  soul,  or  gazing  thiough  a  medium  that 
saddened  the  whole  world.  Even  the  lawless  wind,  it  was  believed,  respected  his 
dreadful  secret,  and  never  blew  aside  the  veil.  But  still  good  Mr.  Hooper  sadly 
smiled  at  the  pale  visages  of  the  worldly  throng  as  he  passed  by. 

In  one  respect,  however,  the  veil  makes  Mr.  Hooper  a  more  efficient 
clergyman,  for  it  allows  him  to  "sympathize  with  all  dark  affections."  His 
words  are  imbued  with  its  gloomy  power,  and  he  can  bring  sinners  to  the 
light  denied  to  him.  Yet  here  as  well  the  effects  of  the  veil  are  ambiguous. 
His  converts  regard  the  minister  with  dread,  not  with  love  or  joy,  even 
though  they  owe  their  redemption  to  him.  "Dying  sinners  cried  aloud  for 
Mr.  Hooper,  and  would  not  yield  their  breath  till  he  appeared;  though 
ever,  as  he  stooped  to  whisper  consolation,  they  shuddered  at  the  veiled 
face  so  near  their  own."  Hawthorne  summarizes  the  twofold  influence  of 
the  veil  in  a  climactic  ambiguity  which  embodies  its  dualism  in  a  series  of 
antitheses:  "In  this  manner  Mr.  Hooper  spent  a  long  life,  irreproachable 
in  outward  act,  yet  shrouded  in  dismal  suspicions;  kind  and  loving,  though 
unloved,  and  dimly  feared;  a  man  apart  from  men,  shunned  in  their  health 
and  joy,  but  ever  summoned  to  their  aid  in  mortal  anguish." 

This  dubiety  persists  in  the  final  scene  at  the  deathbed,  despite  the  ex- 
plicit pronouncement  with  which  the  scene  ends.  As  the  minister  lies  dying, 
the  veil  still  rests  upon  his  face,  stirred  slightly  by  his  faint  breath.  "All 
through  life  that  piece  of  crape  had  hung  between  him  and  the  world;  it 
had  separated  him  from  cheerful  brotherhood  and  woman's  love,  and  kept 
him  in  that  saddest  of  all  prisons,  his  own  heart;  and  still  it  lay  upon  his 
face,  as  if  to  deepen  the  gloom  of  his  darksome  chamber,  and  shade  him 
from  the  sunshine  of  eternity."  If,  however,  the  veil  is  emblematic  of  the 
common  plight  of  man,  why  should  it  isolate  its  wearer  with  a  poignancy 
unfelt  by  other  men  and  leave  him  lonely  and  alone?  We  have  no  sense  in 
the  story  that  all  men  feel  as  does  Mr.  Hooper;  they  are  portrayed,  in  fact, 
as  a  cohesive  band,  united  if  only  in  dread  of  the  fearful  veil.  Even  the 

HAWTHORNE'S  "THE  MINISTER'S  BLACK  VEIL"      189 


minister's  colleague,  praying  by  his  bedside,  rather  cruelly  misunderstands 
its  significance.  Or,  on  the  other  hand,  is  it  possible  that  we  can  go  further 
afield  and  determine  that  the  message  of  the  veil  is  representative  and 
universal:  that  the  failure  to  recognize  it  is  simply  the  last  and  most  chilling 
proof  of  man's  imprisonment  within  himself?  If  this  latter  interpretation  is 
the  true  one,  we  must  conclude  that  Hawthorne's  emphasis  upon  the  prob- 
lem as  embodied  in  Mr.  Hooper  has  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  deal  with 
it  in  other  characters.  To  achieve  unity  of  composition  his  canvas  can  con- 
tain only  one  important  figure.  In  order  to  present  the  tragic  isolation  of 
one  man,  Hawthorne  is  obliged  to  consider  society  as  a  solid  group  arrayed 
against  his  hero,  ignoring  for  the  time  being  the  fact  that  this  hero  is 
Everyman. 

We  conclude,  then,  without  arriving  at  a  clear  decision  about  the  mean- 
ing of  the  tale,  but  with  a  sense  of  depths  unplumbed,  of  rich  potentialities 
not  fully  realized.  The  discrepancies  between  the  two  interpretations  which 
have  been  outlined  here  must  go  unreconciled.  Their  mutual  presence  can, 
I  think,  be  satisfactorily  explained  in  two  ways—one  psychological,  and  one 
aesthetic— separable,  and  yet  closely  related.  In  the  first  place,  these  dis- 
crepancies represent  the  faculties  of  Hawthorne's  own  psychology,  the 
heart  and  the  head.  His  heart,  his  imagination,  the  inherited  bent  of  his 
Puritan  ancestry— all  his  instincts,  in  short— bind  him  in  sympathy  with  the 
possessed  minister,  who  broods  over  the  vague  and  bottomless  abyss  of 
Evil.  But  his  head,  his  intellect,  is  with  the  calm  and  steady-minded  Eliza- 
beth, who  is  unable  to  look  upon  the  minister's  vow  as  other  than  a  sad  but 
groundless  whim.  The  ancestral  Hawthorne  stands  beside  the  nineteenth- 
century  Hawthorne  in  "The  Minister's  Black  Veil,"  and  their  voices  do 
not  wholly  harmonize. 

Second,  Hawthorne  does  not  force  a  reconciliation  which  he  has  not,  in 
Keats's  words,  "proved  upon  his  pulses."  Having  chosen  the  symbol  of  the 
black  veil  and  invented  an  action  for  it,  he  refrains  from  pushing  the  reader 
to  a  single  conclusion.  The  minister  himself  believes  the  veil  to  be  an 
emblem  of  the  secret  sin  that  poisons  the  souls  of  all  mankind,  but  we  are 
not  compelled  to  accept  his  reading  of  the  matter.  We  may,  if  we  like, 
consider  it  rather  a  veil  upon  his  understanding,  whose  gloomy  shade  con- 
ceals from  the  eyes  behind  it  as  much  as  it  discloses.  As  it  casts  its  shadow 
over  the  bright  and  various  colors  of  the  material  world— colors  distinct  to 
every  unhandicapped  observer— so  does  it  darken  the  vision  of  the  spiritual 
eye. 

The  imagination,  however,  playing  freely  over  the  theme,  will  not  con- 
tent itself  to  remain  within  the  limits  of  any  single  meaning.  Beneath  the 
explicit  statement,  the  clear  and  simple  outline  of  the  tale,  lie  the  irony 

190        THE  WHOLE  WORK 


of  the  minister's  smile  and  the  ambiguity  of  almost  every  incident.  In  "The 
Minister's  Black  Veil"  the  moral  constitutes  the  framework;  but  it  is  merely 
an  element  of  the  completed  structure. 


Questions 

WHAT  is  the  main  point  of  each  of 
the  critical  selections?  Do  you 
think  any  of  the  authors  overstates  his 
case,  finding  meanings  and  relationships 
of  parts  that  can  be  seen  only  by  a 
stretch  of  the  imagination?  Which  of 
these  aspects  of  the  literary  work  of  art 
do  you  find  these  critics  especially  em- 
phasizing: economy,  unity,  emphasis 
and  subordination,  point  of  view,  organ- 
ization, happenings,  characterization, 
setting,  language,  tone,  rhythm,  sound 
patterns,  compactness,  figurativeness, 
intensity  of  effect?  Which  of  these  as- 
pects get  almost  no  consideration?  Can 
you  account  for  your  answers  to  the 
last  two  questions? 

2.  On  pages  156-157  we  itemized  a 
number  of  aspects  of  Frost's  "Stopping 
by  Woods  on  a  Snowy  Evening"  which 
might   give   a   reader   pleasure.    Take 
these  elements,  now,  and  see  whether 
they    fit    together    harmoniously    and 
whether  the  poem  as  a  whole  is  inter- 
nally consistent,  In  short,  do  for  the 
Frost  poem  what  Daniels  and  Stauffer 
have  done  for  "Upon  Julia's  Clothes" 
and  "Ars  Poetica." 

3.  Make  an  analysis  of  (a)  A  Night 
at  an  Inn,   page  42;    (b)    "My   Last 
Duchess,"  page  60;   (c)  "The  Cask  of 
Amontillado,"  page  72;    (d)   "To  Au- 
tumn," page  79;    (e)   "On  the  Grass- 
hopper and  Cricket,"  page  109.  Cite 
enough  specific  details  to  prove  that  the 
work  is  or  is  not  internally  consistent. 


The  work  and  human  thought 
and  understanding 

THE  basic  premise  of  those  who  use 
the  yardstick  of  insight  in  mak- 
ing literary  judgments  is  that  literature 
should  be  the  repository  of  all  the  best 
that  has  been  thought  and  said.  In  the 
highest  sense  it  should  be  a  "criticism 
of  life,"  for  in  making  us  conscious  of 
the  best  it  provides  us  with  a  standard 
against  which  we  can  measure  our  own 
thoughts  and  actions.  A  work,  then, 
is  great  to  the  extent  that  it  provides 
us  with  insight  into  what  is  best— what 
is  true,  good,  beautiful. 

Rather  obviously  the  emphasis  in  this 
kind  of  evaluation  is  upon  the  element 
of  meaning,  and  in  that  sense  its  crite- 
rion for  excellence  is  closely  akin  to  the 
yardstick  of  special  doctrine  (pp.  142- 
145).  Under  special  doctrine,  however, 
we  considered  those  convictions  which 
the  reader  carried  to  the  work,  retained 
throughout,  and  used  almost  exclusively 
in  the  process  of  evaluation.  Here  we 
are  concerned  with  the  reader  who 
brings  to  the  work  only  a  desire  for 
insight,  not  a  mind  made  up.  He  is  a 
seeker,  not  a  dogmatist.  Such  a  reader 
will  ask  such  questions  as:  How  effec- 
tively does  this  work  re-create  experi- 
ence for  me?  How  accurately  does  it 
mirror  the  personality  of  the  author  and 
the  temper  of  his  age?  How  consistently 
does  it  handle  the  necessary  elements? 
Each  of  these  questions  brings  up  a  key 
concern  of  one  of  the  three  evaluative 
methods  we  have  just  discussed.  Here, 


THE  WHOLE  WORT 


191 


however,  these  questions  and  their  an- 
swers are  employed  as  steps  in  arriving 
at  the  answer  to  another  question:  Con- 
sidering every  aspect  of  the  work,  what 
is  the  totality  of  its  insight  into  life?  The 
core  of  the  answer  is  likely  to  fall  in  one 
of  three  fields— the  ethical,  the  socio- 
logical, or  the  psychological. 

ETHICAL    INSIGHT 

According  to  Matthew  Arnold,  the 
great  English  critic,  the  desire  of  great 
writers  is  to  "educe  and  cultivate  what 
is  best  and  noblest  in  themselves."  This 
is  not  to  be  construed,  however,  as  a 
selfish  objective.  "They  do  not  talk  of 
their  mission,  nor  of  interpreting  their 
age,  nor  of  the  coming  Poet;  all  this, 
they  know,  is  the  mere  delirium  of  van- 
ity; their  business  is  not  to  praise  their 
age,  but  to  afford  men  who  live  in  it  the 
highest  pleasure  which  they  are  capa- 
ble of  feeling."  With  Arnold  and  this 
method  of  criticism,  therefore,  we  come 
back  to  the  conviction  that  literature 
has  a  dual  r61e:  it  must  be  pleasurable 
and  it  must  be  instructive  (i.e.,  en- 
nobling). The  most  effective  blending 
of  these  two  elements  results  in  the  pro- 
foundest  liteiature. 

Traditionally,  the  finest  blending  of 
the  two  has  been  associated  with  the 
ancients,  particularly  the  Greek  poets. 
In  their  works,  many  readers  have  felt, 
man's  best  thoughts  appear  in  their  sim- 
plest and  most  moving  form:  simplest 
because  they  deal  only  with  basic  truths 
and  primary  emotions;  most  moving  be- 
cause the  human  actions  they  depict  are 
elemental,  the  personages  noble,  and  the 
situations  intense.  For  the  Greeks,  mean- 
ing and  structure  were  far  more  im- 
portant than  phrasing.  We  can  learn 
from  them,  Arnold  points  out,  "how  un- 
speakably superior  is  the  effect  of  one 


moral  impression  left  by  a  great  action 
treated  as  a  whole,  to  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  the  most  striking  single 
thought  or  by  the  happiest  image." 

The  chief  weaknesses  of  this  approach 
are  that  it  too  often  results  in  a  narrow- 
ing of  one's  interests,  in  dogmatism,  and 
in  intellectual  absolutism.  What  hap- 
pens is  that  one  gets  so  preoccupied 
with  the  ancients  that  he  finds  to  his 
own  loss  that  he  is  no  longer  interested 
in  any  writers  but  them.  Even  Milton 
seems  a  little  too  modern,  and  no  Amer- 
ican seems  really  worthy.  This  narrow- 
ing of  interest  leads,  in  turn,  to  a  dog- 
matism about  what  literature  should  be: 
it  should  be  like  the  works  of  the  an- 
cients. It  should  be  highly  religious  and 
philosophical  in  tone,  should  be  con- 
cerned with  human  thought  and  action 
as  the  Greeks  conceived  of  them,  should 
be  simple  and  austere  in  structure. 
Worst  of  all,  this  approach  leads  to  an 
absolutism  in  which  the  critic  assumes 
that  he,  having  studied  the  ancients 
(often  in  translation),  knows  The  Truth, 
knows  pompously  what  is  needful  foi 
The  Truly  Great  Interpretation  of  Life. 
What  happens,  in  short,  is  that  in  prac- 
tice this  mode  of  evaluation  too  easily 
slips  off  into  the  method  which  we 
called  Special  Doctrine:  the  search  for 
truth  gives  way  to  the  application  of 
dogma.  But  this  need  not  happen.  When 
properly  employed  in  the  field  of  ethics, 
the  yardstick  of  insight  is  a  demanding 
one  which  finds  adequate  only  those 
works  which  give  pleasure  of  a  serious 
and  lasting  nature. 

SOCIOLOGICAL    INSIGHT 

Frank  Norris,  the  American  natural- 
istic novelist,  once  wrote  that  the  great- 
est novel  is  the  one  with  a  purpose. 
A  gripping  narrative  is  not  enough; 


192 


THE  WHOLE  WORK 


neither  is  insight  into  the  motives  of  the 
main  characters.  What  still  is  needed  is 
an  intent  on  the  part  of  the  author  to 
show  how  men  under  given  conditions 
operate.  Norris  himself  tried  to  do  this 
in  a  trilogy  (which  he  did  not  live  to 
finish)  about  the  raising,  trading,  and 
consumption  of  wheat.  Simplified,  his 
point  was  that  this  great  nourisher  of 
mankind,  instead  of  being  a  blessing  to 
everyone  it  touched,  is  almost  invariably 
a  curse,  because  of  the  way  men  fight 
for  the  riches  it  brings. 

That  literature  can  be  a  criticism  of 
life  in  a  sociological  sense  is  a  relatively 
new  idea.  It  became  strongly  apparent 
in  England  when  Dickens'  novels 
brought  home  to  thousands  the  wretch- 
ed condition  in  London  slums  and  pris- 
ons. In  this  country,  as  early  a  writer  as 
Cooper  touched  upon  economic  matters, 
but  it  was  not  until  Twain,  Howells, 
Norris,  and  Dreiser  wrote  that  social 
problems  began  getting  widespread 
treatment  in  imaginative  literature.  To- 
day, it  would  be  no  exaggeration  to  say 
that  such  problems  are  the  prime  con- 
cern of  our  major  writers.  As  readers, 
we  have  come  to  expect  that  our  litera- 
ture will  go  beyond  the  personal  prob- 
lems of  a  few  men  to  the  more  general 
problems  of  man.  What  is  the  effect  on 
man  of  his  environment?  of  his  eco- 
nomic system?  of  his  political  system? 
of  his  institutions,  folkways,  and  mores? 
These  are  a  few  of  the  major  questions 
we  have  come  to  expect  our  writers  to 
treat.  And  we  rate  them  according  to 
their  insight. 

Like  the  ethical  approach,  the  soci- 
ological can  easily  slip  off  into  a  demand 
for  special  doctrines.  The  conservative 
wants  no  suggestion  in  his  literature 
that  private  enterprise  is  ineffective; 
the  socialist  wants  no  intimation  that 


socialism  is  impractical.  Writers  inter- 
ested in  the  sociological  can  easily  be- 
come propagandists,  and  readers  ac- 
cessories after  the  fact.  But  this,  again, 
is  perversion  of  a  method  in  practice;  it 
is  not  an  indictment  of  the  method 
itself.  The  yardstick  of  insight  in  the 
field  of  social  problems  is  a  demanding 
one  which  discriminates  wise  selection 
and  interpretation  from  hit-and-miss 
reporting,  thoughtful  analysis  from  flip- 
pancy, and  sympathetic  understanding 
from  cheap  sensationalism. 

PSYCHOLOGICAL   INSIGHT 

In  a  chapter  on  a  method  of  criticism 
he  calls  "Formism,"  Stephen  C.  Pepper 
in  his  provocative  The  Basis  of  Criticism 
in  the  Arts  identifies  human  value  with 
what  is  normal  in  human  behavior.  The 
greatest  literature  is  that  which  deals 
with  norms,  which  penetrates  to  actions 
and  traits  that  count,  dwelling  seriously 
on  what  is  serious  and  laughing  at  what 
is  silly.  It  is  human  experience  seen 
through  the  eyes  of  a  well-adjusted  in- 
dividual. By  such  a  standard,  the  classic 
writers  would  still  rank  high  but  not 
exclusively  so.  Other  works  showing  a 
balanced  view  of  values  would  rank 
equally  well:  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
Shakespeare's  plays,  Pride  and  Preju- 
dice. On  the  other  hand,  detective 
stories  with  their  complete  disregard 
for  the  human  suffering  caused  by  mur- 
der would  ordinarily  rank  very  low. 

It  would  be  misleading  to  suggest  in 
any  fashion  that  the  three  approaches 
we  have  mentioned  in  discussing  the 
yardstick  of  insight  are  mutually  ex- 
clusive. Insight  into  what  is  right  or 
wrong  ethically  will  of  necessity  bring 
an  awareness  of  men's  social  relations 
and  of  the  values  which  are  prized  by 
those  who  are  well  adjusted.  Insight  into 


THE  WHOLE  WORK        193 


social  problems  must  bring  a  recognition 
of  what  results  in  justice  on  the  one 
hand  and  injustice  on  the  other.  And 
insight  into  what  is  normal  and  ab- 
normal in  human  behavior  must  surely 
suggest  what  is  ethically  right  and  so- 
cially desirable.  Any  insight,  in  short, 
has  implications  for  all  approaches. 

That  this  is  a  standard  that  applies  to 
the  work  as  a  whole  is  a  fact  that  bears 


repeating.  Insight  is  primarily  a  matter 
of  meaning,  which  in  turn  is  a  matter  of 
happenings,  characters,  setting,  lan- 
guage, and  tone.  Partial  perception  may 
come  through  a  twist  of  phrase  or  a 
single  act.  But  the  aggregate,  the  full 
insight  will  be  the  result  of  the  total  im- 
pact of  the  work:  the  completed  action, 
the  rounded  characterization,  the  final, 
compelling  mood. 


USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


IN  this  discussion  we  have  not  at- 
tempted to  consider  all  the  yard- 
sticks which  readers  use  in  making  judg- 
ments about  literature.  To  do  so,  we 
should  have  to  introduce  even  such  ele- 
ments as  the  sex  of  the  author,  the  size 
and  color  of  the  book,  and  the  quaint- 
ness  of  the  illustrations.  Rather,  we  have 
tried  to  report  on  those  yardsticks  which 
are  often  employed  and  to  suggest  the 
advantages  and  disadvantages  of  each. 
Where  do  you  go  from  here?  You  can, 
of  course,  ignore  all  this  and  go  on  judg- 
ing literature  as  you  always  have  judged 
it.  However,  we  have  one  recommenda- 
tion to  make.  In  estimating  the  value 
of  a  poem,  play,  or  piece  of  fiction  use 
as  many  of  these  yardsticks  as  you  find 
applicable.  Only  by  so  doing  will  you 
be  able  to  find  the  fullest  enjoyment 
and  understanding  which  are  in  the 
power  of  the  work  of  art  to  give. 


On  this  page  and  page  198  appear 
two  problems  that  will  help  you  re- 
view and  test  the  methods. 


Problem  1.  The  following  excerpts  ap- 
peared in  the  Book  Review  Digest  for 
Ernest  Hemingway's  The  Old  Man  and 
the  Sea  and  John  Steinbeck's  East  of 
Eden.  Try  to  discover  in  each  the  liter- 
ary yardstick  the  critic  is  employing. 

(a)  Steinbeck's  East  of  Eden: 

The  saga  of  more  than  half  a  century 
in  the  lives  of  two  American  families— 
the  Trasks,  a  mixture  of  gentleness  and 
brutality  doled  out  in  unequal  measure, 
and  the  Hamiltons,  Steinbeck's  own 
forbears,  a  well  ad/usted,  lovable  group 
who  provide  a  tranquil  background  for 
the  turbulent  careers  of  the  Trasks.  The 
scene  is  chiefly  Salinas,  California,  from 
the  turn  of  the  century  through  the  first 
World  War.— Library  Journal 

At  the  outset  Steinbeck  has  a  firm 
command  of  his  materials,  but  the  novel 
degenerates  as  it  goes  along.  The  im- 
probabilities grow  more  flagrant,  the 
sentimentality  thicker,  the  intellectual 


Reprinted  from  Book  Review  Digest  by  permission  of  the  H.  W.  Wilson  Company. 


194 


USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


more    exasperating.— CHARLES 
ROLO,  Atlantic  Monthly 

East  of  Eden  is  not  without  its  pas- 
sages of  human  warmth,  particularly 
those  which  characterize  old  Sam  Ham- 
ilton (Steinbeck's  maternal  grand- 
father). But  the  impact  and  impress  of 
the  book— whatever  the  author's  inten- 
tion—are on  the  side  of  evil,  of  an  ex- 
ploitation of  a  mad,  inhuman  lust  and 
a  cruelty  that  lacerates  and  degrades.— 
RILEY  HUGHES,  Catholic  World 

In  this  rambling  and  ambitious  novel 
spread  out  over  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury, John  Steinbeck  wrestles  with  a 
moral  theme  for  the  first  time  in  his 
career,  certainly  a  hopeful  sign  of  the 
times.  Yet  his  obsession  with  naked  ani- 
mality,  brute  violence,  and  the  dark 
wickedness  of  the  human  mind  remains 
so  overriding  that  what  there  is  of 
beauty  and  understanding  is  subordi- 
nated and  almost  extinguished.— R.  R. 
BRUNN,  Christian  Science  Monitor 

Shock  techniques,  applied  with  rapier 
and  not  bludgeon,  will  rule  the  book 
out  for  the  tender-skinned.  But  John 
Steinbeck,  the  philosopher,  dominates 
his  material  and  brings  it  into  sharply 
moral  focus.— Kirkus 

Thanks  to  a  great  wealth  of  fascina- 
ting detail  woven  through  the  plot,  we 
are  given  a  complete  and  unforgettable 
picture  of  country  and  small  town  life 
during  that  period.  Some  readers  may 
object  to  the  brothel  scenes  and  the 
realistic  dialogue,  but  this  is  a  ma/or 
novel  in  almost  every  respect.  No  pub- 
lic library  should  hesitate  to  purchase 
it.— E.  T.  SMITH,  Library  Journal 


As  drama  the  book  falls  very  much 
short  of  a  carefully  designed  classic  like 
The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge  (Cathy's 
husband,  Adam  Trask,  here  in  a  rdle  re- 
motely like  that  of  Henchard);  as  re- 
alism it  is  not  to  be  compared  with  such 
a  grand  book  about  a  bad  woman  as 
Balzac's  Cousine  Bette,  or  the  lesser 
but  still  superb  Belchamber,  by  Howard 
Sturgis,  which  one  person  has  read  for 
every  hundred  or  more  who  will  read 
this.— PAUL  BLOOMFIELD,  Manchester 
Guardian 

Here  is  one  of  those  occasions  when 
a  writer  has  aimed  high  and  then  sum- 
moned every  ounce  of  energy,  talent, 
seriousness  and  passion  of  which  he  was 
capable.  The  most  unfriendly  critic 
could  hardly  fail  to  grant  that  East  of 
Eden  is  the  best  as  well  as  the  most 
ambitious  book  Mr.  Steinbeck  could 
write  at  this  moment.—}.  W.  KRUTCH, 
New  York  Herald  Tribune  Book  Re- 
view 

Probably  the  best  of  John  Steinbeck's 
novels,  East  of  Eden,  is  long  but  not 
"big,"  and  anyone  who,  deceived  by  its 
spread  in  space  and  time  (c.  1860- 
1920),  says  that  it  is  "epical  in  its 
sweep,"  is  merely  in  the  usual  grip  of 
clich^.  .  .  Through  the  exercise  of  a 
really  rather  remarkable  freedom  of  his 
rights  as  a  novelist,  Mr.  Steinbeck  weaves 
in,  and  more  particularly  around,  this 
story  of  prostitution  a  fantasia  of  history 
and  of  myth  that  results  in  a  strange  and 
original  work  of  art.— MARK  SHORER, 
New  York  Times 

This  is  certainly  his  best  book  since 
The  Grapes  of  Wrath  and,  I  believe, 
evidence  that  he  has  been  thinking  more 


USING    THE   EVALUATIONS 


195 


deeply  than  ever  before  about  life  and 
the  human  beings  who  live  it.— J.  H. 
JACKSON,  San  Francisco  Chronicle 

It  is  to  be  doubted  if  any  American 
novel  has  better  chronicled  our  last  hun- 
dred years,  our  trek  from  East  to  West 
to  discover  an  Eden  that  always  some- 
how escapes  us  and  that  we  as  a  people 
yet  continue  to  hope  for  and  believe  in. 
— H.  C*  WEBSTER,  Saturday  Review 

Although  the  total  effect  is  not  bor- 
ing, for  there  are  charming  descriptions 
of  scenery  and  shrewd  estimates  of  per- 
sonality, Mr.  Steinbeck  has  tried  to  say 
too  many  things  at  once,  and  his  mes- 
sage is  hidden  under  superfluous  dec- 
oration.—Times  [London]  Literary  Sup- 
plement 

John  Steinbeck  is  a  highly  gifted  virtu- 
oso. The  writing  in  this  book,  at  least 
in  the  early  pages,  is  lively  and  engaging; 
all  the  way  through  there  are  descriptive 
passages  and  brief  scenes  that  show  his 
very  great  skill.  Elsewhere  he  has  shown 
that  he  can  command  considerable  elo- 
quence in  defense  of  his  views.  But  a 
novelist  must  follow  the  argument 
where  his  vision  of  the  world  leads  him; 
the  strongest  will  and  the  noblest  mo- 
tives will  not  make  him  see  what,  for 
him,  is  not  there.— PAUL  PICKREL,  Yale 
Review 

(b)  Hemingway's  The  Old  Man  and  the 
Sea: 

A  brief  novel  about  supreme  courage. 
An  old  Gulf  fisherman,  overtaken  by 
hard  luck,  proves  his  tenacity  and  cour- 
age when  he  hooks  a  monster  marlin. 
He  kills  his  catch  but  is  towed  out  to 


sea,  and  then  brings  what  the  sharks 
leave  of  it  back  to  Havana. 

The  old  man  and  the  boy  are  per- 
fectly tuned  to  Hemingway's  purpose: 
their  affection  and  utterance  are  true 
to  themselves  as  their  philosophy  is  true 
to  the  sea.  I  have  put  this  book  on  the 
top  shelf  of  Mr.  Hemingway's  work, 
and  I  am  grateful  for  it.— EDWARD 
WEEKS,  Atlantic  Monthly 

Whatever  The  Old  Man  and  the  Sea 
is  about,  whatever  its  philosophical  care, 
it  is  a  very  good  story  indeed;  told  with 
all  of  Hemingway's  usual  skill  and  with 
a  great  deal  more  restraint  than  he 
has  sometimes  shown.— A.  S.,  Canadian 
Forum 

This  brief  novel  is  Hemingway  at  his 
best;  theme,  tone,  and  action  come  to- 
gether in  a  wholeness  of  dignity  and 
power.— RILEY  HUGHES,  Catholic  World 

Hemingway  has  already  done  the  sig- 
nificant part  of  his  life's  work.  .  . 
He  is,  by  our  living  needs  and  standards, 
a  true,  brilliant,  but  very  limited  artist, 
and  I  believe  that  we  have  gotten  all  we 
can  from  him  now.  He  may  write  several 
more  good  or  even  fine  books  of  a  kind, 
but  it  is  very  doubtful  if  they  will  ex- 
tend our  sensibilities  and  refresh  our 
vision  of  life  as  the  earlier  works  did; 
and  the  chances  are  that  they  will  mere- 
ly repeat  or  embellish  the  best  of  his 
earlier  work,  as  does  The  Old  Man  and 
the  Sea.— SEYMOUR  KRIM,  Common- 
weal 

For  most  readers  this  will  be  a  taut, 
tense,  graphic  story  of  an  old  fisher- 
man who,  after  a  run  of  bad  luck,  hooks 


196 


USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


the  biggest  fish  he  has  ever  seen  and 
in  spite  of  age  and  weariness  fights  him 
to  victory,  only  to  have  his  catch  taken 
from  him  at  the  end.  Some  of  the  older 
readers  may  put  into  it  all  the  sym- 
bolism of  human  striving  and  the  identi- 
fication of  killer  with  killed  that  the 
critics  find.  For  most  of  them  it  will  be 
unforgettable  as  a  picture  of  the  sea  and 
of  fishing  and  of  a  man's  persistence.— 
M.  C.  SCOGGIN,  Horn  Book 

Saturated  with  its  subject  and  milieu, 
written  in  a  limpid  style  and  with  the 
surest  art,  this  novella  is  one  of  Hem- 
ingway's finest  pieces  of  work.  No  one 
else  could  possibly  have  written  it.— 
E.  F.  WALBRIDGE,  Library  Journal 

On  so  many  counts  the  book  is  mo- 
mentous and  heartening.  .  .  Though 
in  his  past  work  Hemingway  suggested 
compassion  and  humility  and  love,  in 
The  Old  Man  he  gives  expression  to 
them  in  a  directer  and  bolder  way,  with- 
out sacrificing  the  strength  and  tough- 
ness of  the  earlier  work.  And  for  a  final 
thing,  it  suggests  that  the  big  book 
Hemingway  has  been  working  on  in  the 
past,  and  is  still  working  on,  may  be  his 
greatest.— HARVEY  BREIT,  Nation 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Sea  is  intend- 
ed to  be  a  "universal"  book,  dealing, 
however  briefly,  with  the  suffering  of 
humanity  as  a  whole.  Its  compassion 
is  not  exclusive.  If  it  succeeded  it 
would  be  a  masterpiece  surpassing  any- 
thing that  Mr.  Hemingway  has  written. 
In  my  opinion  it  has  not  succeeded. 
Despite  its  great  virtues,  its  lucidity,  its 
brilliantly  compact  evocation  of  the  sea, 
of  physical  endurance,  of  the  power  of 
the  great  fish,  its  compassion  and  its  im- 


pact, it  does  not  plumb  these  depths  of 
primitive  tragic  simplicity  at  which  it  ob- 
viously aims.-J.  D.  SCOTT,  New  States- 
man &  Nation 

I  couldn't  write  even  a  short  report 
on  the  book  without  paying  tribute  to 
Hemingway's  prose.  If  is  as  different 
from  Melville's  prose  in  Moby  Dick  as 
anything  could  be  and  still  remain  Eng- 
lish. There  is  no  attempt  in  it  to  express 
the  inexpressible  by  inventing  new 
words  and  turns  of  phrase;  instead 
Hemingway  uses  the  oldest  and  shortest 
words,  the  simplest  constructions,  but 
gives  them  a  new  value— as  if  English 
were  a  strange  language  that  he  had 
studied  or  invented  for  himself  and  was 
trying  to  write  in  its  original  purity.— 
MALCOLM  COWLEY,  New  York  Herald 
Tribune  Book  Review 

It  is  a  tale  superbly  told  and  in  the 
telling  Ernest  Hemingway  uses  all  the 
craft  his  hard,  disciplined  trying  over  so 
many  years  has  given  him.— R.  G.  DA- 
VIS, New  York  Times 

Hemingway  has  never  written  more 
cleanly,  more  precisely,  with  less  waste 
—not  that  he  is  very  often  a  man  to 
waste  a  word.  Here,  because  he  knows 
so  well  the  background  against  which  he 
stages  his  miracle-play  of  Man  against 
Fate,  he  evokes  both  struggle  and  sea 
with  a  skill  that  very  few— oh,  well,  what 
few,  then?  no  one  else  writing  today- 
could  touch.— J.  H.  JACKSON,  San  Fran- 
cisco Chronicle 

The  admirable  Santiago,  Heming- 
way's ancient  mariner  and  protagonist  of 
this  triumphant  short  novel,  enters  the 
gallery  of  permanent  heroes  effortlessly, 


USING  THE  EVALUATIONS        197 


as  if  he  had  belonged  there  from  the  times  gives  even  his  most  devoted  admir- 
beginning.  .  .  The  Old  Man  and  the  ers  twinges  of  discomfort.  As  a  story,  it 
Sea  is  a  great  short  novel,  told  with  con-  is  clean  and  straight.  Those  who  admire 
summate  artistry  and  destined  to  be-  craftsmanship  will  be  right  in  calling  it 
come  a  classic  in  its  kind.  It  is  a  good  a  masterpiece.— Time 
kind  of  present  for  a  man  to  give  the  __ __ 
world  on  or  about  his  fifty-third  birth- 
day.—CARLOS  BAKER,  Saturday  Review  Problem  2.  Read  the  following  two 

stories  and  rate  each  one  according  to 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Sea  has  almost  all  the  yardsticks  which  we  have  dis- 

none  of  the  old  Hemingway  truculence,  cussed.  A  chart  is  provided  at  the  end 

the  hard-guy  sentimentality  that  some-  of  each  story. 


NORBERT    DAVIS 

Build  me  a  bungalow  small 

WILLIAM  MARTIN  stepped  out  on  the  three  worn  planks  that  served  the 
cabin  as  a  front  porch  and  looked  all  around  and  saw  nothing  but 
trees.  That  was  just  fine  with  him.  It  was  not  that  he  was  fond  of  trees  as 
such.  He  wasn't.  He  considered  them  nonfunctional  and  a  waste  of  lumber, 
but  at  the  moment  he  vastly  preferred  them  to  people. 

He  was  tall  and  dark,  a  little  gaunt  in  the  face  and  stooped  in  the  shoul- 
ders, and  his  black  hair  was  clipped  in  a  crew  cut.  He  was  wearing  a  red 
flannel  shirt  and  brand-new  khaki  pants  and  shoe  pacs.  Standing  there  on  the 
porch,  he  drew  in  a  long,  luxurious  breath  of  mountain  air— thin  and  dry 
with  a  sharp,  cold  tingle  in  it. 

The  air  tasted  very  good.  Martin  tried  some  more  of  it  and  then  pounded 
his  chest,  Tarzan  style.  He  jumped  down  off  the  porch  and  did  a  compli- 
cated series  of  crouched,  whirling  shifts  and  then  caught  an  imaginary  foot- 
ball and  kicked  it.  He  was  right  at  the  apex  of  his  punt  when  he  saw  the 
man  watching  him,  and  he  very  nearly  went  over  backward. 

"Oops!"  he  said,  waving  his  arms  violently  to  catch  his  balance.  "I  didn't 
see—I  didn't  think  there  was  anyone—  Hello." 

The  man  was  leaning  against  the  fender  of  a  dust-colored  sedan  that 
blended  perfectly  into  the  dried  brown  of  the  brush  along  the  twisted, 
narrow  road.  He  was  dressed  in  brown,  too,  and  he  was  smoking  a  brown, 

From  Collier's,  The  National  Weekly.  Copyright  by  Crowell-Collier  Publishing  Com- 
pany. Reprinted  by  permission  of  Norbert  Davis. 


198 


USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


hand-rolled  cigarette.  He  was  squat  and  blocky  and  bowlegged,  and  he  was 
scowling.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  born  with  a  great  many  suspicions 
and  had  lived  to  see  every  single  one  of  them  confirmed. 

"Your  name  Martin?"  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

"You  leased  this  cabin  from  the  owner  for  three  weeks?" 

"Yes." 

"You  understand  that  he  don't  own  the  land  the  cabin  sits  on.  Just  the 
cabin  itself.  The  land  is  part  of  this  state  park  and  can't  be  sold." 

"I  understand  that." 

"Keep  it  in  mind.  You're  a  tenant  here  by  sufferance.  In  case  you  don't 
savvy  that,  it  means  you  can  stay  here  as  long  as  you  behave  yourself.  My 
name's  Bradwell.  I'm  the  state  ranger  in  charge." 

"Well,"  said  Martin  uncertainly.  "Hello." 

"How  drunk  are  you  now?" 

"I'm  not  drunk  at  all!"  Martin  denied  indignantly.  "I  was  just  feeling 
good,  that's  all— just  taking  a  little  morning  workout  to— to—" 

"If  I  catch  you  plastered  and  passed  out  around  here,  you're  going  to 
wake  up  with  a  shovel  in  your  hand  on  the  road  gang.  And  don't  sling 
garbage  around  in  the  brush.  Bury  it.  All  of  it.  Deep.  And  don't  build  fires 
except  in  the  fireplace  in  the  cabin,  and  don't  smoke  away  from  this  clear- 
ing. And  don't  drive  over  twenty  on  these  park  roads.  And  leave  the  animals 
alone.  They  got  more  right  to  be  here  than  you  have." 

"Okay,"  said  Martin.  "Okay,  okay,  okay." 

Bradwell  got  back  in  his  car.  The  sound  of  its  motor  was  a  muted,  smooth 
murmur. 

"I'll  be  seeing  you,"  he  said.  "Often.  Keep  that  in  mind,  too." 

The  sedan  slid  silently  away. 

"Huh,"  said  Martin. 

He  breathed  in  deeply  again,  trying  to  retrieve  his  exuberant  mood.  It 
eluded  him,  and  he  looked  around  exploratively.  He  spotted  a  path  that 
angled  crookedly  away  from  the  cabin,  and  he  started  following  it. 

The  trees  closed  in  instantly  on  him,  and  the  silence  and  the  solitude  were 
soothing  balm.  He  began  to  whistle  softly  and  jauntily  to  himself.  He  kept 
on  whistling  until  he  walked  around  a  curve  and  came  face  to  face  with 
a  deer. 

This  was  not  a  small  deer,  and  it  was  in  no  way  fragile  or  dainty.  It  was 
equipped  with  antlers,  and  it  was  tall  enough  so  that  when  it  held  its  head 
up  it  could  look  Martin  right  in  the  eye,  and  that  was  just  what  it  was  doing. 

"Shoo,"  said  Martin.  "Scram.  Get  out  of  here." 

The  deer  came  a  step  closer. 

BUILD  MB  A   BUNGALOW   SMALL        199 


"Boo!"  Martin  shouted.  "Beat  it!" 

The  deer  lowered  its  head  and  pawed  the  ground.  The  hoof  was  sharp 
enough  to  leave  a  clean,  deep  groove  in  the  dirt.  It  snorted. 

"Well,"  said  Martin.  "Okay.  If  that's  the  way  you  feel." 

He  backed  around  the  curve  and  started  toward  the  cabin.  The  deer 
snorted  again— right  behind  him.  Martin  walked  a  lot  faster.  He  was  per- 
spiring. He  sneaked  a  glance  over  his  shoulder.  The  antlers  were  about 
a  yard  from  his  back,  and  they  were  approaching  a  lot  faster  than  he  was 
receding. 

TTfJter  Martin  gasped. 

He  ran.  He  ran  like  a  rabbit.  And  behind  him  he  could  hear  those  sharply 
sinister  snorts  getting  closer  and  closer. 

Crashing  out  into  the  clearing,  he  sailed  around  the  cabin,  leaning  hard 
on  the  turns.  He  reached  the  porch  in  one  last  ten-foot  leap.  There  was  a 
camp  chair  leaning  against  the  wall  beside  the  door,  and  he  swung  it  up 
over  his  shoulder  and  whirled  around— at  bay. 

It  was  then  that  he  heard  the  high-pitched,  uproarious  shriek  of  laughter. 
The  deer  had  stopped  a  dozen  feet  from  the  porch.  It  was  regarding  Martin 
with  an  offended  expression,  and  now  it  turned  its  head  to  look  toward  the 
laughter.  Martin  dropped  the  chair  as  though  it  had  suddenly  become  red- 
hot.  He  picked  it  up  and  dropped  it  again  and  then  kicked  it  furiously. 

The  laughter  died  in  a  series  of  gurgling  gasps.  'Tm  sorry!"  the  girl  said. 
"I  really  shouldn't  have—"  She  started  up  again,  bending  over  and  holding 
her  sides.  She  had  shiny  black  hair  with  a  thin  red  ribbon  tied  in  it.  She  was 
tall,  and  she  was  wearing  dungarees  and  moccasins  and  a  man's  white 
shirt.  She  was  very  tanned,  and  she  had  startlingly  blue  eyes  and  a  short, 
straight  nose  with  a  little  tilt  to  it. 

She  straightened  up  painfully.  "You  should  have  seen  your  face  when 
you  came  around  the  cabin.  It  was  really— Oh,  Dagwood!  You  big  fool, 
you!" 

The  deer  stalked  up  to  her  and  lowered  its  antlers  and  snorted. 

The  girl  slapped  at  it.  "Oh,  get  away.  I  haven't  anything  for  you  to  eat." 
She  smiled  up  at  Martin.  "They  call  him  Dagwood  because  he's  always 
hungry,  and  he'll  eat  absolutely  anything.  Dagwood,  you  pest.  Go  away." 

She  seized  him  expertly  by  an  antler,  turned  him  around,  and  slapped  him 
on  the  haunch.  Dagwood  sailed  over  a  bush  and  disappeared  in  three  more 
graceful  bounces. 

The  girl  walked  up  to  the  porch.  "Hello.  My  name  is  Carol  Carter.  I'm 
staying  at  the  Bracken  cabin.  It's  over  that  way  a  half  mile.  You're  William 
Martin,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

200        USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


"The  Greys  told  me  they  were  renting  their  cabin  to  you.  They  said  you 
were  an  architect." 

"Did  they?" 

"Yes.  They  said  you  wanted  to  come  up  here  to  be  alone  while  you 
finished  some  important  work." 

"But  you  didn't  believe  them,  did  you?" 

"What?"  said  Carol. 

"You  didn't  believe  them  when  they  told  you  I  wanted  to  be  alone." 

Carol  lost  her  smile.  "Oh.  Well—are  you  mad  at  me?  I  apologize  for 
laughing.  I  shouldn't  have.  I  know  you  were  scared  to  death." 

"Is  there  anything  else  you  know  about  me  besides  my  name  and  my 
business  and  my  state  of  mind?" 

"I  know  you've  got  a  nasty  temper." 

"There's  something  you  can  do  to  avoid  that." 

"What?"  Carol  asked. 

"Leave." 

"Oh.  Well-well,  I  mean  .  .  ." 

"Goodby,  now." 

"Goodby,"  said  Carol  soberly. 

She  turned  around  and  walked  on  along  the  road.  She  walked  well— erect 
and  graceful,  very  quick  and  light  on  her  feet. 

"Faugh!"  Martin  snarled.  "The  next  time  I'll  pick  the  city  zoo  or  the 
Union  Station." 

Martin  had  set  himself  up  in  business  in  the  sunlight  at  the  side  of  the 
cabin.  He  and  his  paraphernalia  were  spread  all  over  the  camp  chair  and 
two  collapsible  bridge  tables.  He  had  red  ink  and  black  ink  and  white  ink 
and  six  different  kinds  of  pens:  squares,  triangles,  compasses,  dividers,  rulers, 
erasers  and  slide  rules,  and  dozens  of  sectional  plans  and  blue,  checked 
master  sheets— all  placed  precisely  where  he  wanted  them.  He  was  a  happy 
man. 

He  consulted  one  of  the  slide  rules  and  found  the  answer  he  needed  and 
began  to  print  it  in  slanted,  neat  figures. 

"Hello,"  said  Carol. 

Martin's  pen  jerked. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  said  Carol. 

Martin  blotted  carefully  and  began  to  erase. 

"Let  me  help—"  said  the  girl. 

Martin  stopped  erasing  and  looked  at  her. 

"I  said  I  was  sorry,"  Carol  said  defensively.  "And  I'm  sorry  I  laughed 
at  you  a  while  ago.  What  else  can  I  say?" 

"Plenty,  I'm  afraid." 

BUILD   ME   A    BUNGALOW    SMALL         201 


"Now,  look,"  said  Carol  "I'm  just  trying  to  be  neighborly.  I  came  over 
here  this  morning  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world.  I  was  going  to 
show  you  how  the  Greys'  stove  worked.  They  asked  me  to.  They  were 
worried  about  how  you'd  make  out,  because  they  knew  you  weren't  married, 
and  they  didn't  know  whether  or  not  you  could  cook  for  yourself.  I  was 
even  going  to  ask  you  over  to  dinner  tonight.  Of  course,  we  call  it  supper." 

"How  odd!" 

"Look,"  said  Carol.  "Relax.  I'm  not  that  repulsive.  We  got  off  to  a  bad 
start,  but  can't  you  sort  of  skip  it?  You'll  find  it's  lonesome  up  here.  No  one 
comes  up  in  the  fall,  because  they  don't  realize  how  swell  the  weather  is." 

"What  are  you  doing  up  here?" 

Carol  smiled.  "That's  better.  I  had  pneumonia  last  winter,  and  I  came  up 
here  in  the  spring  to  rest  for  three  months,  and  I  just  sort  of  lingered.  I  like 
it.  What  are  you  working  on?" 

"A  plan  for  a  small  home." 

"You've  got  a  lot  of  plans  just  for  that?" 

Martin  explained  reluctantly:  "These  are  master  plans  to  be  used  on 
a  lot  of  small  homes  to  be  built  all  at  once  in  a  big  subdivision.  Each 
house  has  to  have  the  same  over-all  requirements,  but  they  have  to  be 
incidentally  variable,  so  that  each  one  can  be  made  to  look  different." 

"Sounds  complicated." 

"It  is.  It's  a  Kreiger-Croft  Construction  Company  project.  If  I  can 
satisfy  them,  there's  plenty  in  it  for  me.  I've  done  some  work  for  them 
before,  but  nothing  as  big  as  this  will  be." 

''You're  up  here  to  concentrate,  eh?" 

"That  was  the  idea,  at  least.  I  got  tired  of  trying  to  think  while  con- 
tractors and  frustrated  homeowners  and  building  inspectors  pound  on 
my  desk." 

"I  see.  Can  I  look  at  the  master  sheet?" 

"You  can't  visualize  from  a  blueprint." 

"I  can  so.  I  took  two  years  of  architecture  in  art  school.  .  .  .  Say,  this  is 
cute!  Now  if  you  put  a—" 

Martin  threw  his  slide  rule  on  the  ground. 

"All  right,"  Carol  said  quickly.  "All  right." 

"Artists,"  Martin  muttered.  "Now  it's  artists.  That's  all  I  needed." 

"Architecture  is  an  art." 

"It  is  not!  It's  a  science!  Do  I  look  like  some  boob  who  hangs  out  in  a 
garret?" 

"No,  and  artists  don't,  either.  Just  remember  that  I  happen  to  be  one." 

"Ha." 

"I  am,  and  I'm  pretty  good,  too." 

202        USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


"Ha/' 

"Are  you  always  this  way?"  Carol  asked.  "You  pack  around  just  about 
the  nastiest  disposition  I've  run  across." 

"It's  a  device,"  Martin  explained  carefully.  "It's  a  device  I  employ  so 
people  will  leave  me  alone  long  enough  for  me  to  get  a  little  work  done. 
But  sometimes  it  doesn't  work.  There  are  people  who  are  so  dumb  they 
don't  get  the  idea." 

"Meaning  me?"  Carol  said  thoughtfully.  "You  don't  like  me?" 

"Now  you're  smartening  up." 

"You  want  me  to  go  away?" 

"You're  right  on  the  beam." 

Carol  swallowed.  "All  right.  But  I  think  you  could  have  been  a  little 
more  polite  about  it  all." 

"Oh,  go  drown  yourself  somewhere." 

Carol  walked  away.  She  walked  slowly  this  time;  all  her  bounce  had 
gone. 

Martin  picked  up  the  slide  rule  and  looked  at  it  in  an  antagonistic 
manner.  "Ummm,"  he  said  uneasily,  using  it  to  scratch  his  head.  "Well." 

He  went  back  to  work,  but  most  of  the  flavor  seemed  to  have  sim- 
mered out  of  his  house  plans.  He  stalled  around  for  a  while  and  then 
got  up  and  went  in  the  back  door  of  the  cabin.  He  came  out  a  moment  later, 
carrying  a  long-handled  spade  in  one  hand  and  a  dripping  paper  sack  of 
garbage  in  the  other. 

Holding  the  sack  well  away  from  him,  he  paced  up  the  slope  back 
of  the  cabin.  Finding  a  site  that  suited  him,  he  put  the  sack  down  and 
started  digging. 

He  dug  steadily  for  about  a  half  hour.  He  had  made  a  trench,  then, 
about  two  feet  deep  and  a  foot  and  a  half  wide.  He  figured  this  would 
be  large  enough  to  hold  a  week's  deposit  of  garbage,  and  he  stopped  and 
leaned  on  the  spade  handle,  contemplating  his  handiwork. 

Somebody  pushed  him— hard.  The  spade  tangled  his  feet  up,  and  he 
went  headlong  over  it  and  fell  flat  on  his  face  in  the  ditch.  He  scrambled 
frantically,  rolled  over  and  sat  up. 

Dagwood  snorted  at  him. 

"You  get  out  of  here!"  Martin  yelled  furiously. 

He  scrambled  up  and  swung  awkwardly  with  the  spade.  It  didn't  miss 
Dagwood  by  more  than  fifteen  feet.  Dagwood  bounced  this  way  and  that 
way  on  his  spring-steel  legs,  shook  his  antlers  coyly,  and  then  paused, 
ready  for  more  fun  and  games. 

Martin  ran  at  him.  "Get  out  of  here!  You  get  off  this  property!" 

Dagwood  glided  over  a  bush  and  flicked  his  white  tail  tauntingly.  That 

BUILD  MS  A  BUNGALOW   SMALL        203 


did  it.  Martin  lost  what  remained  of  his  perspective.  He  took  off  after 
Dagwood  like  a  bat  from  the  belfry. 

Dagwood  danced  happily  all  around  the  clearing  twice  and  then  took 
off  up  the  path  with  Martin  thundering  grimly  behind.  Dagwood  teased 
him  along  for  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  and  then  casually  melted  away 
into  the  brush. 

Martin  stumbled  over  to  a  fallen  tree  trunk  and  collapsed.  He  had  a 
bad  case  of  the  gulps—an  affliction  which  often  seizes  lowlanders  who  exert 
themselves  unduly  at  high  altitudes— and  he  sat  and  gasped  for  ten  minutes 
before  his  heart  stopped  booming  in  his  ears. 

Finally  he  got  up  and  went  drearily  down  the  path  again,  helping 
himself  along  with  the  spade.  He  came  out  into  the  clearing  and  stopped 
short,  frozen  numb  with  horror. 

Here  was  Dagwood  again.  He  had  tipped  over  both  card  tables,  and  he 
was  chewing  meditatively  on  a  large  number  of  sheets  of  blue,  checked 
paper. 

"Oh,  no,"  Martin  groaned.  "No!" 

Dagwood  stopped  chewing  and  glanced  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Drop  those  plans!"  Martin  shrieked. 

Dagwood  started  chewing  again. 

Martin  howled.  He  threw  the  spade  and  ran  after  it.  He  picked  it  up 
en  route  and  cut  a  vicious  swath  in  the  air  with  it.  Dagwood  bounced 
jauntily  away,  carrying  the  blue  sheets  like  a  banner. 

"I'll  kill  you!"  Martin  promised  fervently,  fighting  his  way  through 
brush.  "I'll  spatter  your  brains—" 

They  went  up  hill  and  down  dale.  They  went  around  in  two  circles. 
They  went  through  a  bramble  patch,  some  poison  oak,  and  a  small  growth 
of  cockleburs.  Martin  fell  down  three  times,  and  when  he  got  up  the  third 
time  Dagwood  was  gone  again. 

Martin  went  right  on,  anyway,  staggering.  "Where  are  you?"  he  roared. 
"I'll  tear  you  limb  from  limb!  I'll  murder  you  in  cold  blood!" 

He  stumbled  down  a  rock-strewn  slope,  burst  through  a  waist-high 
barrier  of  brush,  and  very  nearly  fell  down  the  fourth  time.  He  caught 
his  balance  and  stood  there,  swaying  and  strangling,  staring  unbelievingly 
at  a  painter's  easel.  It  was  sitting  all  by  itself  in  the  clearing. 

"Oh,"  said  Martin,  fighting  for  breath.  "You!  Carol  Carter!  Where  are 
you?" 

His  voice  dropped  into  the  silence.  There  was  no  answer,  not  even 
an  echo. 

"Hey!"  said  Martin. 


204 


USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


He  listened,  and  then  he  heard  the  faint,  infinitely  alluring  chuckle  of 
running  water.  Realizing  suddenly  that  he  had  a  mouth  like  a  blast  furnace, 
he  dragged  his  feet  across  the  clearing  and  fought  through  some  more  brush. 

He  didn't  even  see  the  stream  until  his  feet  went  out  from  under  him, 
and  he  sat  down  with  a  dull  thud  on  the  bank.  His  feet  were  hanging  over 
a  deep,  dark  pool  where  the  water  circled  hungrily  like  a  slow-motion 
whirlpool,  and  abruptly  it  didn't  seem  inviting  at  all. 

Martin  stared  at  the  bank  opposite  him.  It  was  steep  and  studded  with 
sharp  rocks,  and  someone  had  slipped  on  it.  Someone  had  left  fresh,  fran- 
tically clawed  gouges  in  the  dirt, 

"Hey!"  said  Martin,  scared  now.  "Hey,  Carol!  Where  are  you?  Where—" 

The  water  chuckled  gruesomely  beneath  him. 

Martin's  voice  went  up  a  queasy  notch.  "Carol!  Carol!  Are  you  all  right?" 

He  slid  down  the  bank  and  stared  into  the  water.  He  couldn't  see  any- 
thing but  his  own  reflection. 

"Hey?"  he  said,  putting  everything  into  a  last  appeal.  There  was  no 
answer  save  the  ghoulish  gurgle  of  the  water. 

Martin  scrambled  back  up  the  bank.  He  ran  first  to  his  left  and  then 
to  his  right  and  then  hightailed  it  over  the  hill.  It  was  very  heavy  going 
now.  His  feet  didn't  track,  and  he  seemed  to  have  an  irrepressible  urge  to 
fall  down  every  twenty  yards.  He  lost  the  spade  and  his  sense  of  direction, 
and  it  was  approximately  a  century  before  he  came  out  on  a  narrow,  rutted 
road.  He  whirled  around  groggily  twice,  picked  a  direction,  and  started 
running  all  over  again. 

He  was  still  going  when  Bradwell's  dusty  sedan  pulled  up  silently  along- 
side of  him. 

"Oh!"  said  Martin.  "Listen-listen-" 

Bradwell  said:  "I  warned  you  what  would  happen  to  you  if  I  caught  you 
plastered." 

Martin  clutched  the  car  door.  "Listen.  Carol  Carter.  Drowned." 

"What?"  Bradwell  barked. 

"Drowned.  Pool.  Back  there." 

"You  mean  that  little  pool  where  she  paints?" 

Martin  nodded  numbly.  "Dangerous.  Steep  bank." 

"You're  crazy." 

"No.  Slipped  on  bank.  Hit  her  head  on  rock.  Drowned." 

"Get  in  here/'  said  Bradwell. 

Martin  fell  into  the  front  seat  and  held  his  head  in  his  hands,  completely 
blown  out.  Bradwell  put  the  sedan  into  reverse,  slammed  it  backward 
into  the  brush,  and  cramped  the  wheels  expertly. 

BUILD  ME  A   BUNGALOW   SMALL        205 


"No!"  Martin  protested.  "Other  way/' 

"Shut  up.  I  know  the  way." 

The  sedan  popped  out  of  the  brush,  jittered  sideways  on  the  ruts,  and 
picked  up  speed  in  a  breathless  spurt. 

"Should  never  have  said  that,"  Martin  muttered.  "Never,  never." 

"Said  what?"  Bradwell  asked  absently. 

"What  I  said  to  her.  Oh,  no.  No." 

"Pipe  down.  I'm  busy." 

The  roadside  brush  swished  past  them  in  a  brown,  splattered  blur.  Sud- 
denly it  fell  eerily  away  on  one  side,  and  Bradwell  stood  on  the  brakes. 

"Huh?"  said  Martin.  "This  isn  t-" 

"I  know.  That's  your  cabin  there,  you  dope.  Someone  is  in  it.  I  saw 
something  move  in  the  window." 

"Never  mind,"  Martin  said.  "It's  just  that  dammed  Dagwood  again." 

"It  ain't  Dagwood,"  said  Bradwell.  "He  don't  break  into  cabins—not 
since  I  caught  him  tryin*  it  once  and  fanned  his  rear  end  good  with  a  lath. 
Come  on.  We'll  take  a  look." 

"No!  I'm  not  going—" 

Bradwell  reached  over  the  back  of  the  seat  and  came  up  with  an  efficient- 
looking  .30-30  saddle  carbine.  "Yes,  you  are.  You're  going  to  march  right 
up  that  path  ahead  of  me.  Get." 

Martin  marched  up  the  path,  and  opened  the  front  door  of  the  cabin 
cautiously. 

"Hello,"  Carol  called.  "I'm  in  the  kitchen." 

Martin  tore  across  the  room  and  hung  limply  in  the  kitchen  doorway, 
staring  with  bulged,  incredulous  eyes.  Carol  had  just  started  washing  his 
dirty  dishes. 

"Here  I  am  again,"  she  said.  "I'm  really  a  pig  for  punishment." 

Martin  tiptoed  across  the  floor  and  touched  her  arm  gingerly.  She  wasn't 
a  phantom.  "Whew!"  he  said. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Carol  asked  casually.  "Is  your  conscience  bother- 
ing you?" 

Martin  rallied  a  little.  "Weren't  you  up  at  that  pool  a  while  ago?  Why 
didn't  you  answer  me  when  I  called?" 

"Yes,  I  was  up  at  the  pool,  and  I  didn't  answer  you  for  two  good  reasons. 
Reason  number  one:  I  didn't  have  any  clothes  on." 

"What?"  said  Martin  blankly. 

"I  had  taken  a  sun  bath,  and  I  was  just  about  to  dunk  myself  in  the 
pool  to  cool  off  when  you  came  howling  around.  I  had  to  scramble  for 
cover.  Reason  number  two:  You  scared  me  with  all  those  threats  about 

206        USING  THE  EVALUATIONS 


murder  and  tearing  me  limb  from  limb.  I  thought  you'd  gone  clear  off 
your  trolley.  I  finally  figured  out  what  you  thought  from  your  actions, 
but  by  that  time  you  were  gone  with  the  wind.  So  I  came  over  here." 

Martin  said,  "I  wasn't  threatening  you.  I  was  just  going  to  murder  Dag- 
wood  because  he  chewed  up  my  plans." 

"What  was  that,  again?"  Bradwell  demanded.  "I  told  you  to  leave  the 
animals  around  here  alone." 

"Relax.  I  didn't  catch  him." 

"How  do  I  know  you  didn't?" 

"You  know  he  didn't,"  Carol  said,  "because  Dagwood  is  outside  the  back 
door  right  now,  waiting  to  be  fed."  She  nodded  at  Martin.  "I  came  back 
before,  mad  as  I  was,  to  warn  you  that  you  mustn't  leave  any  important 
paper  lying  around  outside,  because  Dagwood  likes  the  taste  of  it.  He 
chews  it  like  tobacco.  But  when  I  came  back,  you  were  gone." 

"I  was  digging  a  garbage  ditch." 

"I  know.  I  gathered  up  your  plans  then  and  put  them  in  the  cabin. 
Dagwood  ran  off  with  some  scratch  sheets.  I  put  your  plans  in  on  the  table." 

"Yeah,"  said  Bradwell.  Tm  lookin'  at  'em.  .  .  .  Say,  this  is  going  to  be  a 
neat  layout.  Who's  going  to  build  bungalows  like  this,  Martin?  How  much 
do  they  want  for  a  down  payment  on  one?" 

"Later,"  Martin  said  absently.  "Later.  Anyway,  I'm  going  to  buy  the 
first  one." 

"You  don't  need  a  house,"  Bradwell  informed  him.  "You  ain't  married." 

"Well,  I  can  get  married,  can't  I?"  Martin  asked.  He  hesitated,  watching 
Carol.  "Can  1 1?" 

Carol  glanced  sideways  at  him. 

"Well,"  said  Martin  shamefacedly,  "a  person  can  say  things— I  mean, 
he  can  sort  of  fly  off  the  handle  and  say  things  and  then—and  then  he  can 
suddenly  sort  of  see  the  light  and  change  his—" 

Carol  smiled  slightly.  "Take  this  lettuce  leaf  out  to  Dagwood." 

"A  leaf?"  Martin  said  exuberantly.  "One  little  leaf?  No!  We'll  give  him 
the  whole  headl  We  wouldn't  want  to  turn  him  away  hungry,  Dagwood 
is  a  very  fine  deer  and  a  credit  to  the  community.  Here,  Dagwood.  Here 
you  are,  old  boy,  old  pal." 


BUILD  ME  A   BUNGALOW   SMALL        207 


Rating  charts 

Make  checks  in  the  boxes,  or  on  a  separate  sheet  of  paper,  according  to 

the  following  ratings— first  box:   excellent;  second  box:   good;  third  box: 
average;  fourth  box:  poor;  fifth  box:  total  failure. 

YARDSTICKS  INVOLVING  PARTS  RATING 

Clarity  D  D   D   D  D 

Escape  D  D   D   D  D 

Special  doctrine  (name  it): D  D    D    D  D 

Real  life  D  D   D   D  D 

Pleasure  in  artistic  details  D  D   D   D  D 

YARDSTICKS  INVOLVING  THE  STORY  AS  A  WHOLE 

Effect  on  the  reader  D  D   D   D  D 

Personality  of  the  author  D  D   D   D  D 

Internal  consistency  D  D   D   D  D 

Insight  D  D   D   D  D 


MAXIM    GORKY 


Boless 


A  ACQUAINTANCE  of  mine  once  told  me  the  following  story: 
"While  still  a  student  at  Moscow  I  happened  to  be  living  alongside 
one  of  those— well,  she  was  a  Polish  woman,  Teresa  by  name.  A  tall,  power- 
fully built  brunet  with  heavy,  bushy  eyebrows,  and  a  large  coarse,  vulgar 
face,  as  if  carved  out  with  an  ax— the  animal  gleam  of  her  eyes,  the  deep 
bass  voice,  the  gait  and  manners  of  a  cabman,  and  her  immense  strength 
like  that  of  a  market-woman,  inspired  me  with  an  inexpressible  horror. 
I  lived  in  the  garret  of  the  house,  and  her  room  was  opposite  mine.  I  never 
opened  my  door  when  I  knew  that  she  was  in.  But  this,  of  course,  happened 
very  rarely.  Sometimes  I  chanced  to  meet  her  on  the  landing,  staircase,  or  in 
the  yard,  and  she  would  look  at  me  with  a  smile  which  seemed  to  me  cynical 
and  rapacious.  Occasionally  I  saw  her  in  her  cups,  with  bleary  eyes,  her 
hair  and  clothes  in  disorder  and  with  a  particularly  loathsome  smile.  On  such 
occasions  she  would  meet  my  eye  with  an  impudent  stare  and  say: 


Used  by  permission  of  P.  F.  Collier  and  Son. 

208        USING  THE   EVALUATIONS 


"  'How  are  you,  Pan  Student?*1 

"And  her  stupid  laugh  would  increase  my  dislike  for  her  still  more.  1 
would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  change  my  quarters  in  order  to  get 
rid  of  her  proximity,  but  my  room  was  so  nice,  and  the  view  from  my  win- 
dow was  so  fine,  the  street  below  so  quiet  and  peaceful,  that  I  concluded 
to  endure  it. 

"One  morning  after  I  had  dressed  and  was  sprawling  on  the  cot,  trying 
to  invent  some  sort  of  an  excuse  for  not  attending  my  classes,  the  door  of  my 
room  suddenly  opened,  and  the  disgusting  bass  voice  of  the  Polish  woman 
sounded  from  the  threshold: 

"  'Good  morning,  Pan  Student!' 

**  'What  is  it  you  wish?'  I  asked  her.  I  saw  she  looked  confused  and  had 
in  her  face  a  kind  of  pleading  expression,  something  unusual  with  her. 

"  'You  see,  Pan  Student,  I  came  to  beg  you  to  do  me  a  great  favor.  Don't 
refuse  me,  please  I* 

"Lying  there  on  my  cot  I  thought  that  it  was  just  some  pretext  or  other 
to  make  my  further  acquaintance.  Take  care,  my  boy! 

"  'You  see,  I  have  to  send  a  letter  to  my  native  country/  she  continued  in 
a  supplicating,  low,  tremulous  voice. 

"  'Well/  I  thought,  'the  devil  take  you.  If  you  wish  I  will  write  it  for  you/ 
And  springing  to  my  feet  I  sat  down  to  the  table,  took  some  paper  and 
said:  'Well,  come  nearer;  sit  down  and  dictate/ 

"She  came  over;  sat  down  cautiously  on  the  edge  of  the  chair  and  looked 
at  me  in  rather  a  guilty  way. 

"  'To  whom  shall  I  write?' 

"  'To  Boleslav  Kapshat,  in  the  town  Sventsiani,  on  the  Warsaw  railroad/ 

"  'Well,  what  shall  I  write?  Speak/ 

ee  'My  dearest  Boless,  my  heart's  delight,  my  beloved.  May  the  Mother  of 
God  protect  you!  My  golden  heart,  why  have  you  not  written  for  so  long  a 
time  to  your  sorrowing  dove,  Teresa—' 

"I  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing.  A  sorrowing  dove,  indeed!  Almost 
six  feet  tall,  with  the  fists  of  a  prize-fighter,  and  a  face  so  black  that  it  seemed 
as  if  the  'dove'  had  been  sweeping  chimneys  all  her  life  and  had  never 
thoroughly  washed  herself.  But  I  somehow  kept  my  face  straight  and  asked: 

"  'Who  is  this  Bolesst?' 

"'Boless,  Pan  Student/  she  replied,  seemingly  offended  because  of  my 
mispronouncing  the  name.  'He  is  my  affianced/ 

"  'Affianced!' 

"  'And  why  are  you  so  astonished?  Can  not  I,  a  girl,  have  an  affianced?1 


xPan  is  Polish  for  Mister. 

BOLESS        209 


"She— a  girl!  well,  this  beats  everything  I  ever  heard.  Oh,  well,  who  can 
tell  about  such  matters!  Everything  is  possible  in  this  world. 

u  'And  have  you  been  long  engaged?' 

"  'The  sixth  year/ 

"'Oh,  oh!'  I  thought  and  then  said  aloud:  *Well,  go  ahead  with  your 
letter/ 

"And  I  must  confess— so  tender  and  loving  was  this  message— that  I  would 
have  willingly  exchanged  places  with  this  Boless  had  the  fair  correspondent 
been  any  one  else  but  Teresa. 

"  1  thank  you  from  my  inmost  soul  for  your  favor,  Pan  Student/  Teresa 
said,  bowing  low.  'Can  I  in  any  way  be  of  service  to  you?' 

"No,  thank  you/ 

"  'But  maybe  the  Pan's  shirts  or  trousers  need  mending?* 

"This  made  me  quite  angry.  I  felt  that  this  mastodon  in  petticoats  was 
making  the  blood  mount  to  my  cheeks,  and  I  told  her  quite  sharply  that  her 
services  were  not  required;  and  she  departed. 

"Two  weeks  or  so  passed.  One  evening  I  was  sitting  at  my  window,  softly 
whistling  and  thinking  hard  how  to  get  away  from  myself.  I  felt  very  bored. 
The  weather  was  as  nasty  as  it  could  be.  To  go  out  that  evening  was  out  of 
the  question,  and  having  nothing  better  to  do  I  began  from  sheer  ennui  a 
course  of  self-analysis.  This  proved  dull  enough  work,  but  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do.  Suddenly  the  door  opened,  thank  God!  Some  one  was  coming 
to  see  me. 

"  'Are  you  very  busy  just  now,  Pan  Student?' 

"  'Teresa!  H'm— '  I  thought  I  would  have  preferred  any  one  at  all  to  her. 
Then  I  said  aloud: 

"  'No,  what  is  it  you  want  now?* 

"  'I  wish  to  ask  the  Pan  Student  to  write  me  another  letter/ 

"  'Very  well.  Is  it  again  to  Boless  you  wish  me  to  write?* 

"  'No,  this  time  I  want  you  to  write  a  letter  from  Boless  to  me/ 

"Wha-at?' 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  Pan  Student.  How  stupid  of  me!  It  is  not  for  me, 
this  letter,  but  for  a  friend  of  mine,  a  man  acquaintance;  he  has  a  fiancee. 
Her  name  is  like  mine,  Teresa.  He  does  not  know  how  to  write,  so  I  want 
the  Pan  Student  to  write  for  him  a  letter  to  that  Teresa—' 

"I  looked  at  her.  She  seemed  very  confused  and  frightened,  and  her 
fingers  trembled.  And  tho  I  failed  at  first  to  understand  what  was  the  matter 
with  her  I  at  last  understood. 

"  'Look  here,  my  lady,'  I  said  to  her.  Tfou  have  been  telling  me  a  pack  of 
lies.  There  are  no  Bolesses  nor  Teresas  among  your  acquaintances.  It  is  only 
a  pretext  for  coming  in  here.  I  tell  you  outright  that  there  is  no  use  of  com- 

210        USING   THE   EVALUATIONS 


ing  sneaking  around  me,  as  I  do  not  wish  to  have  anything  to  do  with  you. 
Do  you  understand?* 

"She  grew  very  red  in  the  face  and  I  saw  that  she  was  strangely  frightened 
and  confused,  and  moved  her  lips  so  oddly,  wishing  to  say  something,  with- 
out being  able  to  say  it.  And  somehow  I  began  to  think  that  I  had  misjudged 
her  a  little.  There  was  something  behind  all  this.  But  what? 

"  Tan  Student/  she  suddenly  began,  but  broke  off,  and  turning  toward 
the  door,  walked  out  of  the  room, 

"I  remained  with  a  very  unpleasant  feeling  in  my  heart.  I  heard  her  shut 
her  own  door  with  a  bang;  evidently  the  poor  girl  was  very  angry— I  thought 
the  matter  over  and  decided  to  go  in  to  her  and  induce  her  to  return; 
I  would  write  her  the  letter  she  wished. 

"I  entered  her  room.  She  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  her  head  pressed 
in  her  hands. 

"  'Teresa/  I  said,  'will  you  listen  to  me  a  moment?' 

"Whenever  I  come  to  this  turn  of  the  story  I  always  feel  very  awkward 
and  embarrassed.  But  let  us  return  to  my  narrative.  Seeing  that  she  did  not 
reply  I  repeated: 

"  'Listen  to  me,  my  girl—' 

"She  sprang  to  her  feet,  came  close  up  to  me,  with  eyes  flashing,  and  plac* 
ing  her  two  hands  on  my  shoulders  she  began  to  whisper,  or  rather  to  hum 
in  her  deep  bass  voice: 

"  'Look  you  here,  Pan  Student.  What  of  it,  what  of  it  if  there  is  no  Boless? 
And  what  if  there  is  no  Teresa?  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you?  Is  it 
so  hard  for  you  to  draw  a  few  lines  on  the  paper!  Oh,  youl  And  I  thought  you 
such  a  good  fellow,  such  a  nice  fair-haired  little  boy.  Yes,  it  is  true— there  is 
no  Boless,  and  there  is  no  Teresa,  there  is  only  mel  Well,  what  of  it?* 

"  'Allow  me/  I  said,  greatly  disconcerted  by  this  reception.  'What  is  it  you 
are  saying?  Is  there  no  Boless?' 

"  'Yes,  there  is  none.  But  what  of  it?* 

*  'And  no  Teresa  either?' 

"  'No,  no  Teresa  either;  that  is,  yes,  I  am  her/ 

"I  could  not  understand  a  word.  I  stared  straight  into  her  eyes,  trying  to 
determine  which  of  us  two  had  lost  our  reason.  And  she  returned  once 
more  to  the  table,  rummaged  for  some  time  in  the  drawer,  and  coming  back 
to  me  said  in  an  offended  tone: 

"  'Here  is  the  letter  you  wrote  for  me,  take  it  back.  You  do  not  wish  to 
write  me  a  second  one  anyway.  Others  will  probably  be  kinder  than  you 
and  would  do  so.' 

"I  recognized  the  letter  she  held  out  to  me  as  the  one  I  wrote  for  her  to 
Boless.  Humph! 

211 


"  'Look  here,  Teresa/  I  said  to  her.  Will  you  please  explain  to  me  what  it 
all  means?  Why  do  you  ask  people  to  write  letters  for  you  when  you  do  not 
find  it  necessary  even  to  post  them?' 

"Tost  them?  Where  to?' 

"  Why,  to  this  Boless,  of  course/ 

"  'But  he  does  not  exist!' 

1  really  could  not  understand  a  word.  There  was  nothing  left  for  me  to 
do  but  to  spit  and  walk  out  of  the  room.  But  she  explained  herself. 

"  'Well,  what  of  it?'  she  began  in  an  offended  voice.  'He  does  not  exist. 
He  does  not,  so/  and  she  extended  her  hands  as  if  she  could  not  herself 
clearly  understand  why  he  did  not  exist  in  reality.  'But  I  want  him  to.  Am 
I  not  as  much  of  a  human  being  as  the  others?  Of  course  I— I  know—  But  it 
does  no  harm  to  any  one,  that  I  am  writing  to  him—' 

"  'Allow  me— to  whom?' 

"  'To  Boless,  of  course.' 

"  'But  he  does  not  exist.' 

"  'Oh,  Mother  of  God!  What  if  he  does  not  exist?  He  does  not;  still  to  me 
he  does.  And  Teresa— this  is  myself,  and  he  replies  to  my  letters,  and  I 
write  to  him  again.' 

"I  understood.  I  felt  so  sick  at  heart,  so  ashamed  of  myself  to  know  that 
alongside  of  me,  only  three  paces  removed,  lived  a  human  being  who  had 
no  one  in  the  whole  world  to  love  and  sympathize  with  her,  and  that  this 
being  had  to  invent  a  friend  for  herself. 

"'Here  you  have  written  a  letter  from  me  to  Boless,  and  I  gave  it  to 
another  to  read,  and  when  I  hear  it  read  it  really  begins  to  seem  to  me  as 
if  there  is  a  Boless.  And  then  I  ask  that  a  letter  be  written  from  Boless  to 
Teresa— that  is  to  me.  And  when  such  a  letter  is  written  and  is  read  to  me 
then  I  am  almost  entirely  convinced  that  there  is  a  Boless,  and  that  makes 
my  life  easier.' 

"Yes,  the  devil  take  it  all,"  continued  my  acquaintance,  "To  make  a  long 
story  short  I  began  from  that  time  on  to  write  with  the  greatest  punctuality 
twice  a  week  letters  to  Boless  and  vice  versa.  I  wrote  splendid  replies  to  her. 
She  used  to  listen  to  my  reading  of  those  epistles  and  to  weep  in  her  bass 
voice.  In  return  for  this  she  used  to  mend  my  clothes  and  darn  my  socks. 

"Three  months  later  she  was  thrown  into  prison  for  some  reason  or  other 
and  by  now  she  must  surely  be  dead." 

My  acquaintance  blew  the  ashes  from  his  cigaret,  looked  thoughtfully 
at  the  sky,  and  concluded: 

"Y-e-s,  the  more  a  human  being  has  drunk  of  the  cup  of  bitterness  the 
more  ardently  he  longs  for  sweetness.  And  we,  enveloped  in  our  worn-out 
virtues  and  gazing  at  each  other  through  the  haze  of  self-sufficiency  and 

212        USING   THE   EVALUATIONS 


convinced  of  our  righteousness,  fail  to  understand  it. 

"And  the  whole  affair  turns  out  very  stupid,  and  very  cruel.  Fallen  people 
we  say—but  who  and  what  are  those  fallen  ones?  First  of  all  they  are  human 
beings  of  the  very  same  bone  and  blood,  of  the  very  same  flesh  and  nerves  as 
ourselves.  We  have  been  told  the  very  same  thing  for  whole  ages,  day  in 
and  day  out.  And  we  listen  and—and  the  devil  alone  knows  how  stupid  it 
all  is!  In  reality  we,  too,  are  but  fallen  people  and  more  deeply  fallen  too, 
probably— into  the  abyss  of  self-sufficiency,  convinced  of  our  own  sinlessness 
and  superiority,  the  superiority  of  our  own  nerves  and  brains  over  the  nerves 
and  brains  of  those  who  are  only  less  crafty  than  we  are,  and  who  can  not, 
as  we  can,  feign  a  goodness  they  do  not  possess— but  enough  of  this.  It  is  all 
so  old  and  stale— so  old  and  stale  indeed  that  one  is  ashamed  to  speak  of  it—" 


Rating  charts 

Make  checks  in  the  boxes,  or  on  a  separate  sheet  of  paper,  according  to 

the  following  ratings— first  box:   excellent;  second  box:  good;  third  box: 
average;  fourth  box:  poor;  fifth  box:  total  failure. 

YARDSTICKS  INVOLVING  PARTS  RATING 

Clarity  D  D   D   D  D 

Escape  D  D   D   D  D 

Special  doctrine  (name  it): D  D    D   D  D 

Real  life  D  D   D   D  D 

Pleasure  in  artistic  details  D  D    D   D  D 

YARDSTICKS  INVOLVING  THE  STORY  AS  A  WHOLE 

Effect  on  the  reader  D  D   D   D  D 

Personality  of  the  author  D  D    D   D  D 

Internal  consistency  D  D   D   D  D 

Insight  D  D   D    D  D 


-  3.  How  do  you  account  for  these 

Questions  deviations? 

AICORDING  to  which  criteria  did  the         4.  Which  criteria  seemed  irrelevant 

previous  story  rank  higher?  in  rating  these  stories?  Why? 
2.  According  to  which  criteria  does          5.  Which  criteria  seemed  to  distin- 

this  story  rank  higher?  guish  best  between  the  stories?  Why? 

BOLESS        213 


partS 
Literary  types 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


A  .THOUGH  all  imaginative  literature 
interprets  human  qualities,  erno^ 
tions,  motives,  and  ^values, different 
forms  interpret  them  in  different  ways. 
Fictional  works,  dramas,  and  poems  all 
have  their  peculiar  limitations  and  pos- 
sibilities. Therefore,  in  order  to  see 
clearly  and  judge  wisely  what  each 
particular  work  offers,  the  reader  should 
know  something  about  the  nature  of 
each  of  these  forms.  Hereafter,  works 
in  this  book  will  be  introduced  and 
grouped  according  to  type.  This  ar- 
rangement will  help  you  consider,  in 
turn,  the  special  qualities  of  short 
stories,  dramas,  and  poems  as  types  in 
addition  to  the  more  general  literary 
qualities  of  the  works  here  printed. 

We  start,  then,  with  a  form  of  prose 
fiction,  ordinarily  the  easiest  of  all 
forms  to  understand  and  to  enjoy.  Primi- 
tive men  by  campfires,  children  in  nurs- 
eries, and  traveling  men  in  smoking 
cars  obviously  appreciate  some  kinds  of 
imaginative  narratives  in  prose  without 
paying  much  attention  to  their  struc- 
ture. But  most  readers  and  listeners  will 
find  that  even  such  narratives— and 
others  as  well— can  be  most  thoroughly 
appreciated  by  understanding  not  only 
the  materials  but  also  the  methods  in- 
volved. And  they  will  find  that  some 
works— often  the  best  ones— demand 
careful  attention  to  manner  as  well  as 
matter  to  be  understood  or  appreciated 
at  all. 

Students  often  have  tried  to  classify 
fiction,  and  several  categories  have 
been  suggested— for  example,  the  novel, 


the  novella,  the  novelette,  the  long  short 
story,  the  short  story,  the  short  short 
story,  and  the  anecdote.  Rigid  distinc- 
tions between  these  are  unsatisfactory 
because  most  of  them  break  down. 
Many  scholars,  as  a  result,  have  stopped 
worrying  about  them,  and  we  may  well 
follow  their  example.  For  us,  two 
points  about  the  type  here  represented 
—the  short  story— are  important:  (1)  It 
is  short,  usually  a  good  deal  less  than 
ten  thousand  words  and  seldom  more 
than  thirty-five  thousand  or  so.  (2)  It 
is,  nevertheless,  a  story  rather  than  a 
part  of  a  story— a  complete  work  with  a 
discoverable  unity  comparable  to  that 
found  in  other  forms.  The  problem  of 
the  short  story  writer,  then,  is  to  com- 
bine rigid  economy  with  unity,  and  a 
problem  for  the  reader  is  to  see  this 
combination. 

Economy 

/CONTRASTED  with  the  novel,  the 
\^A  short  story  is  less  complex  in  its 
picturing  of  life,  more  swift  in  the  ac- 
complishment of  its  task.  Economy  con- 
strains the  author  to  confine  his  pattern 
of  happenings  by  giving  a  detailed  ac- 
count of  one  episode  or  even  of  part 
of  what  would  be  a  complete  action  in 
a  novel-the  beginning,  the  middle,  or 
the  end— rather  than  all  three.  (Other 
parts  of  the  action,  of  course,  may  be 
implied  or  briefly  summarized.)  The 
author  ordinarily  limits  the  number 
of  characters  introduced:  often  he  por- 
trays only  one  character  or  a  small 
group  of  characters.  And  even  leading 


216 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


characters  are  not  likely  to  be  endowed 
with  a  large  number  of  traits.  Settings, 
too,  in  contrast  to  those  in  the  novel, 
are  limited  in  number:  a  short  story 
with  a  panoramic  view  comparable  to 
that  in  Tolstoy's  wide-ranging  War  and 
Peace  is  inconceivable. 

As  a  rule,  the  brevity  of  the  short 
story  brings  a  similar  limitation  upon 
its  tone  and  its  meanings.  Whereas  the 
novelist  may  range  from  pathos  to  scorn 
and  from  scorn  to  ridicule  in  various 
parts  of  his  book,  in  a  given  story,  the 
short  story  writer  is  likely  to  voice  only 
one  emotional  attitude.  And  whereas 
the  novelist  may  give  his  work  complex 
multiple  meanings,  the  short  story  writer 
is  likely  to  develop  rather  simpler  and 
fewer  meanings.  In  such  ways  as  these, 
the  short  story  shows  the  result  of  econ- 
omy, and  the  reader  should  notice  how 
simplifications  and  cuts  keep  it  within 
bounds. 

Unity 

A  SHORT  story,  nevertheless,  should 
be  a  complete  whole,  fused  ac- 
cording to  some  principle  or  principles. 
In  reading  a  work  of  this  sort,  you  are 
obliged,  therefore,  to  see  what  the  na- 
ture of  the  whole  work  is  and  how  each 
element  contributes  to  its  final  achieve- 
ment. You  will  find  it  useful  to  consider 
these  questions:  Is  it  unified?  If  not, 
why  not?  If  so,  what  is  the  precise  na- 
ture of  its  unity?  And  how  is  the  unity 
achieved?  You  need  not,  of  course,  con- 
sider these  questions  in  this  order,  but 
you  do  well  to  attend  to  all  of  them. 

Critics,  you  will  find,  have  suggested 
a  variety  of  ways  of  getting  at  the 
heart  of  a  short  story.  Some  urge  you  to 
consider  the  single  effect  it  has  upon 
the  reader,  some  to  discover  the  single 
intention  upon  the  part  of  the  author, 


some  to  study  the  story  itself  as  a  con- 
crete object  which  is  a  fusion  of  several 
parts.  Your  study  of  "Evaluations"  will 
suggest  to  you  that  these  ways  are  not 
contradictory,  but  that  they  represent 
varied  approaches.  Since  any  of  them 
or  all  of  them  may  help  you  discern  the 
nature  of  the  unity  of  a  story,  you  may 
find  it  useful  to  consider  each  in  turn. 

(1)  What  is  the  effect  of  the  story 
upon  you?  As  far  back  as  1842,  Edgar 
Allan  Poe,  who  wrote  the  first  careful 
discussion  of  the  prose  tale,  saw  the 
short  story  as  a  stimulus  to  a  response 
on   the  part  of  the   reader.   With   "a 
certain  unique  or  single  effect"  in  mind, 
the  author,  said  Poe,  "then  invents  such 
incidents—he    then    combines    such 
events,  and  discusses  them  in  such  tone 
as  may  best  serve  ...  in  establishing 
the  preconceived  effect."  In  using  this 
approach,  you  read  the  story  and  note 
what  is  memorable  about  it— precisely 
what  it  gave  you,  an  idea,  perhaps,  an 
attitude,  an  insight  into  life  or  charac- 
ter, or  an  emotion.  You  then  consider 
how,  exactly,  that  particular  story  and 
the   manner   of   its   telling   established 
such  an  effect. 

(2)  What  is  the  apparent  intention 
of  the  author,  and  how  does  that  in- 
tention influence  his  handling  of  ele- 
ments  and  details?  (The  word  "appar- 
ent   is  appropriate  here,  since  readers 
who  do  not  happen  to  be  mind  readers 
can  never  be  certain  about  the  inten- 
tion of  the  author. )  Carl  Grabo,  among 
other  critics,  finds  it  useful  to  start  with 
"the  inception  of  the  story"— so  far  as 
it  can  be  discovered  through  hints  in 
the   narrative— and  then  to  go  on  to 
"the  method  of  story  development  by 
which  the  author  realizes  his  intent." 
In  using  this  approach,  you  look  for 
whatever  signs  there  are  of  the  germinal 


THE   SHORT   STORY        217 


interest  which  apparently  led  the  author 
to  write  the  story,  and  then  see  how 
everything  in  the  narrative  contributed. 
Mr.  Grabo  (perhaps  a  bit  too  neatly) 
divides  stories  into  five  classes— "stories 
of  action,  character,  setting,  idea,  and 
emotional  effect."  If  you  find  this  classi- 
fication (or  some  similar  one)  satisfac- 
tory, you  classify  the  story,  formulate 
an  accurate  statement  about  the  exact 
nature  of  the  dominant  element  (if 
you  can  find  one),  and  then  note  how 
all  other  elements  are  made  to  help  de- 
velop it. 

(3)  What  is  the  unique  content  of 
the  story  itself,  and  how  does  its  fonn_ 
contribute  to  tne  setting  forth  of  this 
unique  content?  In  using  this  approach, 
you  aim  at  the  definition  of  the  whole 
story,  and  then  at  the  discovery  of  the 
interrelations  through  which  the  parts 
function  to  create  that  story.  Here  your 
reading  makes  possible  answers  to  ques- 
tions such  as:  What  happens?  To 
whom?  Where?  Why?  How?  Perhaps 
your  conclusions  make  possible  the  for- 
mulation of  the  unique  features  of  the 
work  in  a  sentence  beginning,  "This  is 
the  story  of  how  .  .  ."  and  going  on 
to  answer  the  questions  listed  above. 
Having  formulated  such  a  sentence,  you 
may  notice  in  detail  how  the  handling 
of  characters,  happenings,  settings,  lan- 
guage, tone,  and  symbols  of  meaning 
are  related  to  the  unfolding  of  such  a 
narrative. 

Emphasis  and  subordination 

Are  serious  study  of  a  story  will  take 
into  account,  then,  not  only  the 
nature  of  its  unity  but  also  the  methods 
whereby  such  unity  is  achieved.  In 
other  words,  you  attempt  to  discover 
what  is  emphasized  and  what  is  subor- 
dinated for  the  achievement  of  the 


effect,  the  realization  of  the  author's 
intention,  and  the  creation  of  an  artistic 
entity.  Some  elements  and  details  will 
be  stressed,  some  will  be  played  down, 
in  ways  which  have  been  discussed  as 
we  talked  of  happenings,  characters, 
settings,  style,  tone,  and  meanings 
(pp.  36-134).  Also  important,  as  we 
shall  see,  is  the  point  of  view  from 
which  the  story  is  unfolded. 

Emphasis  in  a  story  may  be  achieved 
by  length  of  treatment,  by  repetition, 
by  memorable  phrasing,  and  by  particu- 
larization.  The  very  fact  that  more 
space  is  devoted  to  one  matter  than  to 
another  in  a  short  story  (as  in  fact  in 
any  literary  work)  emphasizes  that  mat- 
ter. Other  things  being  equal,  a  charac- 
ter cr  scene  introduced  with  a  curt 
sentence  or  phrase  will  receive  less 
stress  than  one  introduced  by  several 
long  paragraphs.  Again,  repetition  of 
any  item  makes  for  prominence.  If  an 
author  says,  on  page  one  of  his  story, 
"John  was  dishonest";  on  page  three, 
"that  lying  John";  on  page  seven, 
"Since  John  instinctively  avoided  the 
truth,"  the  idea  that  John  was  some- 
thing other  than  veracious  is  pretty  well 
underlined.  And,  of  course,  a  phrase 
which  is  particularly  vivid  or  poetic  or 
unusual  can  make  a  detail  or  series  of 
details  stand  out. 

Very  valuable  for  emphasis,  of 
course,  is  particularization— the  use  of 
detail,  of  concrete  words.  A  happening 
which  is  portrayed  in  all  its  particulars, 
or  a  series  of  happenings  in  which  each 
event  is  explicitly  presented,  will  there- 
by be  emphasized.  That  which  is  gen- 
eralized, by  contrast,  is  subordinated. 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  for  instance,  in  "The 
Pit  and  the  Pendulum,"  as  Bliss  Perry 
has  noticed,  "paints  with  extraordinary 
vividness  the  sensations  and  thoughts" 


218 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


of  the  chief  character,  but  he  gives  this 
character  "absolutely  no  individuality, 
save  possibly  in  the  ingenuity  by  means 
of  which  he  finally  escapes."  In  this 
tale,  therefore,  the  emotions,  because 
they  are  particularized,  become  a  main 
element,  while  the  characterization,  be- 
cause it  is  generalized,  is  subordinated. 
A  character,  on  the  other  hand,  stands 
out  when  he  is  given  a  number  of  vivid 
physical  qualities  or  a  number  of  un- 
usual traits.  Setting,  too,  will  loom  large 
or  small  in  a  story  in  accordance  with 
the  number  of  concrete  details  about  it 
given  to  the  reader.  Even  the  theme  of 
a  story,  abstract  idea  though  it  is,  will 
be  emphasized  largely  by  particulariza- 
tion  of  certain  sorts.  We  quickly  dis- 
cover that  a  story  is  an  allegory  when 
we  note  that  the  personified  virtues 
and  vices  have  concrete  qualities  which 
stand  for  ideas.  Similarly,  the  vivid  de- 
tails in  a  symbolical  story  stress  the  re- 
lationship between  the  story  and  the 
meaning  it  is  developing. 

Thus  some  elements  may  be  empha- 
sized, some  "de-emphasized"  or  subor- 
dinated, in  well-wrought  short  stories- 
all  in  the  interest  of  unity.  By  noticing 
the  lengthy  developments,  the  repeti- 
tion, the  striking  language,  the  use  of 
concrete  details,  we  as  readers  may 
learn  a  great  deal  about  the  way  the 
narrative  has  been  unified— fused  into  a 
single  composition. 

Point  of  view 

F  great  importance  in  achieving 
unity  and  in  determining  em- 
phasis and  subordination  is  a  device 
which  we  have  not  so  far  considered— 
the  point  of  view  from  which  the  story 
is  told.  By  point  of  view,  in  the  critical 
sense  in  which  we  use  the  term,  we  do 
not  mean  the  mental  slant  of  the  author, 


o 


nor  do  we  mean  the  physical  point 
from  which  some  scene  is  observed.  We 
mean,  instead,  the  "angle  of  narration" 
from  which  the  story  is  told.  To  define 
the  point  of  view  of  any  narrative  work, 
you  simply  ask:  Who  tells  this  story, 
and  to  what  extent  is  he  empowered  to 
peer  into  the  minds  and  the  hearts  of 
the  characters?  Let  us  compare  four 
ways  of  recounting  a  happening,  each 
from  a  different  point  of  view: 

(i)  Bill  saw  Jim  die. 

This  illustrates  the  objective  point  of 
view,  so  called  because  the  author's  re- 
lationship to  his  characters  is  objective 
rather  than  subjective:  he  cannot  see 
into  their  minds.  If  the  narrator  main- 
tains this  point  of  view  throughout,  he 
tells  us  what  his  characters  did,  what 
they  said,  but  not  what  they  thought. 


-sat 


This  angle  of  narration  is  also  called  the 
dramatic  point  of  view,  because  drama* 
tists  use  it.  Like  the  playwright,  the 
storyteller  using  this  point  of  view  can 
show  us  what  his  characters  are  only 
by  setting  down  their  deeds  and  their 
dialogue.  Compare  the  following  ver- 
sion with  the  first  version: 

(2)  I  saw  Jim  die— stood  or  sat  by  his 
bed  all  night,  and  watched  the  poor 
devil  suffering  there.  It  wasn't  a  pleasant 
experience. 


THE  SHORT  STORY        219 


Here  the  happening  is  unfolded  in 
the  first  person  by  one  of  the  characters 
involved.  It  is  the  personal  point  of 
view  of  a  participant.  Bill  has  become 
the  narrator,  "I,"  who  can  tell  us  his 
own  thoughts  and  feelings  ("poor  devil 
.  .  .  wasn't  a  pleasant  experience").  He 
cannot,  of  course,  peer  into  Jim's  mind, 
cannot  possibly  tell  us  what  Jim  thinks 
and  feels.  Presumably  Bill  is  an  im- 
portant participant.  Of  course,  a  varia- 
tion might  be  to  have  a  bystander,  or  a 


-BUI 


minor  participant,  tell  the  story.  In  such 
a  case,  the  "I"  telling  the  story  would 
have  only  exterior  knowledge  about  the 
two  main  characters,  Bill  and  Jim.  Now 
look  at  two  more  accounts  of  the  same 
event: 

(3)  Bill  sat  in  the  darkened  room  and 
pity  clutched  at  his  heart  as  he  looked 
down  on  the  wasted  figure  on  the  bed. 
He   thought,   "How  horrible  it  is   to 
watch  the  poor  devil  suffer  this  way/ 
Will  it  never  end— this  suffering?"  As 
the  dawn  came,  Jim  died. 

(4)  /im,  peering  up  at  Bill's  blurred 
face,   wondered   if  he  was   dying.   He 
hoped  he  was.  "It  would  be  good;'  he 
thought,  "to  end  all  this  suffering,  this 
endless  pain!7  Bill  sat  in  the  darkened 
room  and  pity  clutched  at  his  heart  as 
he  looked  down  on  the  wasted  figure  on 
the  bed.  He  thought,  "How  horrible  it 
is  to  watch  the  poor  devil  sufler  this 


way/  Will  it  never  end— this  suffering?" 
As  the  dawn  came,  Jim  died. 

Version  3  is  comparable  to  version  2, 
in  that  this  way  of  telling  about  the  hap- 
pening makes  it  possible  for  the  author 
to  peer  into  Bill's  mind  and  tell  us  what 
goes  on  there.  It  is  different  from  ver- 
sion 2,  however,  in  that  it  is  told  in  the 
third  person.  By  means  of  a  convention 
—an  understanding  between  writer  and 
reader— we  take  for  granted  that  the 
author  is  privy  to  the  workings  of  Bill's 
mind  and  can  record  not  only  what  hap- 
pens but  what  Bill  thinks  and  feels  at 
any  time.  The  point  of  view  then  is  that 
of  a  third  person  who  is  omniscient  so 
far  as  the  mind  of  one  of  the  characters 
is  concerned.  The  author  of  version  4  is 
also  omniscient,  but  he  is  able  to  look 
not  only  into  Bill's  mind  but  also  into 
Jim's  mind:  he  knows  and  can  set  down 
what  both  characters  think  and  feel  as 
the  happening  unfolds. 

Such   differences   between  narrative 


methods  might  seem,  at  first  glance,  un- 
important.  Actually,   however,  one  of 


220 


THE   SHORT    STORY 


the  discoveries  of  critics  in  comparative- 
ly recent  times  is  that  they  are  tremen- 
dously important  and  that  therefore  the 
reader  can  learn  much  about  a  story  by 
noticing  the  point  of  view  from  which 
it  is  told  and  what  happens  as  a  result 
of  the  author's  choice  of  this  particular 
"post  of  observation."  Henry  James, 
great  both  as  a  critic  and  as  a  writer, 
thought  of  the  handling  of  the  point 
of  view  as  one  of  the  great  problems  of 
the  fictionist.  Percy  Lubbock,  whose 
The  Craft  of  Fiction  is  an  outstanding 
contribution,  wrote:  "The  whole  intri- 
cate question  of  method,  in  the  craft  of 
fiction,  I  take  to  be  governed  by  the 
question  of  the  point  of  view— the  ques- 
tion of  the  relation  in  which  the  narra- 
tor stands  to  the  story."  Many  other 
critics  have  found  that  this  matter  of 
noticing  the  "post  of  observation"  is  a 
vital  one  for  the  reading  of  fiction. 

Think  of  an  author's  point  of  view 
as  a  "camera-eye"  which  determines 
the  "focus"  of  his  narrative  and  you  will 
see  a  good  reason  for  so  much  critical 
concern  with  this  matter.  The  point  is 
that  a  photograph  may  center  observa- 
tion upon  some  elements  in  a  scene, 
may  show  some  dimly,  and  may  cut 
still  others  out  entirely.  And  just  as  the 
intelligent  and  artistic  photographer 
may  so  adjust  his  lens  and  point  his 
camera  to  bring  about  such  emphases, 
such  subordinations,  and  such  omis- 
sions, as  he  desires,  the  storyteller  may 
so  select  his  point  of  view  as  to  justify 
stress  upon  some  elements,  the  playing 
down  of  others,  and  the  omission  of 
still  others. 

Suppose,  for  instance,  that  the  author 
of  our  account  of  Jim's  death  wanted 
to  write  an  action  story—wanted  to  cen- 
ter attention  upon  the  physical  happen- 
ings rather  than  upon  the  mental  proc- 
esses of  the  characters.  He  would  justi- 


fy his  leaving  out  all  the  thoughts  of 
the  characters,  would  he  not,  by  using 
the  objective  point  of  view?  Suppose, 
however,  that  he  wanted  to  concentrate 
attention  upon  the  working  of  Bill's 
mind— upon  Bill's  reaction  to  death?  He 
might  do  this  by  using  personal  narra- 
tive or  by  writing  in  the  third  person 
and  peering  into  Bill's  mind  but  not 
Jim's.  Writing  in  the  third  person— ac- 
cording to  his  interests— he  might  record 
Bill's  thoughts  in  one  of  two  ways:  (1) 
He  might  organize  and  clarify  those 
thoughts,  or  (2)  he  might  present  them 
in  the  rather  chaotic  order  and  form  that 
thoughts  take  in  life,  using,  in  other 
words,  what  is  called  a  "stream-of-con- 
sciousness"  method.  If  the  thoughts  of 
both  characters  were  important,  insight 
into  both  minds  would  be  necessary.  In 
every  instance,  the  point  of  view  would 
determine  the  nature  of  the  unity  of  the 
story,  and  in  every  instance,  the  reader 
trying  to  discern  what  is  important, 
what  not  important,  in  the  story  would 
find  that  a  study  of  the  point  of  view 
gave  decisive  clues. 

The  choice  of  point  of  view  deter- 
mines not  only  what  is  revealed,  what 
is  emphasized,  but  also  what  the  order 
of  the  unfolding  of  events  is  to  be.  For 
instance,  "The  Red-Headed  League,"  a 
fairly  typical  detective  story  by  Sir  Ar- 
thur Conan  Doyle,  is  recounted  by  Dr. 
Watson,  the  not  overbright  friend  of 
the  detective.  Watson  is  better  than 
Sherlock  Holmes,  the  detective,  would 
be  as  a  teller  of  this  story,  since  he  can- 
not tell  about  Holmes'  deductive  proc- 
esses as  they  occur  by  peering  into  the 
detective's  mind.  As  Doyle  wishes,  he 
has  to  postpone  until  the  end  of  the 
story  the  revelation  of  the  solution  and 
the  account  of  the  deductions  leading 
to  that  solution.  "The  Cask  of  Amon- 
tillado" (p.  72)  is  also  told  in  the  first 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


221 


person,  but  its  narrator  is  a  leading  fig- 
ure rather  than  a  subordinate  one.  At 
the  very  start,  therefore,  he  can  tell  us 
about  his  plans  for  revenge  (as  his  vic- 
tim, if  he  told  the  story,  could  not). 
Thus  he  underlines  for  us  the  sinister 
irony  of  his  conversations  with  For- 
tunato,  and  stresses  the  cold-blooded 
joy  he  takes  in  seeing  his  victim  suffer. 
"The  Killers"  (p.  404)  is  told  dramat- 
ically, and  the  thoughts  of  the  charac- 
ters are  not  set  forth  at  the  time  they 
think  them.  Instead,  we  learn  of  them 
only  through  the  speeches  and  actions 
of  the  characters—speeches  and  actions 
which  take  a  form  likely  to  have  an  im- 


pact upon  our  feelings  about  the  char- 
acters. 

By  studying  the  author's  choice  of  a 
point  of  view  for  a  short  story,  there- 
fore, we  as  readers  can  see  what  it  en- 
ables the  author  to  tell  and  to  omit,  to 
emphasize  and  to  play  down;  we  can 
also  see  what  effect  the  choice  has  upon 
the  author's  ordering  of  happenings. 
Thus,  like  other  devices  which  de- 
termine emphasis  and  subordination, 
it  offers  useful  clues  concerning 
the  achievement  of  the  effect  of  the 
story,  the  author's  intention,  and  the 
unique  content  and  form  of  the  story 
itself. 


222 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


The  book  of  Ruth 


Now  IT  came  to  pass  in  the  days  when  the  judges  ruled,  that  there  was 
a  famine  in  the  land.  And  a  certain  man  of  Beth-lehem-judah  went  to 
sojourn  in  the  country  of  Moab,  he,  and  his  wife,  and  his  two  sons.  And  the 
name  of  the  man  was  Elimelech,  and  the  name  of  his  wife  Naomi,  and  the 
name  of  his  two  sons  Mahlon  and  Chilion,  Ephrathites  of  Beth-lehem-judah. 
And  they  came  into  the  country  of  Moab,  and  continued  there. 

And  Elimelech  Naomi's  husband  died;  and  she  was  left,  and  her  two  sons. 
And  they  took  them  wives  of  the  women  of  Moab;  the  name  of  the  one  was 
Orpah,  and  the  name  of  the  other  Ruth:  and  they  dwelled  there  about  ten 
years.  And  Mahlon  and  Chilion  died  also  both  of  them;  and  the  woman  was 
left  of  her  two  sons  and  her  husband. 

Then  she  arose  with  her  daughters-in-law,  that  she  might  return  from  the 
country  of  Moab;  for  she  had  heard  in  the  country  of  Moab  how  that  the 
Lord  had  visited  His  people  in  giving  them  bread.  Wherefore  she  went 
forth  out  of  the  place  where  she  was,  and  her  two  daughters-in-law  with 
her;  and  they  went  on  the  way  to  return  unto  the  land  of  Judah.  And  Naomi 
said  unto  her  two  daughters-in-law,  "Go,  return  each  to  her  mother's  house: 
the  Lord  deal  kindly  with  you,  as  ye  have  dealt  with  the  dead,  and  with  me. 
The  Lord  grant  you  that  ye  may  find  rest,  each  of  you  in  the  house  of  her 
husband."  Then  she  kissed  them;  and  they  lifted  up  their  voice,  and  wept. 
And  they  said  unto  her,  "Surely  we  will  return  with  thee  unto  thy  people." 

And  Naomi  said,  "Turn  again,  my  daughters:  why  will  ye  go  with  me? 
are  there  yet  any  more  sons  in  my  womb,  that  they  may  be  your  husbands? 
Turn  again,  my  daughters,  go  your  way;  for  I  am  too  old  to  have  an  hus- 
band. If  I  should  say,  I  have  hope,  if  I  should  have  an  husband  also  to-night, 
and  should  also  bear  sons;  would  ye  tarry  for  them  till  they  were  grown? 
would  ye  stay  for  them  from  having  husbands?  nay,  my  daughters,  for  it 
grieveth  me  much  for  your  sakes  that  the  hand  of  the  Lord  is  gone  out 
against  me." 

And  they  lifted  up  their  voice,  and  wept  again:  and  Orpah  kissed  her 
mother-in-law;  but  Ruth  clave  unto  her.  And  she  said,  "Behold,  thy  sister- 
in-law  is  gone  back  unto  her  people,  and  unto  her  gods:  return  thou  after 
thy  sister-in-law."  And  Ruth  said,  "Intreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  or  to  return 
from  following  after  thee:  for  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go;  and  where  thou 
lodgest,  I  will  lodge:  thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God: 
where  thou  diest,  will  I  die,  and  there  will  I  be  buried:  the  Lord  do  so  to 
me,  and  more  also,  if  ought  but  death  part  thee  and  me/' 

THE   BOOK  OF  RUTH        223 


When  she  saw  that  she  was  steadfastly  minded  to  go  with  her,  then  she 
left  speaking  unto  her.  So  they  two  went  until  they  came  to  Beth-Iehem. 
And  it  came  to  pass,  when  they  were  come  to  Beth-lehem,  that  all  the  city 
was  moved  about  them,  and  they  said,  "Is  this  Naomi?"  And  she  said  unto 
them,  "Call  me  not  Naomi,  call  me  Mara:  for  the  Almighty  hath  dealt  very 
bitterly  with  me.  I  went  out  full,  and  the  Lord  hath  brought  me  home  again 
empty:  why  then  call  ye  me  Naomi,  seeing  the  Lord  hath  testified  against 
me,  and  the  Almighty  hath  afflicted  me?" 

So  Naomi  returned,  and  Ruth  the  Moabitess,  her  daughter-in-law,  with 
her,  which  returned  out  of  the  country  of  Moab:  and  they  came  to  Beth- 
lehem in  the  beginning  of  barley  harvest.  And  Naomi  had  a  kinsman  of  her 
husband's,  a  mighty  man  of  wealth,  of  the  family  of  Elimelech;  and  his 
name  was  Boaz.  And  Ruth  the  Moabitess  said  unto  Naomi,  "Let  me  now 
go  to  the  field,  and  glean  ears  of  corn  after  him  in  whose  sight  I  shall  find 
grace."  And  she  said  unto  her,  "Go,  my  daughter."  And  she  went,  and  came, 
and  gleaned  in  the  field  after  the  reapers:  and  her  hap  was  to  light  on  a  part 
of  the  field  belonging  unto  Boaz,  who  was  of  the  kindred  of  Elimelech. 

And,  behold,  Boaz  came  from  Beth-lehem,  and  said  unto  the  reapers,  "The 
Lord  be  with  you."  And  they  answered  him,  "The  Lord  bless  thee."  Then  said 
Boaz  unto  his  servant  that  was  set  over  the  reapers,  "Whose  damsel  is  this?" 
And  the  servant  that  was  set  over  the  reapers  answered  and  said,  "It  is  the 
Moabitish  damsel  that  came  back  with  Naomi  out  of  the  country  of  Moab: 
and  she  said,  I  pray  you,  let  me  glean  and  gather  after  the  reapers  among 
the  sheaves:  so  she  came,  and  hath  continued  even  from  the  morning  until 
now,  that  she  tarried  a  little  in  the  house." 

Then  said  Boaz  unto  Ruth,  "Hearest  thou  not,  my  daughter?  Go  not  to 
glean  in  another  field,  neither  go  from  hence,  but  abide  here  fast  by  my 
maidens:  let  thine  eyes  be  on  the  field  that  they  do  reap,  and  go  thou  after 
them:  have  I  not  charged  the  young  men  that  they  shall  not  touch  thee? 
and  when  thou  art  athirst,  go  unto  the  vessels,  and  drink  of  that  which  the 
young  men  have  drawn." 

Then  she  fell  on  her  face,  and  bowed  herself  to  the  ground,  and  said  unto 
him,  "Why  have  I  found  grace  in  thine  eyes,  that  thou  shouldest  take  knowl- 
edge of  me,  seeing  I  am  a  stranger?" 

And  Boaz  answered  and  said  unto  her,  "It  hath  fully  been  shewed  me,  all 
that  thou  hast  done  unto  thy  mother-in-law  since  the  death  of  thine  hus- 
band: and  how  thou  hast  left  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  and  the  land  of 
thy  nativity,  and  art  come  unto  a  people  which  thou  knewest  not  heretofore. 
The  Lord  recompense  thy  work,  and  a  full  reward  be  given  thee  of  the 
Lord  God  of  Israel,  under  whose  wings  thou  art  come  to  trust." 

Then  she  said,  "Let  me  find  favor  in  thy  sight,  my  lord;  for  that  thou 


224 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


hast  comforted  me,  and  for  that  thou  hast  spoken  friendly  unto  thine  hand- 
maid, though  I  be  not  like  unto  one  of  thine  handmaidens." 

And  Boaz  said  unto  her,  "At  mealtime  come  thou  hither,  and  eat  of  the 
bread,  and  dip  thy  morsel  in  the  vinegar."  And  she  sat  beside  the  reapers: 
and  he  reached  her  parched  corn,  and  she  did  eat,  and  was  sufficed,  and 
left.  And  when  she  was  risen  up  to  glean,  Boaz  commanded  his  young  men, 
saying,  "Let  her  glean  even  among  the  sheaves,  and  reproach  her  not:  and 
let  fall  also  some  of  the  handfuls  of  purpose  for  her,  and  leave  them,  that 
she  may  glean  them,  and  rebuke  her  not." 

So  she  gleaned  in  the  field  until  even,  and  beat  out  that  she  had  gleaned: 
and  it  was  about  an  ephah  of  barley.  And  she  took  it  up,  and  went  into  the 
city:  and  her  mother-in-law  saw  what  she  had  gleaned:  and  she  brought 
forth,  and  gave  to  her  that  she  had  reserved  after  she  was  sufficed.  And  her 
mother-in-law  said  unto  her,  "Where  hast  thou  gleaned  to-day?  and  where 
wroughtest  thou?  blessed  be  he  that  did  take  knowledge  of  thee." 

And  she  shewed  her  mother-in-law  with  whom  she  had  wrought,  and 
said,  "The  man's  name  with  whom  I  wrought  to-day  is  Boaz."  And  Naomi 
said  unto  her  daughter-in-law,  "Blessed  be  he  of  the  Lord,  who  hath  not 
left  off  His  kindness  to  the  living  and  to  the  dead."  And  Naomi  said  unto 
her,  "The  man  is  near  of  kin  unto  us,  one  of  our  next  kinsmen." 

And  Ruth  the  Moabitess  said,  "He  said  unto  me  also,  Thou  shalt  keep  fast 
by  my  young  men,  until  they  have  ended  all  my  harvest." 

And  Naomi  said  unto  Ruth  her  daughter-in-law,  "It  is  good,  my  daughter 
that  thou  go  out  with  his  maidens,  that  they  meet  thee  not  in  any  other  field." 
So  she  kept  fast  by  the  maidens  of  Boaz  to  glean  unto  the  end  of  barley 
harvest  and  of  wheat  harvest;  and  dwelt  with  her  mother-in-law. 

Then  Naomi  her  mother-in-law  said  unto  her,  "My  daughter,  shall  I  not 
seek  rest  for  thee,  that  it  may  be  well  with  thee?  And  now  is  not  Boaz  of  our 
kindred,  with  whose  maidens  thou  wast?  Behold,  he  winnoweth  barley 
to-night  in  the  threshing-floor.  Wash  thyself  therefore,  and  anoint  thee,  and 
put  thy  raiment  upon  thee,  and  get  thee  down  to  the  floor:  but  make  not 
thyself  known  unto  the  man,  until  he  shall  have  done  eating  and  drinking. 
And  it  shall  be,  when  he  lieth  down,  that  thou  shalt  mark  the  place  where 
he  shall  lie,  and  thou  shalt  go  in,  and  uncover  his  feet,  and  lay  thee  down; 
and  he  will  tell  thee  what  thou  shalt  do." 

And  she  said  unto  her,  "All  that  thou  sayest  unto  me  I  will  do." 

And  she  went  down  unto  the  floor,  and  did  according  to  all  that  her 
mother-in-law  bade  her.  And  when  Boaz  had  eaten  and  drunk,  and  his  heart 
was  merry,  he  went  to  lie  down  at  the  end  of  the  heap  of  corn:  and  she  came 
softly,  and  uncovered  his  feet,  and  laid  her  down.  And  it  came  to  pass  at 
midnight,  that  the  man  was  afraid,  and  turned  himself:  and,  behold,  a 

THE    BOOK    OF   RUTH         225 


woman  lay  at  his  feet.  And  he  said,  "Who  art  thou?"  And  she  answered, 
"I  am  Ruth  thine  handmaid:  spread  therefore  thy  skirt  over  thine  hand- 
maid; for  thou  art  a  near  kinsman." 

And  he  said,  "Blessed  be  thou  of  the  Lord,  my  daughter:  for  thou  hast 
shewed  more  kindness  in  the  latter  end  than  at  the  beginning,  inasmuch 
as  thou  followedst  not  young  men,  whether  poor  or  rich.  And  now,  my 
daughter,  fear  not;  I  will  do  to  thee  all  that  thou  requirest:  for  all  the  city 
of  my  people  doth  know  that  thou  are  a  virtuous  woman.  And  now  it  is  true 
that  I  am  thy  near  kinsman:  howbeit  there  is  a  kinsman  nearer  than  I.  Tarry 
this  night,  and  it  shall  be  in  the  morning,  that  if  he  will  perform  unto  thee 
the  part  of  a  kinsman,  well;  let  him  do  the  kinsman  part:  but  if  he  will  not 
do  the  part  of  a  kinsman  to  thee,  then  will  I  do  the  part  of  a  kinsman  to  thee, 
as  the  Lord  liveth:  lie  down  until  the  morning." 

And  she  lay  at  his  feet  until  the  morning:  and  she  rose  up  before  one 
could  know  another.  And  he  said,  "Let  it  not  be  known  that  a  woman  came 
into  the  floor."  Also  he  said,  "Bring  the  vail  that  thou  hast  upon  thee,  and 
hold  it."  And  when  she  held  it,  he  measured  six  measures  of  barley,  and 
laid  it  on  her:  and  she  went  into  the  city. 

And  when  she  came  to  her  mother-in-law,  she  said,  "Who  art  thou,  my 
daughter?"  And  she  told  her  all  that  the  man  had  done  to  her.  And  she  said, 
"These  six  measures  of  barley  gave  he  me;  for  he  said  to  me,  Go  not  empty 
unto  thy  mother-in-law."  Then  said  she,  "Sit  still,  my  daughter,  until  thou 
know  how  the  matter  will  fall:  for  the  man  will  not  be  in  rest,  until  he  have 
finished  the  thing  this  day." 

Then  went  Boaz  up  to  the  gate,  and  sat  him  down  there:  and,  behold,  the 
kinsman  of  whom  Boaz  spake  came  by;  unto  whom  he  said,  "Ho,  such  a  one! 
turn  aside,  sit  down  here,"  And  he  turned  aside,  and  sat  down.  And  he  took 
ten  men  of  the  elders  of  the  city,  and  said,  "Sit  ye  down  here."  And  they  sat 
down.  And  he  said  unto  the  kinsman,  "Naomi,  that  is  come  again  out  of  the 
country  of  Moab,  selleth  a  parcel  of  land,  which  was  our  brother  Elimelech's: 
and  I  thought  to  advertise  thee,  saying,  Buy  it  before  the  inhabitants,  and 
before  the  elders  of  my  people.  If  thou  wilt  redeem  it,  redeem  it:  but  if  thou 
wilt  not  redeem  it,  then  tell  me,  that  I  may  know:  for  there  is  none  to  redeem 
it  beside  thee;  and  I  am  after  thee." 

And  he  said,  "I  will  redeem  it/' 

Then  said  Boaz,  "What  day  thou  buyest  the  field  of  the  hand  of  Naomi, 
thou  must  buy  it  also  of  Ruth  the  Moabitess,  the  wife  of  the  dead,  to  raise  up 
the  name  of  the  dead  upon  his  inheritance." 

And  the  kinsman  said,  "I  cannot  redeem  it  for  myself,  lest  I  mar  mine 
own  inheritance:  redeem  thou  my  right  to  thyself;  for  I  cannot  redeem  it." 


226 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


Now  this  was  the  manner  in  former  time  in  Israel  concerning  redeeming  and 
concerning  changing,  for  to  confirm  all  things;  a  man  plucked  off  his  shoe, 
and  gave  it  to  his  neighbor:  and  this  was  a  testimony  in  Israel.  Therefore 
the  kinsman  said  unto  Boaz,  "Buy  it  for  thee."  So  he  drew  off  his  shoe. 

And  Boaz  said  unto  the  elders,  and  unto  all  the  people,  "Ye  are  witnesses 
this  day,  that  I  have  bought  all  that  was  Elimelech's,  and  all  that  was  Chilion's 
and  Mahlon's,  of  the  hand  of  Naomi.  Moreover,  Ruth  the  Moabitess,  the 
wife  of  Mahlon,  have  I  purchased  to  be  my  wife,  to  raise  up  the  name  of  the 
dead  upon  his  inheritance,  that  the  name  of  the  dead  be  not  cut  off  from 
among  his  brethren,  and  from  the  gate  of  his  place:  ye  are  witnesses 
this  day." 

And  all  the  people  that  were  in  the  gate,  and  the  elders,  said,  "We  are 
witnesses.  The  Lord  make  the  woman  that  is  come  into  thine  house  like 
Rachel  and  like  Leah,  which  two  did  build  the  house  of  Israel:  and  do  thou 
worthily  in  Ephratah,  and  be  famous  in  Beth-lehem:  and  let  thy  house 
be  like  the  house  of  Pharez,  whom  Tamar  bore  unto  Judah,  of  the  seed 
which  the  Lord  shall  give  thee  of  this  young  woman." 

So  Boaz  took  Ruth,  and  she  was  his  wife:  and  when  he  went  in  unto  her, 
the  Lord  gave  her  conception,  and  she  bare  a  son.  And  the  women  said  unto 
Naomi,  "Blessed  be  the  Lord,  which  hath  not  left  thee  this  day  without 
a  kinsman,  that  his  name  may  be  famous  in  Israel.  And  he  shall  be  unto 
thee  a  restorer  of  thy  life,  and  a  nourisher  of  thine  old  age:  for  thy  daughter- 
in-law,  which  loveth  thee,  which  is  better  to  thee  than  seven  sons,  hath  born 
him."  And  Naomi  took  the  child,  and  laid  it  in  her  bosom,  and  became  nurse 
unto  it.  And  the  women  her  neighbors  gave  it  a  name,  saying,  "There  is  a 
son  born  to  Naomi";  and  they  called  his  name  Obed:  he  is  the  father  of 
Jesse,  the  father  of  David.  (c.  450  B.C.) 


GIOVANNI   BOCCACCIO 


The  falcon 


You  MUST  KNOW,  then,  that  Coppo  di  Borghese  Domenichi,  who  was  of 
our  days  and  maybe  is  yet  a  man  of  great  worship  and  authority  in  our 
city  and  illustrious  and  worthy  of  eternal  renown,  much  more  for  his 
fashions  and  his  merit  than  for  the  nobility  of  his  blood,  being  grown  full 
of  years,  delighted  oftentimes  to  discourse  with  his  neighbours  and  others 
of  things  past,  the  which  he  knew  how  to  do  better  and  more  orderly  and 
with  more  memory  and  elegance  of  speech  than  any  other  man.  Amongst 

THE  FALCON        227 


other  fine  things  of  his,  he  was  used  to  tell  that  there  was  once  in  Florence 
a  young  man  called  Federigo,  son  of  Messer  Filippo  Alberighi,  and 
renowned  for  deeds  of  arms  and  courtesy  over  every  other  bachelor  in 
Tuscany,  who,  as  betideth  most  gentlemen,  became  enamoured  of  a  gentle- 
woman named  Madam  Giovanna,  in  her  day  held  one  of  the  fairest  and 
sprightliest  ladies  that  were  in  Florence;  and  to  win  her  love,  he  held  jousts 
and  tourneyings  and  made  entertainments  and  gave  gifts  and  spent  his  sub- 
stance without  any  stint;  but  she,  being  no  less  virtuous  than  fair,  recked 
nought  of  these  things  done  for  her  nor  of  him  who  did  them.  Federigo 
spending  thus  far  beyond  his  means  and  gaining  nought,  his  wealth,  as 
lightly  happeneth,  in  course  of  time  came  to  an  end  and  he  abode  poor,  nor 
was  aught  left  him  but  a  poor  little  farm,  on  whose  returns  he  lived  very 
meagrely,  and  to  boot  a  falcon  he  had,  one  of  the  best  in  the  world.  Where- 
fore, being  more  in  love  than  ever  and  him  seeming  he  might  no  longer 
make  such  a  figure  in  the  city  as  he  would  fain  do,  he  took  up  his  abode 
at  Campi,  where  his  farm  was,  and  there  bore  his  poverty  with  patience, 
hawking  whenas  he  might  and  asking  of  no  one. 

Federigo  being  thus  come  to  extremity,  it  befell  one  day  that  Madam 
Giovanna's  husband  fell  sick  and  seeing  himself  nigh  upon  death,  made  his 
will,  wherein,  being  very  rich,  he  left  a  son  of  his,  now  well  grown,  his  heir, 
after  which,  having  much  loved  Madam  Giovanna,  he  substituted  her  to  his 
heir,  in  case  his  son  should  die  without  lawful  issue,  and  died.  Madam 
Giovanna,  being  thus  left  a  widow,  betook  herself  that  summer,  as  is  the 
usance  of  our  ladies,  into  the  country  with  her  son  to  an  estate  of  hers  very 
near  that  of  Federigo;  wherefore  it  befell  that  the  lad  made  acquaintance 
with  the  latter  and  began  to  take  delight  in  hawks  and  hounds,  and  having 
many  a  time  seen  his  falcon  flown  and  being  strangely  taken  therewith, 
longed  sore  to  have  it,  but  dared  not  ask  it  of  him,  seeing  it  so  dear  to  him. 
The  thing  standing  thus,  it  came  to  pass  that  the  lad  fell  sick,  whereat  his 
mother  was  sore  concerned,  as  one  who  had  none  but  him  and  loved  him 
with  all  her  might,  and  abode  about  him  all  day,  comforting  him  without 
cease;  and  many  a  time  she  asked  him  if  there  were  aught  he  desired, 
beseeching  him  tell  it  her,  for  that,  and  it  might  be  gotten,  she  would  con- 
trive that  he  should  have  it.  The  lad,  having  heard  these  offers  many  times 
repeated,  said,  "Mother  mine,  an  you  could  procure  me  to  have  Federigo's 
falcon,  methinketh  I  should  soon  be  whole/' 

The  lady,  hearing  this,  bethought  herself  awhile  and  began  to  consider 
how  she  should  do.  She  knew  that  Federigo  had  long  loved  her  and  had 
never  gotten  of  her  so  much  as  a  glance  of  the  eye;  wherefore  quoth  she 
in  herself,  "How  shall  I  send  or  go  to  him  to  seek  of  him  this  falcon,  which 

228        THE   SHORT  STORY 


is,  by  all  I  hear,  the  best  that  ever  flew  and  which,  to  boot,  maintaineth 
him  in  the  world?  And  how  can  I  be  so  graceless  as  to  offer  to  take  this 
from  a  gentleman  who  hath  none  other  pleasure  left?"  Perplexed  with  this 
thought  and  knowing  not  what  to  say,  for  all  she  was  very  certain  of  getting 
the  bird,  if  she  asked  for  it,  she  made  no  reply  to  her  son,  but  abode  silent. 
However,  at  last,  the  love  of  her  son  so  got  the  better  of  her  that  she 
resolved  in  herself  to  satisfy  him,  come  what  might,  and  not  to  send,  but 
to  go  herself  for  the  falcon  and  fetch  it  to  him.  Accordingly  she  said  to  him, 
"My  son,  take  comfort  and  bethink  thyself  to  grow  well  again,  for  I  promise 
thee  that  the  first  thing  I  do  to-morrow  morning  I  will  go  for  it  and  fetch 
it  to  thee."  The  boy  was  rejoiced  at  this  and  showed  some  amendment  that 
same  day. 

Next  morning,  the  lady,  taking  another  lady  to  bear  her  company,  re- 
paired, by  way  of  diversion,  to  Federigo's  little  house  and  enquired  for  the 
latter,  who,  for  that  it  was  no  weather  for  hawking  nor  had  been  for  some 
days  past,  was  then  in  a  garden  he  had,  overlooking  the  doing  of  certain 
little  matters  of  his,  and  hearing  that  Madam  Giovanna  asked  for  him  at 
the  door,  ran  thither,  rejoicing  and  marvelling  exceedingly.  She,  seeing  him 
come,  rose  and  going  with  womanly  graciousness  to  meet  him,  answered 
his  respectful  salutation  with  "Give  you  good  day,  Federigo!"  then  went 
on  to  say,  "I  am  come  to  make  thee  amends  for  that  which  thou  hast  suf- 
fered through  me,  in  loving  me  more  than  should  have  behooved  thee;  and 
the  amends  in  question  is  this  that  I  purpose  to  dine  with  thee  this  morn- 
ing familiarly,  I  and  this  lady  my  companion."  "Madam,"  answered  Federigo 
humbly,  "I  remember  me  not  to  have  ever  received  any  ill  at  your  hands, 
but  on  the  contrary  so  much  good  that,  if  ever  I  was  worth  aught,  it  came 
about  through  your  worth  and  the  love  I  bore  you;  and  assuredly,  albeit 
you  have  come  to  a  poor  host,  this  your  gracious  visit  is  far  more  precious 
to  me  than  it  would  be  an  it  were  given  me  to  spend  over  again  as  much 
as  that  which  I  have  spent  aforetime."  So  saying,  he  shamefastly  received 
her  into  his  house  and  thence  brought  her  into  his  garden,  where,  having 
none  else  to  bear  her  company,  he  said  to  her,  "Madam,  since  there  is  none 
else  here,  this  good  woman,  wife  of  yonder  husbandman,  will  bear  you 
company,  whilst  I  go  see  the  table  laid." 

Never  till  that  moment,  extreme  as  was  his  poverty,  had  he  been  so 
dolorously  sensible  of  the  straits  to  which  he  had  brought  himself  for  the 
lack  of  those  riches  he  had  spent  on  such  disorderly  wise.  But  that  morning, 
finding  he  had  nothing  wherewithal  he  might  honourably  entertain  the  lady 
for  love  of  whom  he  had  aforetime  entertained  folk  without  number,  he  was 
made  perforce  aware  of  his  default  and  ran  hither  and  thither,  perplexed 

THE   FALCON        229 


beyond  measure,  like  a  man  beside  himself,  inwardly  cursing  his  ill  fortune, 
but  found  neither  money  nor  aught  he  might  pawn.  It  was  now  growing  late 
and  he  having  a  great  desire  to  entertain  the  gentle  lady  with  somewhat, 
yet  choosing  not  to  have  recourse  to  his  own  labourer,  much  less  anyone 
else,  his  eye  fell  on  his  good  falcon,  which  he  saw  on  his  perch  in  his  little 
saloon;  whereupon,  having  no  other  resource,  he  took  the  bird  and  finding 
him  fat,  deemed  him  a  dish  worthy  of  such  a  lady.  Accordingly,  without 
more  ado,  he  wrung  the  hawk's  neck  and  hastily  caused  a  little  maid  of  his 
pluck  it  and  truss  it  and  after  put  it  on  the  spit  and  roast  it  diligently.  Then, 
the  table  laid  and  covered  with  very  white  cloths,  whereof  he  had  yet  some 
store,  he  returned  with  a  blithe  countenance  to  the  lady  in  the  garden  and 
told  her  that  dinner  was  ready,  such  as  it  was  in  his  power  to  provide. 
Accordingly,  the  lady  and  her  friend,  arising,  betook  themselves  to  table 
and  in  company  with  Federigo,  who  served  them  with  the  utmost  diligence, 
ate  the  good  falcon,  unknowing  what  they  did. 

Presently,  after  they  had  risen  from  table  and  had  abidden  with  him 
awhile  in  cheerful  discourse,  the  lady,  thinking  it  time  to  tell  that  wherefore 
she  was  come,  turned  to  Federigo  and  courteously  bespoke  him,  saying, 
"Federigo,  I  doubt  not  a  jot  but  that,  when  thou  hearest  that  which  is  the 
especial  occasion  of  my  coming  hither,  thou  wilt  marvel  at  my  presumption, 
remembering  thee  of  thy  past  life  and  of  my  virtue,  which  latter  belike  thou 
reputedst  cruelty  and  hardness  of  heart;  but,  if  thou  hadst  or  hadst  had 
children,  by  whom  thou  mightest  know  how  potent  is  the  love  one  beareth 
them,  meseemeth  certain  that  thou  wouldst  in  part  hold  me  excused.  But, 
although  thou  hast  none,  I,  who  have  one  child,  cannot  therefore  escape 
the  common  laws  to  which  other  mothers  are  subject  and  whose  enforce- 
ments it  behooveth  me  ensue,  need  must  I,  against  my  will  and  contrary 
to  all  right  and  seemliness,  ask  of  thee  a  boon,  which  I  know  is  supremely 
dear  to  thee  (and  that  with  good  reason,  for  that  thy  sorry  fortune  hath 
left  thee  none  other  delight,  none  other  diversion,  none  other  solace),  to  wit, 
thy  falcon,  whereof  my  boy  is  so  sore  enamoured  that,  an  I  carry  it  not 
to  him,  I  fear  me  his  present  disorder  will  be  so  aggravated  that  there  may 
presently  ensue  thereof  somewhat  whereby  I  shall  lose  him.  Wherefore 
I  conjure  thee— not  by  the  love  thou  bearest  me  and  whereto  thou  art  nowise 
beholden,  but  by  thine  own  nobility,  which  in  doing  courtesy  hath  approved 
itself  greater  than  in  any  other—that  it  please  thee  give  it  to  me,  so  by  the 
gift  I  may  say  I  have  kept  my  son  alive  and  thus  made  him  forever  thy 
debtor." 

Federigo,  hearing  what  the  lady  asked  and  knowing  that  he  could  not 
oblige  her,  for  that  he  had  given  her  the  falcon  to  eat,  fell  a-weeping  in  her 
presence,  ere  he  could  answer  a  word.  The  lady  at  first  believed  that  his 

230        THE  SHORT  STORY 


tears  arose  from  grief  at  having  to  part  from  his  good  falcon  and  was  like 
to  say  that  she  would  not  have  it.  However,  she  contained  herself  and 
awaited  what  Federigo  should  reply,  who,  after  weeping  awhile,  made 
answer  thus:  "Madam,  since  it  pleased  God  that  I  should  set  my  love  on 
you,  I  have  in  many  things  reputed  fortune  contrary  to  me  and  have  com- 
plained of  her;  but  all  the  ill  turns  she  hath  done  me  have  been  a  light 
matter  in  comparison  with  that  which  she  doth  me  at  this  present  and  for 
which  I  can  never  more  be  reconciled  to  her,  considering  that  you  are  come 
hither  to  my  poor  house,  whereas  you  deigned  not  to  come  while  I  was  rich, 
and  seek  of  me  a  little  boon,  the  which  she  hath  so  wrought  that  I  cannot 
grant  you;  and  why  this  cannot  be  I  will  tell  you  briefly.  When  I  heard  that 
you,  of  your  favour,  were  minded  to  dine  with  me,  I  deemed  it  a  right 
thing  and  a  seemly,  having  regard  to  your  worth  and  the  nobility  of  your 
station,  to  honour  you,  as  far  as  in  me  lay,  with  some  choicer  victual  than 
that  which  is  commonly  set  before  other  folk;  wherefore,  remembering  me 
of  the  falcon  which  you  ask  of  me  and  of  his  excellence,  I  judged  him  a  dish 
worthy  of  you.  This  very  morning,  then,  you  have  had  him  roasted  upon  the 
trencher,  and  indeed  I  had  accounted  him  excellently  well  bestowed;  but 
now,  seeing  that  you  would  fain  have  had  him  on  the  other  wise,  it  is  so 
great  a  grief  to  me  that  I  cannot  oblige  you  therein  that  methinketh  I  shall 
never  forgive  my  self  therefor."  So  saying,  in  witness  of  this,  he  let  cast 
before  her  the  falcon's  feathers  and  feet  and  beak. 

The  lady,  seeing  and  hearing  this,  first  blamed  him  for  having,  to  give 
a  woman  to  eat,  slain  such  a  falcon,  and  after  inwardly  much  commended 
the  greatness  of  his  soul,  which  poverty  had  not  availed  nor  might  anywise 
avail  to  abate.  Then,  being  put  out  of  all  hope  of  having  the  falcon  and 
fallen  therefore  in  doubt  of  her  son's  recovery,  she  took  her  leave  and 
returned,  all  disconsolate,  to  the  latter,  who,  before  many  days  had  passed, 
whether  for  chagrin  that  he  could  not  have  the  bird  or  for  that  his  disorder 
was  e'en  fated  to  bring  him  to  that  pass,  departed  this  life,  to  the  inexpressi- 
ble grief  of  his  mother.  After  she  had  abidden  awhile  full  of  tears  and 
affliction,  being  left  very  rich  and  yet  young,  she  was  more  than  once  urged 
by  her  brothers  to  marry  again,  and  albeit  she  would  fain  not  have  done  so, 
yet,  finding  herself  importuned  and  calling  to  mind  Federigo's  worth  and 
his  last  magnificence,  to  wit,  the  having  slain  such  a  falcon  for  her  enter- 
tainment, she  said  to  them,  "I  would  gladly,  an  it  liked  you,  abide  as  I  am; 
but,  since  it  is  your  pleasure  that  I  take  a  second  husband,  certes  I  will 
never  take  any  other,  an  I  have  not  Federigo  degli  Alberighi."  Whereupon 
her  brothers,  making  mock  of  her,  said,  "Silly  woman  that  thou  art,  what 
is  this  thou  sayest?  How  canst  thou  choose  him,  seeing  he  hath  nothing  in 
the  world?"  "Brothers  mine,"  answered  she,  "I  know  very  well  that  it  is  as 

THE    FALCON         231 


you  say;  but  I  would  liefer  have  a  man  that  lacketh  of  riches  than  riches 
that  lack  of  a  man."  Her  brethren,  hearing  her  mind  and  knowing  Federigo 
for  a  man  of  great  merit,  poor  though  he  was,  gave  her,  with  all  her  wealth, 
to  him,  even  as  she  would;  and  he,  seeing  himself  married  to  a  lady  of  such 
worth  and  one  who  he  had  loved  so  dear  and  exceedingly  rich,  to  boot, 
became  a  better  husband  of  his  substance  and  ended  his  days  with  her  in 
joy  and  solace.  (1353) 


VOLTAIRE 


Memnon  the  philosopher 


MEMNON  ONE  DAY  took  it  into  his  head  to  become  a  great  philosopher. 
There  are  few  men  who  have  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  conceived 
ne  wild  project.  Says  Memnon  to  himself,  To  be  a  perfect  philosopher, 
and  of  course  to  be  perfectly  happy,  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  divest 
myself  entirely  of  passions;  and  nothing  is  more  easy,  as  everybody  knows. 
In  the  first  place,  I  will  never  be  in  love;  for,  when  I  see  a  beautiful  woman, 
I  will  say  to  myself,  These  cheeks  will  one  day  grow  wrinkled,  these  eyes 
be  encircled  with  vermilion,  that  bosom  become  flabby  and  pendant,  that 
head  bald  and  palsied.  Now  I  have  only  to  consider  her  at  present  in 
imagination,  as  she  will  afterwards  appear;  and  certainly  a  fair  face  will 
never  turn  my  head. 

In  the  second  place,  I  will  be  always  temperate.  It  will  be  in  vain  to 
tempt  me  with  good  cheer,  with  delicious  wines,  or  the  charms  of  society. 
I  will  have  only  to  figure  to  myself  the  consequences  of  excess,  an  aching 
head,  a  loathing  stomach,  the  loss  of  reason,  of  health,  and  of  time:  I  will 
then  only  eat  to  supply  the  waste  of  nature;  my  health  will  be  always  equal, 
my  ideas  pure  and  luminous.  All  this  is  so  easy  that  there  is  no  merit  in 
accomplishing  it. 

But,  says  Memnon,  I  must  think  a  little  of  how  I  am  to  regulate  my  for- 
tune: why,  my  desires  are  moderate,  my  wealth  is  securely  placed  with  the 
Receiver  General  of  the  finances  of  Nineveh:  I  have  wherewithal  to  live 
independent;  and  that  is  the  greatest  of  blessings.  I  shall  never  be  under  the 
cruel  necessity  of  dancing  attendance  at  court;  I  will  never  envy  anyone, 
and  nobody  will  envy  me;  still  all  this  is  easy.  I  have  friends,  continued 
he,  and  I  will  preserve  them,  for  we  shall  never  have  any  difference;  I  will 
never  take  amiss  anything  they  may  say  or  do;  and  they  will  behave  in  the 
same  way  to  me. —There  is  no  difficulty  in  all  this. 

Having  thus  laid  his  little  plan  of  philosophy  in  his  closet,  Memnon  put 

232        THE   SHORT   STORY 


his  head  out  of  the  window.  He  saw  two  women  walking  under  the  plane- 
trees  near  his  house.  The  one  was  old  and  appeared  quite  at  her  ease.  The 
other  was  young,  handsome,  and  seemingly  much  agitated:  she  sighed,  she 
wept,  and  seemed  on  that  account  still  more  beautiful.  Our  philosopher  was 
touched,  not,  to  be  sure,  with  the  beauty  of  the  lady  (he  was  too  much 
determined  not  to  feel  any  uneasiness  of  that  kind),  but  with  the  distress 
which  he  saw  her  in.  He  came  down  stairs  and  accosted  the  young  Ninevite 
in  the  design  of  consoling  her  with  philosophy.  That  lovely  person  related  to 
him,  with  an  air  of  the  greatest  simplicity,  and  in  the  most  affecting  manner, 
the  injuries  she  sustained  from  an  imaginary  uncle;  with  what  art  he  had 
deprived  her  of  some  imaginary  property,  and  of  the  violence  which  she 
pretended  to  dread  from  him.  "You  appear  to  me,"  said  she,  "a  man  of  such 
wisdom,  that  if  you  will  condescend  to  come  to  my  house  and  examine  into 
my  affairs,  I  am  persuaded  you  will  be  able  to  draw  me  from  the  cruel 
embarrassment  I  am  at  present  involved  in."  Memnon  did  not  hesitate  to 
follow  her,  to  examine  her  affairs  philosophically,  and  to  give  her  sound 
counsel. 

The  afflicted  lady  led  him  into  a  perfumed  chamber,  and  politely  made 
him  sit  down  with  her  on  a  large  sofa,  where  they  both  placed  themselves 
opposite  to  each  other,  in  the  attitude  of  conversation,  their  legs  crossed; 
the  one  eager  in  telling  her  story,  the  other  listening  with  devout  attention. 
The  lady  spoke  with  downcast  eyes,  whence  there  sometimes  fell  a  tear,  and 
which,  as  she  now  and  then  ventured  to  raise  them,  always  met  those  of  the 
sage  Memnon.  Their  discourse  was  full  of  tenderness,  which  redoubled  as 
often  as  their  eyes  met.  Memnon  took  her  affairs  exceedingly  to  heart,  and 
felt  himself  every  instant  more  and  more  inclined  to  oblige  a  person  so 
virtuous  and  so  unhappy.— By  degrees,  in  the  warmth  of  conversation,  they 
ceased  to  sit  opposite;  they  drew  nearer;  their  legs  were  no  longer  crossed. 
Memnon  counselled  her  so  closely,  and  gave  her  such  tender  advices,  that 
neither  of  them  could  talk  any  longer  of  business,  nor  well  knew  what  they 
were  about. 

At  this  interesting  moment,  as  may  easily  be  imagined,  who  should  come 
in  but  the  uncle;  he  was  armed  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  first  thing  he 
said  was,  that  he  would  immediately  sacrifice,  as  was  just,  the  sage  Memnon 
and  his  niece;  the  latter,  who  made  her  escape,  knew  that  he  was  well 
enough  disposed  to  pardon,  provided  a  good  round  sum  were  offered  to  him. 
Memnon  was  obliged  to  purchase  his  safety  with  all  he  had  about  him.  In 
those  days  people  were  happy  in  getting  so  easily  quit.  America  was  not 
then  discovered,  and  distressed  ladies  were  not  nearly  so  dangerous  as 
they  are  now. 

Memnon,  covered  with  shame  and  confusion,  got  home  to  his  own  house; 

MEMNON    THE    PHILOSOPHER         233 


there  he  found  a  card  inviting  him  to  dinner  with  some  of  his  intimate 
friends.  If  I  remain  at  home  alone,  said  he,  I  shall  have  my  mind  so 
occupied  with  this  vexatious  adventure,  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  eat  a  bit, 
and  I  shall  bring  upon  myself  some  disease.  It  will  therefore  be  prudent 
in  me  to  go  to  my  intimate  friends,  and  partake  with  them  of  a  frugal  repast. 
I  shall  forget,  in  the  sweets  of  their  society,  the  folly  I  have  this  morning 
been  guilty  of.  Accordingly  he  attends  the  meeting;  he  is  discovered  to  be 
uneasy  at  something,  and  he  is  urged  to  drink  and  banish  care.  A  little  wine, 
drunk  in  moderation,  comforts  the  heart  of  god  and  man:  so  reasons  Mem- 
non  the  philosopher,  and  he  becomes  intoxicated.  After  the  repast,  play  is 
proposed.  A  little  play,  with  one's  intimate  friends,  is  a  harmless  pastime:— 
he  plays  and  loses  all  that  is  in  his  purse,  and  four  times  as  much  on  his 
word.  A  dispute  arises  on  some  circumstance  in  the  game,  and  the  dis- 
putants grow  warm:  one  of  his  intimate  friends  throws  a  dicebox  at  his 
head  and  strikes  out  one  of  his  eyes.  The  philosopher  Memnon  is  carried 
home  to  his  house,  drunk  and  penniless,  with  the  loss  of  an  eye. 

He  sleeps  out  his  debauch,  and  when  his  head  has  got  a  little  clear,  he 
sends  his  servant  to  the  Receiver  General  of  the  finances  of  Nineveh  to 
draw  a  little  money  to  pay  his  debt  of  honour  to  his  intimate  friends.  The 
servant  returns  and  informs  him,  that  the  Receiver  General  had  that  morn- 
ing been  declared  a  fraudulent  bankrupt,  and  that  by  this  means  an  hundred 
families  are  reduced  to  poverty  and  despair.  Memnon,  almost  beside  him- 
self, puts  a  plaster  on  his  eye  and  a  petition  in  his  pocket,  and  goes  to 
court  to  solicit  justice  from  the  king  against  the  bankrupt.  In  the  saloon  he 
meets  a  number  of  ladies,  all  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  sailing  along  with 
hoops  four  and  twenty  feet  in  circumference.  One  of  them,  who  knew  him 
a  little,  eyed  him  askance,  and  cried  aloud,  "Ah!  what  a  horrid  monster!" 
Another,  who  was  better  acquainted  with  him,  thus  accosts  him,  "Good- 
morrow,  Mr.  Memnon,  I  hope  you  are  very  well,  Mr.  Memnon:  La!  Mr. 
Memnon,  how  did  you  lose  your  eye?"  and  turning  upon  her  heel,  she 
tripped  away  without  waiting  an  answer. 

Memnon  hid  himself  in  a  corner,  and  waited  for  the  moment  when  he 
could  throw  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  monarch.  That  moment  at  last  arrived. 
Three  times  he  kissed  the  earth,  and  presented  his  petition.  His  gracious 
majesty  received  him  very  favourably,  and  referred  the  paper  to  one  of  his 
satraps,  that  he  might  give  him  an  account  of  it.  The  satrap  takes  Memnon 
aside,  and  says  to  him  with  a  haughty  air  and  satyrical  grin,  "Hark  ye,  you 
fellow  with  the  one  eye,  you  must  be  a  comical  dog  indeed,  to  address 
yourself  to  the  king  rather  than  to  me;  and  still  more  so,  to  dare  to  demand 
justice  against  an  honest  bankrupt,  whom  I  honour  with  my  protection,  and 
who  is  nephew  to  the  waiting-maid  of  my  mistress.  Proceed  no  further  in 

234        THE  SHORT  STORY 


this  business,  my  good  friend,  if  you  wish  to  preserve  the  eye  you  have  left." 

Memnon  having  thus,  in  his  closet,  resolved  to  renounce  women,  the 
excesses  of  the  table,  play  and  quarreling,  but  especially  having  determined 
never  to  go  to  court,  had  been  in  the  short  space  of  four  and  twenty  hours 
duped  and  robbed  by  a  gentle  dame,  had  got  drunk,  had  gamed,  had 
been  engaged  in  a  quarrel,  had  got  his  eye  knocked  out,  and  had  been  at 
court,  where  he  was  sneered  at  and  insulted. 

Petrified  with  astonishment,  and  his  heart  broken  with  grief,  Memnon 
returns  homeward  in  despair.  As  he  was  about  to  enter  his  house,  he  is 
repulsed  by  a  number  of  officers  who  are  carrying  out  his  furniture  for  the 
benefit  of  his  creditors;  he  falls  down  almost  lifeless  under  a  plane  tree. 
There  he  finds  the  fair  dame  of  the  morning,  who  was  walking  with  her  dear 
uncle;  and  both  set  up  a  loud  laugh  on  seeing  Memnon  with  his  plaster. 
The  night  approached,  and  Memnon  made  his  bed  on  some  straw  near  the 
walls  of  his  house.  Here  the  ague  seized  him,  and  he  fell  asleep  in  one  of 
the  fits,  when  a  celestial  spirit  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream. 

It  was  all  resplendent  with  light;  it  had  six  beautiful  wings,  but  neither 
feet  nor  head,  nor  tail,  and  could  be  likened  to  nothing.  "What  art  thou?" 
said  Memnon. 

"Thy  good  genius,"  replied  the  spirit. 

"Restore  to  me  then  my  eye,  my  health,  my  fortune,  my  reason,"  said 
Memnon;  and  he  related  how  he  had  lost  them  all  in  one  day. 

"These  are  adventures  which  never  happen  to  us  in  the  world  we  inhabit," 
said  the  spirit. 

"And  what  world  do  you  inhabit?"  said  the  man  of  affliction. 

"My  native  country,"  replied  the  other,  "is  five  hundred  millions  of  leagues 
distant  from  the  sun,  in  a  little  star  near  Sirius,  which  you  see  from  hence." 

"Charming  country!"  said  Memnon.  "And  are  there  indeed  with  you  no 
jades  to  dupe  a  poor  devil,  no  intimate  friends  that  win  his  money  and 
knock  out  an  eye  to  him,  no  fraudulent  bankrupts,  no  satraps,  that  make 
a  jest  of  you  while  they  refuse  you  justice?" 

"No,"  said  the  inhabitant  of  the  star,  "we  have  nothing  of  what  you  talk 
of;  we  are  never  duped  by  women,  because  we  have  none  among  us;  we 
never  commit  excesses  at  table,  because  we  neither  eat  nor  drink;  we  have 
no  bankrupts,  because  with  us  there  is  neither  silver  nor  gold;  our  eyes 
cannot  be  knocked  out  because  we  have  not  bodies  in  the  form  of  yours; 
and  satraps  never  do  us  injustice,  because  in  our  world  we  are  all  equal." 

"Pray,  my  Lord,"  then  said  Memnon,  "without  women  and  without  eating 
how  do  you  spend  your  time?" 

"In  watching,"  said  the  genius,  "over  the  other  worlds  that  are  entrusted 
to  us;  and  I  am  now  come  to  give  you  consolation." 

MEMNON   THE   PHILOSOPHER        235 


"Alas!"  replied  Memnon,  "why  did  you  not  come  yesterday  to  hinder  me 
from  committing  so  many  indiscretions?" 

"I  was  with  your  elder  brother  Hassan,"  said  the  celestial  being.  "He  is 
still  more  to  be  pitied  than  you  are.  His  most  gracious  Majesty,  the  Sultan 
of  the  Indies,  in  whose  court  he  has  the  honour  to  serve,  has  caused  both 
his  eyes  to  be  put  out  for  some  small  indiscretion;  and  he  is  now  in  a 
dungeon,  his  hands  and  feet  loaded  with  chains." 

"  Tis  a  happy  thing  truly/'  said  Memnon,  "to  have  a  good  genius  in  one's 
family,  when  out  of  two  brothers  one  is  blind  of  an  eye,  the  other  blind  of 
both;  one  stretched  upon  straw,  the  other  in  a  dungeon." 

"Your  fate  will  soon  change,"  said  the  animal  of  the  star.  "It  is  true,  you 
will  never  recover  your  eye  but,  except  that,  you  may  be  sufficiently  happy 
if  you  never  again  take  it  into  your  head  to  be  a  perfect  philosopher." 

"Is  it  then  impossible?"  said  Memnon. 

"As  impossible  as  to  be  perfectly  wise,  perfectly  strong,  perfectly  power- 
ful, perfectly  happy.  We  ourselves  are  very  far  from  it.  There  is  a  world 
indeed  where  all  this  takes  place;  but,  in  a  hundred  thousand  millions  of 
worlds  dispersed  over  the  regions  of  space,  everything  goes  on  by  degrees. 
There  is  less  philosophy  and  less  enjoyment  in  the  second  than  in  the  first, 
less  in  the  third  than  in  the  second,  and  so  forth  till  the  last  in  the  scale, 
where  all  are  completely  fools." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Memnon,  "that  our  little  terraqueous  globe  here  is  the 
madhouse  of  those  hundred  thousand  millions  of  worlds,  of  which  your 
Lordship  does  me  the  honour  to  speak." 

"Not  quite,"  said  the  spirit,  "but  very  nearly:  everything  must  be  in  its 
proper  place/' 

"But  are  those  poets  and  philosophers  wrong,  then,  who  tell  us  that 
everything  is  for  the  best?" 

"No,  they  are  right,  when  we  consider  things  in  relation  to  the  gradation 
of  the  whole  universe." 

"Oh!  I  shall  never  believe  it  till  I  recover  my  eye  again,"  said  the  poor 
Memnon.  (1750) 


236        THE   SHORT   STORY 


PROSPER    MERIMEE 


Mateo  Falcone 


COMING  out  of  Porto-Vecchio,  and  turning  northwest  toward  the  interior 
of  the  island,  the  ground  rises  somewhat  rapidly,  and,  after  a  three 
hours'  walk  along  winding  paths,  blocked  by  huge  rocky  boulders,  and 
sometimes  cut  by  ravines,  you  come  to  the  edge  of  a  wide  mdquis.  The 
mdquis,  or  high  plateau,  is  the  home  of  the  Corsican  shepherds  and  of  all 
those  who  wish  to  escape  the  police.  I  would  have  you  understand  that  the 
Corsican  peasant  sets  fire  to  a  stretch  of  woodland  to  save  himself  the 
trouble  of  manuring  his  fields.  If  the  flames  spread  further  than  they  should, 
so  much  the  worse.  In  any  case,  he  is  sure  of  a  good  crop  if  he  sows  on  this 
ground,  which  has  been  fertilised  by  the  ashes  of  the  trees  which  grew 
on  it.  When  the  corn  has  been  harvested,  they  leave  the  straw,  because  it 
takes  too  much  time  to  gather  it  up.  The  roots  of  the  burned  trees,  which 
have  been  left  in  the  ground  undamaged,  put  forth  very  thick  shoots  in  the 
following  spring,  and  these  shoots,  before  many  years,  attain  a  height  of 
seven  or  eight  feet.  It  is  this  sort  of  undergrowth  which  is  called  a  mdquis. 
It  is  composed  of  all  sorts  of  trees  and  shrubs  mingled  and  tangled  every 
whichway.  A  man  has  to  hew  his  way  through  with  an  axe,  and  there  are 
mdquis  so  thick  and  tangled  that  even  wild  rams  cannot  penetrate  them. 

If  you  have  killed  a  man,  go  into  the  mdquis  of  Porto-Vecchio  with  a  good 
gun  and  powder  and  shot.  You  will  live  there  quite  safely,  but  don't  forget 
to  bring  along  a  brown  cloak  and  hood  for  your  blanket  and  mattress.  The 
shepherds  will  give  you  milk,  cheese,  and  chestnuts,  and  you  need  not 
trouble  your  head  about  the  law  or  the  dead  man's  relatives,  except  when 
you  are  compelled  to  go  down  into  the  town  to  renew  your  ammunition. 

When  I  was  in  Corsica  in  18—,  Mateo  Falcone's  house  stood  half  a  league 
away  from  the  mdquis.  He  was  a  fairly  rich  man  for  that  country.  He  lived 
like  a  lord,  that  is  to  say,  without  toil,  on  the  produce  of  his  flocks,  which 
the  nomadic  shepherds  pastured  here  and  there  on  the  mountains.  When 
I  saw  him,  two  years  later  than  the  incident  which  I  am  about  to  relate,  he 
did  not  seem  to  be  more  than  fifty  years  of  age. 

Picture  a  small,  sturdy  man,  with  jet-black  curly  hair,  a  Roman  nose,  thin 
lips,  large  piercing  eyes,  and  a  weather-beaten  complexion.  His  skill  as  a 
marksman  was  extraordinary,  even  in  this  country,  where  everyone  is  a  good 
shot.  For  instance,  Mateo  would  never  fire  on  a  wild  ram  with  small  shot, 
but  at  a  hundred  and  twenty  paces  he  would  bring  it  down  with  a  bullet 
in  its  head  or  its  shoulder,  just  as  he  fancied.  He  used  his  rifle  at  night  as 
easily  as  in  the  daytime,  and  I  was  given  the  following  illustration  of  his 

MATEO   FALCONE        237 


skill,  which  may  seem  incredible,  perhaps,  to  those  who  have  never  travelled 
in  Corsica.  He  placed  a  lighted  candle  behind  a  piece  of  transparent  paper 
as  big  as  a  plate,  and  aimed  at  it  from  eighty  paces  away.  He  extinguished 
the  candle,  and  a  moment  later,  in  utter  darkness,  fired  and  pierced  the 
paper  three  times  out  of  four. 

With  this  extraordinary  skill  Mateo  Falcone  had  gained  a  great  reputa- 
tion. He  was  said  to  be  a  good  friend  and  a  dangerous  enemy.  Obliging  and 
charitable,  he  lived  at  peace  with  all  his  neighbors  around  Porto-Vecchio. 
But  they  said  of  him  that  once,  at  Corte,  whence  he  had  brought  home  his 
wife,  he  had  quickly  freed  himself  of  a  rival  reputed  to  be  as  fearful  in  war 
as  in  love.  At  any  rate,  people  gave  Mateo  the  credit  for  a  certain  shot 
which  had  surprised  his  rival  shaving  in  front  of  a  small  mirror  hung  up  in 
his  window.  The  matter  was  hushed  up  and  Mateo  married  the  girl.  His 
wife  Giuseppa  presented  him  at  first,  to  his  fury,  with  three  daughters,  but 
at  last  came  a  son  whom  he  christened  Fortunate,  the  hope  of  the  family 
and  the  heir  to  its  name.  The  girls  were  married  off  satisfactorily.  At  a 
pinch  their  father  could  count  on  the  daggers  and  rifles  of  his  sons-in-law. 
The  son  was  only  ten  years  old,  but  already  gave  promise  for  the  future. 

One  autumn  day,  Mateo  and  his  wife  set  forth  to  visit  one  of  his  flocks 
in  a  clearing  on  the  mdquis.  Little  Fortunato  wanted  to  come  along,  but 
the  clearing  was  too  far  off,  and  moreover,  someone  had  to  stay  to  look 
after  the  house.  His  father  refused  to  take  him.  We  shall  see  that  he  was 
sorry  for  this  afterwards. 

He  had  been  gone  several  hours,  and  little  Fortunato  lay  stretched  out 
quietly  in  the  sunshine,  gazing  at  the  blue  mountains,  and  thinking  that 
next  Sunday  he  would  be  going  to  town  to  have  dinner  with  his  uncle,  the 
magistrate,  when  he  was  suddenly  startled  by  a  rifle  shot.  He  rose  and  turned 
toward  the  side  of  the  plain  whence  the  sound  had  come.  Other  shots  fol- 
lowed, fired  at  irregular  intervals,  and  they  sounded  nearer  and  nearer,  till 
finally,  he  saw  a  man  on  the  path  which  led  from  the  plain  up  to  Mateo's 
house.  He  wore  a  mountaineer's  peaked  cap,  had  a  beard,  and  was  clad  in 
rags.  He  dragged  himself  along  with  difficulty,  leaning  on  his  gun.  He  had 
just  been  shot  in  the  thigh.  The  man  was  an  outlaw  from  justice,  who,  having 
set  out  at  nightfall  to  buy  ammunition  in  the  town,  had  fallen  on  the  way 
into  an  ambuscade  of  Corsican  gendarmes.  After  a  vigorous  defense,  he  had 
succeeded  in  making  his  escape,  but  the  gendarmes  had  pursued  him  closely 
and  fired  at  him  from  rock  to  rock.  He  had  been  just  ahead  of  the  soldiers, 
and  his  wound  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  reach  the  mdquis  without 
being  captured. 

He  came  up  to  Fortunato  and  asked: 

"Are  you  Mateo  Falcone's  son?" 

238        THE    SHORT   STORY 


"Yes,  I  am." 

"I'm  Gianetto  Sanpiero.  The  yellow  necks  are  after  me.  Hide  me,  for 
I  can  go  no  farther." 

"But  what  will  my  father  say,  if  I  hide  you  without  his  permission?" 

"He  will  say  that  you  did  the  right  thing." 

"How  can  I  be  sure  of  that?" 

"Quick!  Hide  mel  Here  they  come!" 

"Wait  till  my  father  comes  back." 

"How  the  devil  can  I  wait?  They'll  be  here  in  five  minutes.  Come  now, 
hide  rne,  or  I  shall  kill  you." 

Fortunate  replied  as  cool  as  a  cucumber: 

"Your  rifle  is  not  loaded,  and  there  are  no  cartridges  in  your  pouch." 

"I  have  my  stiletto." 

"But  can  you  run  as  fast  as  I  can?" 

He  bounded  out  of  the  man's  reach. 

"You  are  no  son  of  Mateo  Falcone.  Will  you  let  me  be  captured  in  front 
of  his  house?'" 

The  child  seemed  touched. 

"What  will  you  give  me  if  I  hide  you?"  he  said,  coming  nearer  to  him. 

The  fugitive  felt  in  a  leather  wallet  that  hung  from  his  belt,  and  took  out 
a  five-franc  piece  which  he  had  been  saving,  no  doubt,  to  buy  powder. 
Fortunate  smiled  when  he  saw  the  piece  of  silver.  He  snatched  it  and  said 
to  Gianetto: 

"Have  no  fear." 

He  made  a  large  hole  at  once  in  a  haystack  beside  the  house.  Gianetto 
huddled  down  in  it,  and  the  boy  covered  him  up  so  as  to  leave  a  little 
breathing  space,  and  yet  so  that  no  one  could  possibly  suspect  that  a  man 
was  hidden  there.  He  showed  his  ingenious  wild  cunning  by  another  trick. 
He  fetched  a  cat  and  her  kittens  and  put  them  on  top  of  the  haystack,  so 
that  anyone  who  passed  would  think  that  it  had  not  been  disturbed  for  a 
long  time.  Then  he  noticed  some  bloodstains  on  the  path  in  front  of  the 
house  and  covered  them  over  carefully  with  dust.  When  he  had  finished, 
he  lay  down  again  in  the  sun  looking  as  calm  as  ever. 

A  few  minutes  later,  six  men  in  brown  uniforms  with  yellow  collars,  led 
by  an  adjutant,  stopped  in  front  of  Mateo's  door.  The  adjutant  was  a  distant 
cousin  of  Falcone.  (You  know  that  degrees  of  kindred  are  traced  farther 
in  Corsica  than  anywhere  else. )  His  name  was  Tiodoro  Gamba.  He  was  an 
energetic  man,  much  feared  by  the  outlaws,  many  of  whom  he  had  already 
hunted  down. 

"Good  morning,  little  cousin,"  he  said,  accosting  Fortunato.  "How  you 
have  grown!  Did  you  see  a  man  go  by  just  now?" 

MATEO  FALCONE        239 


"Oh,  I'm  not  as  tall  as  you  are  yet,  cousin,"  replied  the  child  with  an 
innocent  smile. 

"It  won't  take  long.  But,  tell  me,  didn't  you  see  a  man  go  by?" 

"Did  I  see  a  man  go  by?" 

"Yes,  a  man  with  a  black  velvet  peaked  cap  and  a  waistcoat  embroidered 
in  red  and  yellow?" 

"A  man  with  a  black  velvet  peaked  cap,  and  a  waistcoat  embroidered  in 
red  and  yellow?" 

"Yes.  Hurry  up  and  answer  me,  and  don't  keep  repeating  my  questions." 

"Monsieur  the  Cur£  went  by  this  morning  on  his  horse  Pierrot.  He  en- 
quired after  papa's  health,  and  I  said  to  him  that " 

"You  are  making  a  fool  of  me,  you  limb  of  the  devil!  Tell  me  at  once  which 
way  Gianetto  went.  He's  the  man  we're  looking  for,  and  I'm  sure  he  went 
this  way." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"How  do  I  know?  I  know  you've  seen  him." 

"Can  I  see  people  pass  by  in  my  sleep?" 

"You  weren't  asleep,  you  rascal.  Our  shots  would  wake  you." 

"So  you  think,  cousin,  that  your  rifles  make  all  that  hullaballoo?  My 
father's  rifle  makes  much  more  noise." 

"The  devil  take  you,  you  little  scamp.  I  am  positive  that  you  have  seen 
Gianetto.  Maybe  you've  hidden  him,  in  fact.  Here,  boys,  search  the  house 
and  see  if  our  man  isn't  there.  He  could  only  walk  on  one  foot,  and  he  has 
too  much  sense,  the  rascal,  to  try  and  reach  the  mdquis  limping.  Besides, 
the  trail  of  blood  stops  here." 

"What  will  papa  say?"  asked  Fortunato.  "What  will  he  say  when  he  dis- 
covers that  his  house  has  been  searched  during  his  absence?" 

"Do  you  realise  that  I  can  make  you  change  your  tune,  you  rogue?"  cried 
the  adjutant,  as  he  pulled  his  ear.  "Perhaps  you  will  have  something  more 
to  say  when  I  have  thrashed  you  with  the  flat  of  my  sword." 

Fortunato  laughed  in  derision. 

"My  father  is  Mateo  Falcone,"  he  said  meaningly. 

"Do  you  realise,  you  rascal,  that  I  can  haul  you  off  to  Corte  or  to  Bastia? 
I  shall  put  you  in  a  dungeon  on  straw,  with  your  feet  in  irons,  and  I'll  have 
your  head  chopped  off  unless  you  tell  me  where  to  find  Gianetto  Sanpiero." 

The  child  laughed  again  derisively  at  this  silly  threat.  He  repeated: 

"My  father  is  Mateo  Falcone." 

"Adjutant,  don't  get  us  into  trouble  with  Mateo,"  muttered  one  of  the 
gendarmes. 

You  could  see  that  Gamba  was  embarrassed.  He  whispered  to  his  men, 
who  had  already  searched  the  house  thoroughly.  This  was  not  a  lengthy 
matter,  for  a  Corsican  hut  consists  of  one  square  room.  There  is  no  furniture 

240        THE   SHORT    STORY 


other  than  a  table,  benches,  chests,  cooking  utensils,  and  weapons.  Mean- 
while, little  Fortunate  was  stroking  the  cat,  and  seemed  to  take  a  malicious 
satisfaction  in  the  discomfiture  of  his  cousin  and  the  gendarmes. 

One  gendarme  approached  the  haystack.  He  looked  at  the  cat  and  care- 
lessly stuck  a  bayonet  into  the  hay,  shrugging  his  shoulders  as  if  he  thought 
the  precaution  absurd.  Nothing  stirred,  and  the  child's  face  remained  per- 
fectly calm. 

The  adjutant  and  his  men  were  desperate.  They  looked  seriously  out 
across  the  plain,  as  if  they  were  inclined  to  go  back  home,  when  their  leader, 
satisfied  that  threats  would  make  no  impression  on  Falcone's  son,  decided 
to  make  a  final  attempt,  and  see  what  coaxing  and  gifts  might  do. 

"Little  cousin/'  said  he,  "I  can  see  that  your  eyes  are  open.  You'll  get  on  in 
life.  But  you  are  playing  a  risky  game  with  me,  and,  if  it  weren't  for  the 
trouble  it  would  give  my  cousin  Mateo,  God  help  me  if  I  wouldn't  carry  you 
off  with  me." 

"Nonsense!" 

"But,  when  my  cousin  returns,  I  am  going  to  tell  him  all  about  it,  and 
he'll  horsewhip  you  till  the  blood  comes  because  you've  been  telling  me  lies." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"You'll  see!  .  .  .  But  see  here!  Be  a  good  boy,  and  I'll  give  you  a  present." 

"I  advise  you  to  go  and  look  for  Gianetto  in  the  mdquis,  cousin.  If  you 
hang  about  here  much  longer,  it  will  take  a  cleverer  man  than  you  to  catch 
him."  The  adjutant  took  a  silver  watch  worth  ten  dollars  out  of  his  pocket. 
He  noticed  that  little  Fortunato's  eyes  sparkled  as  he  looked  at  it,  and  he 
dangled  the  watch  out  to  him  at  the  end  of  its  steel  chain  as  he  said: 

"You  scamp,  wouldn't  you  like  to  have  a  watch  like  this  hanging  round 
your  neck,  and  to  strut  up  and  down  the  streets  of  Porto- Vecchio  as  proud 
as  a  peacock?  Folk  would  ask  you  what  time  it  was  and  you  would  say, 
'Look  at  my  watch!' " 

"When  I'm  a  big  boy,  my  uncle,  the  magistrate,  will  give  me  a  watch." 

"Yes,  but  your  uncle's  son  has  one  already—not  as  fine  as  this,  to  be  sure 
—but  he  is  younger  than  you  are." 

The  boy  sighed. 

"Well,  would  you  like  this  watch,  little  cousin?" 

Fortunate  kept  eyeing  the  watch  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  like  a  cat 
that  has  been  given  a  whole  chicken  to  play  with.  It  does  not  dare  to  pounce 
upon  it,  because  it  is  afraid  folk  are  laughing  at  it,  but  it  turns  its  eyes  away 
now  and  then  so  as  to  avoid  temptation,  and  keeps  licking  its  lips,  as  much 
as  to  say  to  its  master:  "What  a  cruel  trick  to  play  on  a  cat!"  And  yet  Gamba 
seemed  to  be  really  offering  him  the  watch.  Fortunate  did  not  hold  out  his 
hand,  but  said  with  a  bitter  smile: 

"Why  are  you  mocking  me?" 

MATEO   FALCONE         241 


"I  swear  that  I  am  not  mocking  you.  Only  tell  me  where  Gianetto  is,  and 
the  watch  is  yours." 

Fortunato  smiled  incredulously  and  fixed  his  dark  eyes  on  those  of  the 
adjutant,  trying  to  read  them  to  see  if  the  man  could  be  trusted. 

"May  I  lose  my  epaulettes,"  cried  the  adjutant,  "if  I  do  not  give  you  the 
watch  on  this  one  condition!  My  men  are  witnesses,  and  I  cannot  back  out 
of  it." 

As  he  spoke,  he  held  the  watch  nearer  and  nearer  till  it  almost  touched 
the  pale  cheek  of  the  boy,  whose  face  clearly  showed  the  struggle  going  on 
in  his  heart  between  greed  and  the  claims  of  hospitality.  His  bare  breast 
heaved  till  he  was  almost  suffocated.  Meanwhile  the  watch  dangled  and 
twisted  and  even  touched  the  tip  of  his  nose.  Little  by  little,  his  right  hand 
rose  toward  it,  the  tips  of  his  fingers  touched  it,  and  the  whole  weight  of  it 
rested  on  his  hand,  although  the  adjutant  still  had  it  by  the  chain.  .  .  .  The 
face  of  the  watch  was  blue.  .  .  .  The  case  was  newly  burnished.  ...  It  flamed 
like  fire  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  The  temptation  was  too  great. 

Fortunato  raised  his  left  hand  and  pointed  with  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  to  the  haystack  on  which  he  was  leaning.  The  adjutant  understood 
him  at  once  and  let  go  the  end  of  the  chain.  Fortunato  felt  that  he  was  now 
sole  possessor  of  the  watch.  He  leaped  away  like  a  deer,  and  paused  ten 
paces  from  the  haystack  which  the  gendarmes  began  to  tumble  over  at 
once. 

It  was  not  long  before  they  saw  the  hay  begin  to  stir  and  a  bleeding  man 
came  out  with  a  stiletto  in  his  hand.  But  when  he  tried  to  rise  to  his  feet,  his 
congealed  wound  prevented  him  from  standing.  He  fell  down.  The  adjutant 
flung  himself  upon  his  prey  and  wrested  the  stiletto  from  his  grasp.  He  was 
speedily  trussed  up,  in  spite  of  his  resistance,  bound  securely,  and  flung  on 
the  ground  like  a  bundle  of  sticks.  He  turned  his  head  toward  Fortunato 
who  had  drawn  near  again. 

"Son  of  ...  I"  he  exclaimed,  more  in  contempt  than  in  anger. 

The  child  threw  him  the  piece  of  silver,  realising  that  he  no  longer 
deserved  it,  but  the  fugitive  paid  no  attention  to  it.  He  merely  said  quietly 
to  the  adjutant: 

"My  dear  Gamba,  I  cannot  walk.  You  must  carry  me  to  town/' 

"You  were  running  as  fast  as  a  kid  just  now,"  retorted  his  captor,  roughly. 
"But  don't  worry!  I'm  so  glad  to  have  caught  you  that  I  could  carry  you  a 
league  on  my  own  back  without  feeling  it.  Anyhow,  my  friend,  we'll  make 
a  litter  for  you  out  of  branches  and  your  cloak.  We'll  find  horses  at  the  farm 
at  Crespoli." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  prisoner.  "I  suppose  you  will  put  a  little  straw  on 
the  litter  to  make  it  easier  for  me." 

242        THE   SHORT   STORY 


While  the  gendarmes  were  busy,  some  making  a  crude  litter  of  chestnut 
boughs,  and  others  dressing  Gianetto's  wound,  Mateo  Falcone  and  his  wife 
suddenly  appeared  at  a  turn  of  the  path  which  led  from  the  mdquis.  His 
wife  came  first,  bowed  low  beneath  the  weight  of  a  huge  sack  of  chestnuts, 
while  her  husband  strolled  along,  carrying  a  gun  in  one  hand,  and  another 
slung  over  his  shoulder.  It  is  beneath  a  man's  dignity  to  carry  any  other 
burden  than  his  weapons. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  the  soldiers,  Mateo's  first  thought  was  that  they  must 
have  come  to  arrest  him.  But  there  was  no  reason  for  it.  He  had  no  quarrel 
with  the  forces  of  law  and  order.  He  had  an  excellent  reputation.  He  was 
"well  thought  of,"  as  they  say,  but  he  was  a  Corsican,  and  a  mountaineer, 
and  there  are  very  few  Corsican  mountaineers  who,  if  they  search  their  past 
sufficiently,  cannot  find  some  peccadillo,  a  rifle  shot  or  a  thrust  with  a 
stiletto,  or  some  other  trifle.  Mateo  had  a  clearer  conscience  than  most  of  his 
friends,  for  it  was  at  least  ten  years  since  he  had  pointed  a  rifle  at  a  man; 
but  all  the  same  it  behooved  him  to  be  cautious,  and  he  prepared  to  put 
up  a  good  defence,  if  necessary. 

"Wife,"  he  said,  "put  down  your  sack  and  be  on  your  guard/* 

She  obeyed  at  once.  He  gave  her  the  gun  from  his  shoulder  belt,  as  it 
seemed  likely  that  it  might  be  in  his  way.  He  cocked  the  other  rifle,  and 
advanced  in  a  leisurely  manner  toward  the  house,  skirting  the  trees  beside 
the  path,  and  ready,  at  the  least  sign  of  hostility,  to  throw  himself  behind 
the  largest  trunk  and  fire  from  cover.  His  wife  followed  close  behind  him, 
holding  her  loaded  rifle  and  his  cartridges.  It  was  a  good  wife's  duty,  in 
case  of  trouble,  to  reload  her  husband's  arms. 

The  adjutant,  on  his  side,  was  much  troubled  at  seeing  Mateo  advance 
upon  him  so  with  measured  steps,  pointing  his  rifle,  and  keeping  his  finger 
on  the  trigger. 

"If  it  should  happen,"  thought  he,  "that  Gianetto  turns  out  to  be  Mateo's 
relative  or  friend,  and  he  wishes  to  defend  him,  two  of  his  bullets  will  reach 
us  as  sure  as  a  letter  goes  by  post,  and  if  he  aims  at  me,  in  spite  of  our 
kinship  ...  I" 

In  his  perplexity,  he  put  the  best  face  he  could  on  the  matter,  and  went 
forward  by  himself  to  meet  Mateo  and  tell  him  all  that  had  happened,  greet- 
ing him  like  an  old  friend.  But  the  short  distance  between  him  and  Mateo 
seemed  fearfully  long. 

"Hello,  there,  old  comrade!"  he  cried  out.  "How  are  you?  I'm  your  cousin 
Gamba." 

Mateo  stood  still  and  said  not  a  word.  As  the  other  man  spoke,  he  slowly 
raised  the  barrel  of  his  rifle  so  that,  by  the  time  the  adjutant  came  up  to  him, 
it  was  pointing  to  the  sky. 

MATEO   FALCONE        243 


"Good-day,  brother,"  said  the  adjutant,  holding  out  his  hand.  "It's  an  age 
since  I've  seen  you." 

"Good-day,  brother." 

"I  just  stopped  by  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with  you  and  cousin  Pepa. 
WeVe  had  a  long  march  to-day,  but  we  can't  complain,  for  we've  made 
a  famous  haul.  We've  just  caught  Gianetto  Sanpiero." 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  exclaimed  Giuseppa.  "He  stole  one  of  our  milch 
goats  a  week  ago." 

Gamba  was  delighted  at  her  words. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  Mateo,  "he  was  hungry." 

"The  chap  fought  like  a  lion,"  pursued  the  adjutant,  somewhat  annoyed. 
"He  killed  one  of  my  men,  and  as  if  that  were  not  enough,  broke  Corporal 
Chardon's  arm;  not  that  it  matters,  he's  only  a  Frenchman.  .  .  .  Then  he  hid 
himself  so  cleverly  that  the  devil  himself  couldn't  find  him.  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  my  little  cousin  Fortunate,  I  should  never  have  found  him/' 

"Fortunato?"  cried  Mateo. 

"Fortunato?"  echoed  Giuseppa. 

"Yes!  Gianetto  was  hidden  in  your  haystack  over  there,  but  my  little 
cousin  soon  showed  up  his  tricks.  I  shall  tell  his  uncle,  the  magistrate,  and 
he'll  send  him  a  fine  present  as  a  reward.  And  both  his  name  and  yours  shall 
be  in  the  report  that  I'm  sending  to  the  Public  Prosecutor." 

"Damn  you!"  muttered  Mateo  under  his  breath. 

They  had  now  rejoined  the  gendarmes.  Gianetto  was  already  laid  on  his 
litter,  and  they  were  all  ready  to  start.  When  he  saw  Mateo  in  Gamba's  com- 
pany, he  smiled  oddly;  then,  turning  toward  the  door  of  the  house,  he  spat 
at  the  threshold. 

"The  house  of  a  traitor!" 

It  was  asking  for  death  to  call  Falcone  a  traitor.  A  quick  stiletto  thrust, 
and  no  need  of  a  second,  would  have  instantly  wiped  out  the  insult.  But 
Mateo's  only  movement  was  to  put  his  hand  to  his  head  as  if  he  were 
stunned. 

Fortunato  had  gone  into  the  house  when  he  saw  his  father  coming. 
Presently  he  reappeared  with  a  bowl  of  milk,  which  he  offered  with  down- 
cast eyes  to  Gianetto. 

"Keep  away  from  me!"  thundered  the  outlaw. 

Then,  turning  to  one  of  the  gendarmes,  he  said: 

"Comrade,  will  you  give  me  a  drink?" 

The  gendarme  put  the  flask  in  his  hand,  and  the  outlaw  drank  the  water 
given  him  by  the  man  with  whom  he  had  just  been  exchanging  rifle  shots. 
Then  he  requested  that  his  hands  might  be  tied  crossed  on  his  breast 
instead  of  behind  his  back. 


244 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


"I  would  rather,"  he  said,  "lie  comfortably." 

They  gratified  his  request.  Then,  at  a  sign  from  the  adjutant,  saying 
good-bye  to  Mateo,  who  vouchsafed  no  answer,  they  set  off  quickly  toward 
the  plain. 

Ten  minutes  passed  before  Mateo  opened  his  mouth.  The  child  looked 
uneasily,  first  at  his  mother,  then  at  his  father,  who  was  leaning  on  his  gun 
and  gazing  at  him  with  an  expression  of  concentrated  fury. 

"You  begin  well,"  said  Mateo  at  last,  in  a  calm  voice,  terrifying  enough 
to  those  who  knew  the  man. 

"Father!"  cried  the  boy,  with  tears  jn  his  eyes,  coming  nearer  as  if  to 
throw  himself  at  his  father's  knee. 

"Out  of  my  sight!"  Mateo  shouted. 

The  child  stopped  short  a  few  paces  away  from  his  father,  and  sobbed. 

Giuscppa  approached  him.  She  had  just  noticed  the  watch-chain  hanging 
Dut  of  his  shirt. 

"Who  gave  you  that  watch?"  she  asked  sternly. 

"My  cousin,  the  adjutant." 

Falcone  snatched  the  watch  and  flung  it  against  a  stone  with  such  violence 
that  it  was  shattered  into  a  thousand  fragments. 

"Woman,"  he  said,  "is  this  a  child  of  mine?" 

Giuseppa's  brown  cheeks  flushed  brick  red. 

"What  are  you  saying,  Mateo?  Do  you  realise  to  whom  you  are  speaking?" 

"Yes,  perfectly  well.  This  child  is  the  first  traitor  in  my  family." 

Fortunate  redoubled  his  sobs  and  choking,  and  Falcone  kept  watching 
him  like  a  hawk.  At  last  he  struck  the  ground  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle,  then 
Sung  it  across  his  shoulder,  returned  to  the  path  which  led  toward  the 
ruiquis,  and  commanded  Fortunate  to  follow  him.  The  child  obeyed. 

Giuseppa  ran  after  Mateo  and  clutched  his  arm. 

"He  is  your  son,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice,  fixing  her  dark  eyes  on 
those  of  her  husband,  as  if  to  read  all  that  was  passing  in  his  soul. 

"Leave  me,"  replied  Mateo.  "I  am  his  father." 

Giuseppa  kissed  her  son  and  went  back  weeping  into  the  house.  She  flung 
herself  on  her  knees  before  an  image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  prayed 
Fervently.  Falcone  walked  about  two  hundred  paces  along  the  path,  and 
went  down  a  little  ravine  where  he  stopped.  He  tested  the  ground  with  the 
butt  of  his  rifle,  and  found  it  soft  and  easy  to  dig.  The  spot  seemed  suitable 
For  his  purpose. 

"Fortunate,  go  over  to  that  big  rock." 

The  boy  did  as  he  was  told.  He  knelt  down. 

"Father,  Father,  do  not  kill  me!" 

"Say  your  prayers!"  shouted  Mateo  in  a  terrible  voice. 

MATEO  FALCONE        245 


The  boy,  stammering  and  sobbing,  recited  the  Our  Father  and  the 
Apostles'  Creed.  The  father  said  "Amen!"  in  a  firm  voice  at  the  end  of 
each  prayer. 

"Are  those  all  the  prayers  you  know?" 

"I  know  the  Hail  Mary,  too,  and  the  Litany  my  aunt  taught  me,  Father." 

"It  is  long,  but  never  mind." 

The  boy  finished  the  Litany  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"Have  you  finished?" 

"Oh,  Father,  forgive  me!  Forgive  me!  I'll  never  do  it  again.  I'll  beg  my 
cousin,  the  magistrate,  ever  so  hard  tp  pardon  Gianetto!" 

He  kept  beseeching  his  father.  Mateo  loaded  his  gun  and  took  aim. 

"God  forgive  you!"  he  said. 

The  boy  made  a  desperate  effort  to  rise  and  clasp  his  father's  knees,  but 
he  had  no  time.  Mateo  fired  and  Fortunato  fell  stone-dead. 

Without  glancing  at  the  body,  Mateo  returned  to  the  house  to  fetch  a 
spade  with  which  to  dig  his  son's  grave.  He  had  only  gone  a  few  steps  along 
the  path  when  he  met  Giuseppa,  running,  for  she  had  been  alarmed  by  the 
rifle  shot. 

"What  have  you  done?"  she  cried. 

"Justice!" 

"Where  is  he?" 

"In  the  ravine.  I  am  going  to  bury  him.  He  died  a  Christian.  I  shall  have 
a  Mass  said  for  him.  Send  word  to  my  son-in-law,  Tiodoro  Bianchi,  that  he  is 
to  come  and  live  with  us."  (1829) 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET 


The  death  of  the  Dauphin 


THE  LITTLE  DAUPHIN  is  ill— the  Dauphin  is  going  to  die.  In  all  the  churches 
the  Host  is  elevated  and  tall  candles  burn  for  the  recovery  of  the 
royal  child.  The  streets  of  the  ancient  residence  are  sad  and  silent,  the  bells 
are  mute,  citizens  peer  curiously  through  the  palace  gratings,  porters  talk 
in  solemn  tones  in  the  courts. 

All  the  palace  is  astir.  Chamberlains  and  majordomos  hurry  up  and  down 
the  marble  steps;  the  galleries  are  thronged  with  pages;  courtiers  in  silken 
robes  pass  from  group  to  group,  asking  the  news  in  smothered  accents.  On 
the  broad  stairways  weeping  maids  of  honor  bow  low,  and  wipe  their 
eyes  with  beautiful  embroidered  kerchiefs. 


246 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


An  assemblage  of  robed  doctors  gathers  in  the  orangery.  Through  the 
glasses  they  can  be  seen  waving  their  long  black  sleeves  and  inclining  doc- 
torally  their  perukes.  Before  the  door  walk  the  tutor  and  riding-master  of  the 
little  Dauphin.  They  are  waiting  for  decisions  of  the  faculty.  The  riding- 
master  swears  like  a  trooper,  the  tutor  quotes  Horace.  From  the  stable  comes 
a  long,  plaintive  neigh.  It  is  the  little  Dauphin's  chestnut,  who,  forgotten  by 
the  grooms,  calls  sadly  from  his  empty  crib. 

And  the  king— where  is  the  king?  Shut  up  all  alone  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  palace.  Kings  must  not  be  seen  to  weep.  Not  so,  however,  the  queen. 
Seated  by  the  Dauphin's  side,  her  lovely  face  all  bathed  in  tears,  she  sobs 
before  us  all  like  the  veriest  serving-woman. 

In  his  lace  bed  lies  the  little  Dauphin.  He  is  whiter  than  the  pillow  upon 
which  his  head  reclines.  They  believe  that  he  is  asleep;  but  no,  he  is  not 
asleep.  The  little  Dauphin  turns  to  his  mother.  "Madame  the  queen,  why  do 
you  weep?  Do  you  believe,  like  the  rest,  that  I  am  going  to  die?"  The  queen 
tries  to  answer;  sobs  choke  her  utterance. 

"Do  not  weep,  madame  the  queen,  You  forget  that  I  am  the  Dauphin; 
Dauphins  do  not  die  thus."  The  queen  sobs  more  piteously.  The  little 
Dauphin  is  frightened.  "Halloo!"  exclaims  he,  "I  do  not  want  to  die!  Order 
instantly  forty  stout  lansquenets  to  keep  guard  around  our  bed.  Set  a  hun- 
dred large  guns  to  watch  night  and  day  before  our  windows.  And  woe  to 
Death  should  he  dare  approach  us!" 

To  humor  the  royal  child  the  queen  makes  a  sign.  In  a  twinkling,  cannon 
are  heard  rolling  in  the  court;  forty  stout  lansquenets  with  their  partisans 
range  themselves  around  the  room.  They  are  old  troopers  and  their  mus- 
taches are  gray.  The  Dauphin  recognizes  one.  "Lorrain!"  he  cries.  The  old 
soldier  draws  closer.  "Let  me  look  at  your  big  sword.  If  Death  comes  for  me 
you  will  kill  him,  will  you  not?"  *'Yes,  monseigneur."  And  two  big  tears  roll 
down  his  tanned  cheeks. 

The  priest  approaches  the  Dauphin.  He  speaks  long  in  subdued  tones 
and  holds  up  the  crucifix.  The  Dauphin  shows  surprise.  Suddenly  he  inter- 
rupts him.  "I  see  what  you  mean,  monsieur  the  abbe;  but  would  not  my  little 
friend  Beppo  die  in  my  place  if  we  pay  him  plenty  of  money?"  The  priest 
continues  to  speak.  The  Dauphin  looks  more  and  more  surprised.  When  the 
priest  ceases,  he  says,  with  a  sigh,  "All  that  is  very  sad,  monsieur  the  abb£, 
but  there  is  one  comfort  for  me.  When  I  get  to  the  paradise  of  the  stars 
I  shall  still  be  the  Dauphin.  The  good  God  is  my  cousin,  and  will  treat  me 
according  to  my  rank." 

Then  he  turned  to  his  mother,  and  said,  "Let  them  bring  my  best  clothes 
—the  ermine  doublet  and  velvet  pumps.  I  want  to  make  myself  smart  for  the 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DAUPHIN   247 


angels,  and  enter  paradise  dressed  like  the  Dauphin/*  Again  the  priest 
bends  over  the  Dauphin,  and  speaks  to  him  in  low  tones.  In  the  midst  of  the 
discourse  the  royal  child  interrupts  him  angrily:  "What!  it  is  nothing,  then, 
to  be  a  Dauphin,  after  all!"  and  refusing  to  hear  more,  he  turns  his  head  to 
the  wall  and  weeps  bitterly.  (1869) 


ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON 


Markheim 


YES,"  said  the  dealer,  "our  windfalls  are  of  various  kinds.  Some  customers 
are  ignorant,  and  then  I  touch  a  dividend  on  my  superior  knowledge. 
Some  are  dishonest,"  and  here  he  held  up  the  candle,  so  that  the  light  fell 
strongly  on  his  visitor,  "and  in  that  case,"  he  continued,  "I  profit  by  my 
virtue." 

Markheim  had  but  just  entered  from  the  daylight  streets,  and  his  eyes  had 
not  yet  grown  familiar  with  the  mingled  shine  and  darkness  in  the  shop. 
At  these  pointed  words,  and  before  the  near  presence  of  the  flame,  he 
blinked  painfully  and  looked  aside. 

The  dealer  chuckled.  "You  come  to  me  on  Christmas-day,"  he  resumed, 
"when  you  know  that  I  am  alone  in  my  house,  put  up  my  shutters,  and  make 
a  point  of  refusing  business.  Well,  you  will  have  to  pay  for  that;  you  will 
have  to  pay  for  my  loss  of  time,  when  I  should  be  balancing  my  books;  you 
will  have  to  pay,  besides,  for  a  kind  of  manner  that  I  remark  in  you  to-day 
very  strongly.  I  am  the  essence  of  discretion,  and  ask  no  awkward  questions; 
but  when  a  customer  can  not  look  me  in  the  eye,  he  has  to  pay  for  it."  The 
dealer  once  more  chuckled;  and  then,  changing  to  his  usual  business  voice, 
though  still  with  a  note  of  irony,  "You  can  give,  as  usual,  a  clean  account  of 
how  you  came  into  the  possession  of  the  object?"  he  continued.  "Still  your 
uncle's  cabinet?  A  remarkable  collector,  sir!" 

And  the  little,  pale,  round-shouldered  dealer  stood  almost  on  tip-toe,  look- 
ing over  the  top  of  his  gold  spectacles,  and  nodding  his  head  with  every 
mark  of  disbelief.  Markheim  returned  his  gaze  with  one  of  infinite  pity,  and 
a  touch  of  horror. 

"This  time,"  said  he,  "you  are  in  error.  I  have  not  come  to  sell,  but  to  buy. 
I  have  no  curios  to  dispose  of;  my  uncle's  cabinet  is  bare  to  the  wainscot; 
even  were  it  still  intact,  I  have  done  well  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  should 
more  likely  add  to  it  than  otherwise,  and  my  errand  to-day  is  simplicity 
itself.  I  seek  a  Christmas-present  for  a  lady,"  he  continued,  waxing  more 
fluent  as  he  struck  into  the  speech  he  had  prepared;  "and  certainly  I  owe 
you  every  excuse  for  thus  disturbing  you  upon  so  small  a  matter.  But  the 

248        THE   SHORT    STORY 


thing  was  neglected  yesterday;  I  must  produce  my  little  compliment  at 
dinner;  and,  as  you  very  well  know,  a  rich  marriage  is  not  a  thing  to  be 
neglected." 

There  followed  a  pause,  during  which  the  dealer  seemed  to  weigh  this 
statement  incredulously.  The  ticking  of  many  clocks  among  the  curious 
lumber  of  the  shop,  and  the  faint  rushing  of  the  cabs  in  a  near  thoroughfare, 
filled  up  the  interval  of  silence. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  dealer,  "be  it  so.  You  are  an  old  customer  after  all; 
and  if,  as  you  say,  you  have  the  chance  of  a  good  marriage,  far  be  it  from 
me  to  be  an  obstacle.  Here  is  a  nice  thing  for  a  lady  now,"  he  went  on, 
"this  hand-glass— fifteenth  century,  warranted;  comes  from  a  good  collec- 
tion, too;  but  I  reserve  the  name,  in  the  interests  of  my  customer,  who  was 
just  like  yourself,  my  dear  sir,  the  nephew  and  sole  heir  of  a  remarkable 
collector." 

The  dealer,  while  he  thus  ran  on  in  his  dry  and  biting  voice,  had  stooped 
to  take  the  object  from  its  place;  and,  as  he  had  done  so,  a  shock  had  passed 
through  Markheim,  a  start  both  of  hand  and  foot,  a  sudden  leap  of  many 
tumultuous  passions  to  the  face.  It  passed  as  swiftly  as  it  came,  and  left  no 
trace  beyond  a  certain  trembling  of  the  hand  that  now  received  the  glass. 

"A  glass,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  and  then  paused,  and  repeated  it  more  clearly. 
"A  glass?  For  Christmas?  Surely  not?" 

"And  why  not?"  cried  the  dealer.  "Why  not  a  glass?" 

Markheim  was  looking  upon  him  with  an  indefinable  expression.  "You 
ask  me  why  not?"  he  said.  "Why,  look  here—look  in  it—look  at  yourselfl 
Do  you  like  to  see  it?  No!  nor  I— nor  any  man." 

The  little  man  had  jumped  back  when  Markheim  had  so  suddenly  con- 
fronted him  with  the  mirror;  but  now,  perceiving  there  was  nothing  worse 
on  hand,  he  chuckled.  "Your  future  lady,  sir,  must  be  pretty  hard  favored/' 
said  he. 

"I  ask  you,"  said  Markheim,  "for  a  Christmas-present,  and  you  give  me 
this— this  damned  reminder  of  years,  and  sins  and  follies— this  hand-con- 
science! Did  you  mean  it?  Had  you  a  thought  in  your  mind?  Tell  me.  It  will 
be  better  for  you  if  you  do.  Come,  tell  me  about  yourself.  I  hazard  a  guess 
now,  that  you  are  in  secret  a  very  charitable  man?" 

The  dealer  looked  closely  at  his  companion.  It  was  very  odd,  Markheim 
did  not  appear  to  be  laughing;  there  was  something  in  his  face  like  an  eager 
sparkle  of  hope,  but  nothing  of  mirth. 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  the  dealer  asked. 

"Not  charitable?"  returned  the  other,  gloomily.  "Not  charitable;  not  pious; 
not  scrupulous;  unloving,  unbeloved;  a  hand  to  get  money,  a  safe  to  keep  it. 
Is  that  all?  Dear  God,  man,  is  that  all?" 

"I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,"  began  the  dealer,  with  some  sharpness,  and 

MARKHEIM        249 


then  broke  off  again  into  a  chuckle.  "But  I  see  this  is  a  love  match  of  yours, 
and  you  have  been  drinking  the  lady's  health." 

"Ah!"  cried  Markheim,  with  a  strange  curiosity.  "Ah,  have  you  been  in 
love?  Tell  me  about  that." 

"I,"  cried  the  dealer.  "I  in  love!  I  never  had  the  time,  nor  have  I  the  time 
to-day  for  all  this  nonsense.  Will  you  take  the  glass?" 

"Where  is  the  hurry?"  returned  Markheim.  "It  is  very  pleasant  to  stand 
here  talking;  and  life  is  so  short  and  insecure  that  I  would  not  hurry  away 
from  any  pleasure—no,  not  even  from  so  mild  a  one  as  this.  We  should  rather 
cling,  cling  to  what  little  we  can  get,  like  a  man  at  a  cliff's  edge.  Every  sec- 
ond is  a  cliff,  if  you  think  upon  it— a  cliff  a  mile  high— high  enough,  if  we  fall, 
to  dash  us  out  of  every  feature  of  humanity.  Hence  it  is  best  to  talk  pleas- 
antly. Let  us  talk  of  each  other;  why  should  we  wear  this  mask?  Let  us  be 
confidential.  Who  knows,  we  might  become  friends?" 

"I  have  just  one  word  to  say  to  you,"  said  the  dealer.  "Either  make  your 
purchase,  or  walk  out  of  my  shop." 

"True,  true,"  said  Markheim.  "Enough  fooling.  To  business.  Show  me 
something  else." 

The  dealer  stooped  once  more,  this  time  to  replace  the  glass  upon  the 
shelf,  his  thin  blonde  hair  falling  over  his  eyes  as  he  did  so.  Markheim 
moved  a  little  nearer,  with  one  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  great-coat;  he  drew 
himself  up  and  filled  his  lungs;  at  the  same  time  many  different  emotions 
were  depicted  together  on  his  face—terror,  horror,  and  resolve,  fascination 
and  a  physical  repulsion;  and  through  a  haggard  lift  of  his  upper  lip,  his 
teeth  looked  out. 

"This,  perhaps,  may  suit,"  observed  the  dealer;  and  then,  as  he  began  to 
re-arise,  Markheim  bounded  from  behind  upon  his  victim.  The  long, 
skewer-like  dagger  flashed  and  fell.  The  dealer  struggled  like  a  hen,  strik- 
ing his  temple  on  the  shelf,  and  then  tumbled  on  the  floor  in  a  heap. 

Time  had  some  score  of  small  voices  in  that  shop,  some  stately  and  slow 
as  was  becoming  to  their  great  age;  others  garrulous  and  hurried.  All  these 
told  out  the  seconds  in  an  intricate  chorus  of  tickings.  Then  the  passage  of 
a  lad's  feet,  heavily  running  on  the  pavement,  broke  in  upon  these  smaller 
voices  and  startled  Markheim  into  the  consciousness  of  his  surroundings. 
He  looked  about  him  awfully.  The  candle  stood  on  the  counter,  its  flame 
solemnly  wagging  in  a  draught;  and  by  that  inconsiderable  movement,  the 
whole  room  was  filled  with  noiseless  bustle  and  kept  heaving  like  a  sea:  the 
tall  shadows  nodding,  the  gross  blots  of  darkness  swelling  and  dwindling 
as  with  respiration,  the  faces  of  the  portraits  and  the  china  gods  changing 
and  wavering  like  images  in  water.  The  inner  door  stood  ajar,  and  peered 
into  that  league  of  shadows  with  a  long  slit  of  daylight  like  a  pointing  finger. 

From  these  fear-stricken  rovings,  Markheim's  eyes  returned  to  the  body 

250        THE   SHORT   STORY 


of  his  victim,  where  it  lay  both  humped  and  sprawling,  incredibly  small  and 
strangely  meaner  than  in  life.  In  these  poor,  miserly  clothes,  in  that  ungainly 
attitude,  the  dealer  lay  like  so  much  sawdust.  Markheim  had  feared  to  see 
it,  and,  lo!  it  was  nothing.  And  yet,  as  he  gazed,  this  bundle  of  old  clothes 
and  pool  of  blood  began  to  find  eloquent  voices.  There  it  must  lie;  there 
was  none  to  work  the  cunning  hinges  or  direct  the  miracle  of  locomotion- 
there  it  must  lie  till  it  was  found.  Foundl  ay,  and  then?  Then  would  this 
dead  flesh  lift  up  a  cry  that  would  ring  over  England,  and  fill  the  world  with 
the  echoes  of  pursuit.  Ay,  dead  or  not,  this  was  still  the  enemy.  "Time  was 
that  when  the  brains  were  out,"  he  thought;  and  the  first  word  struck  into 
his  mind.  Time,  now  that  the  deed  was  accomplished— time,  which  had 
closed  for  the  victim,  had  become  instant  and  momentous  for  the  slayer. 

The  thought  was  yet  in  his  mind,  when,  first  one  and  then  another,  with 
every  variety  of  pace  and  voice— one  deep  as  the  bell  from  a  cathedral  turret, 
another  ringing  on  its  treble  notes  the  prelude  of  a  waltz— the  clocks  began 
to  strike  the  hour  of  three  in  the  afternoon. 

The  sudden  outbreak  of  so  many  tongues  in  that  dumb  chamber  staggered 
him.  He  began  to  bestir  himself,  going  to  and  fro  with  the  candle,  belea- 
guered by  moving  shadows,  and  startled  to  the  soul  by  chance  reflections.  In 
many  rich  mirrors,  some  of  home  designs,  some  from  Venice  or  Amsterdam, 
he  saw  his  face  repeated  and  repeated,  as  it  were  an  army  of  spies;  his  own 
eyes  met  and  detected  him;  and  the  sound  of  his  own  steps,  lightly  as  they 
fell,  vexed  the  surrounding  quiet.  And  still  as  he  continued  to  fill  his  pockets, 
his  mind  accused  him,  with  a  sickening  iteration,  of  the  thousand  faults  of 
his  design.  He  should  have  chosen  a  more  quiet  hour;  he  should  have  pre- 
pared an  alibi;  he  should  not  have  used  a  knife;  he  should  have  been  more 
cautious,  and  only  bound  and  gagged  the  dealer,  and  not  killed  him;  he 
should  have  been  more  bold,  and  killed  the  servant  also;  he  should  have 
done  all  things  otherwise;  poignant  regrets,  weary,  incessant  toiling  of  the 
mind  to  change  what  was  unchangeable,  to  plan  what  was  now  useless,  to 
be  the  architect  of  the  irrevocable  past.  Meanwhile,  and  behind  all  this 
activity,  brute  terrors,  like  scurrying  of  rats  in  a  deserted  attic,  filled  the  more 
remote  chambers  of  his  brain  with  riot;  the  hand  of  the  constable  would  fall 
heavy  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  nerves  would  jerk  like  a  hooked  fish;  or  he 
beheld,  in  galloping  defile,  the  dock,  the  prison,  the  gallows,  and  the  black 
coffin. 

Terror  of  the  people  in  the  street  sat  down  before  his  mind  like  a  besieg- 
ing army.  It  was  impossible,  he  thought,  but  that  some  rumor  of  the  struggle 
must  have  reached  their  ears  and  set  on  edge  their  curiosity;  and  now,  in 
all  the  neighboring  houses,  he  divined  them  sitting  motionless  and  with 
uplifted  ear— solitary  people,  condemned  to  spend  Christmas  dwelling  alone 
on  memories  of  the  past,  and  now  startlingly  recalled  from  that  tender  exer- 

MARKHEIM        251 


else;  happy  family  parties,  struck  into  silence  round  the  table,  the  mother 
still  with  raised  finger:  every  degree  and  age  and  humor,  but  all,  by  their 
own  hearths,  prying  and  hearkening  and  weaving  the  rope  that  was  to  hang 
him.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  he  could  not  move  too  softly;  the  clink  of 
the  tall  Bohemian  goblets  rang  out  loudly  like  a  bell;  and  alarmed  by  the 
bigness  of  the  ticking,  he  was  tempted  to  stop  the  clocks.  And  then,  again, 
with  a  swift  transition  of  his  terrors,  the  very  silence  of  the  place  appeared 
a  source  of  peril,  and  a  thing  to  strike  and  freeze  the  passer-by;  and  he 
would  step  more  boldly,  and  bustle  aloud  among  the  contents  of  the  shop, 
and  imitate,  with  elaborate  bravado,  the  movements  of  a  busy  man  at  ease 
in  his  own  house. 

But  he  was  now  so  pulled  about  by  different  alarms  that,  while  one  por- 
tion of  his  mind  was  still  alert  and  cunning,  another  trembled  on  the  brink 
of  lunacy.  One  hallucination  in  particular  took  a  strong  hold  on  his  credulity. 
The  neighbor  hearkening  with  white  face  beside  his  window,  the  passer-by 
arrested  by  a  horrible  surmise  on  the  pavement—these  could  at  worst  sus- 
pect, they  could  not  know;  through  the  brick  walls  and  shuttered  windows 
only  sounds  could  penetrate.  But  here,  within  the  house,  was  he  alone?  He 
knew  he  was;  he  had  watched  the  servant  set  forth  sweethearting,  in  her 
poor  best,  "out  for  the  day"  written  in  every  ribbon  and  smile.  Yes,  he  was 
alone,  of  course;  and  yet,  in  the  bulk  of  empty  house  above  him,  he  could 
surely  hear  a  stir  of  delicate  footing— he  was  surely  conscious,  inexplicably 
conscious  of  some  presence.  Ay,  surely;  to  every  room  and  corner  of  the 
house  his  imagination  followed  it;  and  now  it  was  a  faceless  thing,  and  yet 
had  eyes  to  see  with;  and  again  it  was  a  shadow  of  himself;  and  yet  again 
behold  the  image  of  the  dead  dealer,  reinspired  with  cunning  and  hatred. 

At  times,  with  a  strong  effort,  he  would  glance  at  the  open  door  which 
still  seemed  to  repel  his  eyes.  The  house  was  tall,  the  skylight  small  and  dirty, 
the  day  blind  with  fog;  and  the  light  that  filtered  down  to  the  ground  story 
was  exceedingly  faint,  and  showed  dimly  on  the  threshold  of  the  shop.  And 
yet,  in  that  strip  of  doubtful  brightness,  did  there  not  hang  wavering  a 
shadow? 

Suddenly,  from  the  street  outside,  a  very  jovial  gentleman  began  to  beat 
with  a  staff  on  the  shop-door,  accompanying  his  blows  with  shouts  and 
railleries  in  which  the  dealer  was  continually  called  upon  by  name.  Mark- 
heim,  smitten  into  ice,  glanced  at  the  dead  man.  But  no!  he  lay  quite  still; 
he  was  fled  away  far  beyond  earshot  of  these  blows  and  shoutings;  he  was 
sunk  beneath  seas  of  silence;  and  his  name,  which  would  once  have  caught 
his  notice  above  the  howling  of  a  storm,  had  become  an  empty  sound.  And 
presently  the  jovial  gentleman  desisted  from  his  knocking  and  departed. 

Here  was  a  broad  hint  to  hurry  what  remained  to  be  done,  to  get  forth 

252        THE  SHORT   STORY 


from  this  accusing  neighborhood,  to  plunge  into  a  bath  of  London  multi- 
tudes, and  to  reach,  on  the  other  side  of  day,  that  haven  of  safety  and  ap- 
parent innocence— his  bed.  One  visitor  had  come:  at  any  moment  another 
might  follow  and  be  more  obstinate.  To  have  done  the  deed,  and  yet  not  to 
reap  the  profit,  would  be  too  abhorrent  a  failure.  The  money,  that  was  now 
Markheim's  concern;  and  as  a  means  to  that,  the  keys. 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  open  door,  where  the  shadow  was 
still  lingering  and  shivering;  and  with  no  conscious  repugnance  of  the  mind, 
yet  with  a  tremor  of  the  belly,  he  drew  near  the  body  of  his  victim.  The 
human  character  had  quite  departed.  Like  a  suit  half-stuffed  with  bran,  the 
limbs  lay  scattered,  the  trunk  doubled,  on  the  floor;  and  yet  the  thing  re- 
pelled him.  Although  so  dingy  and  inconsiderable  to  the  eye,  he  feared  it 
might  have  more  significance  to  the  touch.  He  took  the  body  by  the  shoulders, 
and  turned  it  on  its  back.  It  was  strangely  light  and  supple,  and  the  limbs, 
as  if  they  had  been  broken,  fell  into  the  oddest  postures.  The  face  was  robbed 
of  all  expression;  but  it  was  as  pale  as  wax,  and  shockingly  smeared  with 
blood  about  one  temple.  That  was,  for  Markheim,  the  one  displeasing  cir- 
cumstance. It  carried  him  back,  upon  the  instant,  to  a  certain  fair  day  in  a 
fisher's  village:  a  gray  day,  a  piping  wind,  a  crowd  upon  the  street,  the  blare 
of  brasses,  the  booming  of  drums,  the  nasal  voice  of  a  ballad  singer;  and  a 
boy  going  to  and  fro,  buried  over  head  in  the  crowd  and  divided  between 
interest  and  fear,  until,  coming  out  upon  the  chief  place  of  concourse,  he 
beheld  a  booth  and  a  great  screen  with  pictures,  dismally  designed,  garishly 
colored:  Brownrigg  with  her  apprentice;  the  Mannings  with  their  murdered 
guest;  Weare  in  the  death-grip  of  Thurtell;  and  a  score  besides  of  famous 
crimes.  The  thing  was  as  clear  as  an  illusion;  he  was  once  again  that  little 
boy;  he  was  looking  once  again,  and  with  the  same  sense  of  physical  revolt, 
at  these  vile  pictures;  he  was  still  stunned  by  the  thumping  of  the  drums.  A 
bar  of  that  day's  music  returned  upon  his  memory;  and  at  that,  for  the 
first  time,  a  qualm  came  over  him,  a  breath  of  nausea,  a  sudden  weakness 
of  the  joints,  which  he  must  instantly  resist  and  conquer. 

He  judged  it  more  prudent  to  confront  than  to  flee  from  these  considera- 
tions; looking  the  more  hardily  in  the  dead  face,  bending  his  mind  to  realize 
the  nature  and  greatness  of  his  crime.  So  little  awhile  ago  that  face  had 
moved  with  every  change  of  sentiment,  that  pale  mouth  had  spoken,  that 
body  had  been  all  on  fire  with  governable  energies;  and  now,  and  by  his 
act,  that  piece  of  life  had  been  arrested,  as  the  horologist,  with  interjected 
finger,  arrests  the  beating  of  the  clock.  So  he  reasoned  in  vain;  he  could 
rise  to  no  more  remorseful  consciousness;  the  same  heart  which  had  shud- 
dered before  the  painted  effigies  of  crime,  looked  on  its  reality  unmoved. 
At  best,  he  felt  a  gleam  of  pity  for  one  who  had  been  endowed  in  vain  with 

MAMHEIM        £53 


all  those  faculties  that  can  make  the  world  a  garden  of  enchantment,  one 
who  had  never  lived  and  who  was  now  dead.  But  of  penitence,  no,  with  a 
tremor. 

With  that,  shaking  himself  clear  of  these  considerations,  he  found  the 
keys  and  advanced  toward  the  open  door  of  the  shop.  Outside,  it  had  begun 
to  rain  smartly;  and  the  sound  of  the  shower  upon  the  roof  had  banished 
silence.  Like  some  dripping  cavern,  the  chambers  of  the  house  were  haunted 
by  an  incessant  echoing,  which  filled  the  ear  and  mingled  with  the  ticking 
of  the  clocks.  And,  as  Markheim  approached  the  door,  he  seemed  to  hear, 
in  answer  to  his  own  cautious  tread,  the  steps  of  another  foot  withdrawing 
up  the  stair.  The  shadow  still  palpitated  loosely  on  the  threshold.  He  threw 
a  ton's  weight  of  resolve  upon  his  muscles,  and  drew  back  the  door. 

The  faint,  foggy  daylight  glimmered  dimly  on  the  bare  floor  and  stairs; 
on  the  bright  suit  of  armor  posted,  halbert  in  hand,  upon  the  landing;  and 
on  the  dark  wood-carvings,  and  framed  pictures  that  hung  against  the 
yellow  panels  of  the  wainscot.  So  loud  was  the  beating  of  the  rain  through 
all  the  house  that,  in  Markheim's  ears,  it  began  to  be  distinguished  into 
many  different  sounds.  Footsteps  and  sighs,  the  tread  of  regiments  march- 
ing in  the  distance,  the  chink  of  money  in  the  counting,  and  the  creaking 
of  doors  held  stealthily  ajar,  appeared  to  mingle  with  the  patter  of  the 
drops  upon  the  cupola  and  the  gushing  of  the  water  in  the  pipes.  The  sense 
that  he  was  not  alone  grew  upon  him  to  the  verge  of  madness.  On  every 
side  he  was  haunted  and  begirt  by  presences.  He  heard  them  moving  in  the 
upper  chambers;  from  the  shop,  he  heard  the  dead  man  getting  to  his  legs; 
and  as  he  began  with  a  great  effort  to  mount  the  stairs,  feet  fled  quietly 
before  him  and  followed  stealthily  behind.  If  he  were  but  deaf,  he  thought, 
how  tranquilly  he  would  possess  his  soul.  And  then  again,  and  hearkening 
with  every  fresh  attention,  he  blessed  himself  for  that  unresisting  sense 
which  held  the  outposts  and  stood  a  trusty  sentinel  upon  his  life.  His  head 
turned  continually  on  his  neck;  his  eyes,  which  seemed  starting  from  their 
orbits,  scouted  on  every  side,  and  on  every  side  were  half -rewarded  as  with 
the  tail  of  something  nameless  vanishing.  The  four-and-twenty  steps  to  the 
first  floor  were  four-and-twenty  agonies. 

On  that  first  story,  the  doors  stood  ajar,  three  of  them  like  three  ambushes, 
shaking  his  nerves  like  the  throats  of  cannon.  He  could  never  again,  he  felt, 
be  sufficiently  immured  and  fortified  from  men's  observing  eyes;  he  longed 
to  be  home,  girt  in  by  walls,  buried  among  bedclothes,  and  invisible  to  all 
but  God.  And  at  that  thought  he  wondered  a  little,  recollecting  tales  of  other 
murderers  and  the  fear  they  were  said  to  entertain  of  heavenly  avengers. 
It  was  not  so,  at  least,  with  him.  He  feared  the  laws  of  nature,  lest,  in  their 
callous  and  immutable  procedure,  they  should  preserve  some  damning  evi- 
dence of  his  crime.  He  feared  tenfold  more,  with  a  slavish,  superstitious 


254 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


terror,  some  scission  in  the  continuity  of  man's  experience,  some  willful 
illegality  of  nature.  He  played  a  game  of  skill,  depending  on  the  rules,  cal- 
culating consequence  from  cause;  and  what  if  nature,  as  the  defeated  tyrant 
overthrew  the  chess-board,  should  break  the  mold  of  their  succession?  The 
like  had  befallen  Napoleon  (so  writers  said)  when  the  winter  changed  the 
time  of  its  appearance.  The  like  might  befall  Markheim:  the  solid  walls 
might  become  transparent  and  reveal  his  doings  like  those  of  bees  in  a  glass 
hive;  and  stout  planks  might  yield  under  his  foot  like  quicksands  and  detain 
him  in  their  clutch;  ay,  and  there  were  soberer  accidents  that  might  destroy 
him:  if,  for  instance,  the  house  should  fall  and  imprison  him  beside  the  body 
of  his  victim;  or  the  house  next  door  should  fly  on  fire,  and  the  firemen 
invade  him  from  all  sides.  These  things  he  feared;  and,  in  a  sense,  these 
things  might  be  called  the  hands  of  God  reached  forth  against  sin.  But  about 
God  himself  he  was  at  ease;  his  act  was  doubtless  exceptional,  but  so  were 
his  excuses,  which  God  knew;  it  was  there,  and  not  among  men,  that  he 
felt  sure  of  justice. 

When  he  had  got  safe  into  the  drawing-room,  and  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  he  was  aware  of  a  respite  from  alarms.  The  room  was  quite  dismantled, 
uncarpeted  besides,  and  strewn  with  packing  cases  and  incongruous  furni- 
ture; several  great  pier-glasses,  in  which  he  beheld  himself  at  various  angles, 
like  an  actor  on  the  stage;  many  pictures,  framed  and  unframed,  standing 
with  their  faces  to  the  wall;  a  fine  Sheraton  sideboard,  a  cabinet  of  marquetry, 
and  a  great  old  bed,  with  tapestry  hangings.  The  windows  opened  to  the 
floor;  but  by  great  good  fortune  the  lower  part  of  the  shutters  had  been 
closed,  and  this  concealed  him  from  the  neighbors.  Here,  then,  Markheim 
drew  in  a  packing  case  before  the  cabinet,  and  began  to  search  among  the 
keys.  It  was  a  long  business,  for  there  were  many;  and  it  was  irksome,  be- 
sides; for,  after  all,  there  might  be  nothing  in  the  cabinet,  and  time  was  on 
the  wing.  But  the  closeness  of  the  occupation  sobered  him.  With  the  tail 
of  his  eye  he  saw  the  door— even  glanced  at  it  from  time  to  time  directly, 
like  a  besieged  commander  pleased  to  verify  the  good  estate  of  his  defenses. 
But  in  truth  he  was  at  peace.  The  rain  falling  in  the  street  sounded  natural 
and  pleasant.  Presently,  on  the  other  side,  the  notes  of  a  piano  were  wakened 
to  the  music  of  a  hymn,  and  the  voices  of  many  children  took  up  the  air 
and  words.  How  stately,  how  comfortable  was  the  melodyl  How  fresh  the 
youthful  voices!  Markheim  gave  ear  to  it  smilingly,  as  he  sorted  out  the  keys; 
and  his  mind  was  thronged  with  answerable  ideas  and  images;  church- 
going  children  and  the  pealing  of  the  high  organ;  children  afield,  bathers 
by  the  brook-side,  ramblers  on  the  brambly  common,  kite-flyers  in  the  windy 
and  cloud-navigated  sky;  and  then,  at  another  cadence  of  the  hymn,  back 
again  to  church,  and  the  somnolence  of  summer  Sundays,  and  the  high 
genteel  voice  of  the  parson  (which  he  smiled  a  little  to  recall)  and  die 

MARKHEIM       255 


painted  Jacobean  tombs,  and  the  dim  lettering  of  the  Ten  Commandments 
in  the  chancel. 

And  as  he  sat  thus,  at  once  busy  and  absent,  he  was  startled  to  his  feet. 
A  flash  of  ice,  a  flash  of  fire,  a  bursting  gush  of  blood,  went  over  him,  and  then 
he  stood  transfixed  and  thrilling.  A  step  mounted  the  stair  slowly  and  steadily, 
and  presently  a  hand  was  laid  upon  the  knob,  and  the  lock  clicked,  and  the 
door  opened. 

Fear  held  Maikheim  in  a  vice.  What  to  expect  he  knew  not,  whether  the 
dead  man  walking,  or  the  official  ministers  of  human  justice,  or  some  chance 
witness  blindly  stumbling  in  to  consign  him  to  the  gallows.  But  when  a  face 
was  thrust  into  the  aperture,  glanced  round  the  room,  looked  at  him,  nodded 
and  smiled  as  if  in  friendly  recognition,  and  then  withdrew  again,  and  the 
door  closed  behind  it,  his  fear  broke  loose  from  his  control  in  a  hoarse  cry. 
At  the  sound  of  this  the  visitant  returned. 

"Did  you  call  me?"  he  asked,  pleasantly,  and  with  that  he  entered  the  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

Markheim  stood  and  gazed  at  him  with  all  his  eyes.  Perhaps  there  was  a 
film  upon  his  sight,  but  the  outlines  of  the  newcomer  seemed  to  change  and 
waver  like  those  of  the  idols  in  the  wavering  candle-light  of  the  shop;  and 
at  times  he  thought  he  knew  him;  and  at  times  he  thought  he  bore  a  like- 
ness to  himself;  and  always,  like  a  lump  of  living  terror,  there  lay  in  his 
bosom  the  conviction  that  this  thing  was  not  of  the  earth  and  not  of  God. 

And  yet  the  creature  had  a  strange  air  of  the  common-place,  as  he  stood 
looking  on  Markheim  with  a  smile;  and  when  he  added:  "You  are  looking 
for  the  money,  I  believe?"  it  was  in  the  tones  of  everyday  politeness. 

Markheim  made  no  answer. 

"I  should  warn  you,"  resumed  the  other,  "that  the  maid  has  left  her  sweet- 
heart earlier  than  usual  and  will  soon  be  here.  If  Mr.  Markheim  be  found 
in  this  house,  I  need  not  describe  to  him  the  consequences." 

"You  know  me?"  cried  the  murderer. 

The  visitor  smiled.  "You  have  long  been  a  favorite  of  mine,"  he  said; 
"and  I  have  long  observed  and  often  sought  to  help  you." 

"What  are  you?"  cried  Markheim:  "the  devil?" 

"What  I  may  be,"  returned  the  other,  "can  not  affect  the  service  I  pro- 
pose to  render  you." 

"It  can,"  cried  Markheim;  "it  does!  Be  helped  by  you?  No,  never;  not 
by  you!  You  do  not  know  me  yet,  thank  God,  you  do  not  know  me!" 

"I  know  you,"  replied  the  visitant,  with  a  sort  of  kind  severity  or  rather 
firmness.  "I  know  you  to  the  soul." 

"Know  me!"  cried  Markheim.  "Who  can  do  so?  My  life  is  but  a  travesty 
and  slander  on  myself.  I  have  lived  to  belie  my  nature.  All  men  do;  all  men 
are  better  than  this  disguise  that  grows  about  and  stifles  them.  You  see  each 

256        THE  SHORT   STORY 


dragged  away  by  life,  like  one  whom  bravos  have  seized  and  muffled  in  a 
cloak.  If  they  had  their  own  control— if  you  could  see  their  faces,  they  would 
be  altogether  different,  they  would  shine  out  for  heroes  and  saints!  I  am 
worse  than  most;  myself  is  more  overlaid;  my  excuse  is  known  to  me  and 
God.  But,  had  I  the  time,  I  could  disclose  myself." 

"To  me?"  inquired  the  visitant. 

"To  you  before  all,"  returned  the  murderer.  "I  supposed  you  were  intelli- 
gent. I  thought— since  you  exist— you  would  prove  a  reader  of  the  heart. 
And  yet  you  would  propose  to  judge  me  by  my  acts!  Think  of  it;  my  acts! 
I  was  born  and  I  have  lived  in  a  land  of  giants;  giants  have  dragged  me 
by  the  wrists  since  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother— the  giants  of  circum- 
stance. And  you  would  judge  me  by  my  actsl  But  can  you  not  look  within? 
Can  you  not  understand  that  evil  is  hateful  to  me?  Can  you  not  see  within 
me  the  clear  writing  of  conscience,  never  blurred  by  any  willful  sophistry, 
although  too  often  disregarded?  Can  you  not  read  me  for  a  thing  that  surely 
must  be  common  as  humanity— the  unwilling  sinner?" 

"All  this  is  very  feelingly  expressed,"  was  the  reply,  "but  it  regards  me  not. 
These  points  of  consistency  are  beyond  my  province,  and  I  care  not  in  the 
least  by  what  compulsion  you  may  have  been  dragged  away,  so  as  you  are 
but  carried  in  the  right  direction.  But  time  flies;  the  servant  delays,  looking 
in  the  faces  of  the  crowd  and  at  the  pictures  on  the  hoardings,  but  still  she 
keeps  moving  nearer;  and  remember,  it  is  as  if  the  gallows  itself  was  striding 
toward  you  through  the  Christmas  streets!  Shall  I  help  you;  I,  who  know  all? 
Shall  I  tell  you  where  to  find  the  money?" 

"For  what  price?"  asked  Markheim. 

"I  offer  you  the  service  for  a  Christmas  gift,"  returned  the  other. 

Markheim  could  not  refrain  from  smiling  with  a  kind  of  bitter  triumph. 
"No,"  said  he,  "I  will  take  nothing  at  your  hands;  if  I  were  dying  of  thirst, 
and  it  was  your  hand  that  put  the  pitcher  to  my  lips,  I  should  find  the 
courage  to  refuse.  It  may  be  credulous,  but  I  will  do  nothing  to  commit 
myself  to  evil." 

"I  have  no  objection  to  a  death-bed  repentance,"  observed  the  visitant. 

"Because  you  disbelieve  their  efficacy!"  Markheim  cried. 

"I  do  not  say  so,"  returned  the  other;  "but  I  look  on  these  things  from  a 
different  side,  and  when  the  life  is  done  my  interest  falls.  The  man  has  lived 
to  serve  me,  to  spread  black  looks  under  color  of  religion,  or  to  sow  tares 
in  the  wheat-field,  as  you  do,  in  a  course  of  weak  compliance  with  desire. 
Now  that  he  draws  so  near  to  his  deliverance,  he  can  add  but  one  act  of 
service— to  repent,  to  die  smiling,  and  thus  to  build  up  in  confidence  and 
hope  the  more  timorous  of  my  surviving  followers.  I  am  not  so  hard  a  master. 
Try  me.  Accept  my  help.  Please  yourself  in  life  as  you  have  done  hitherto; 
please  yourself  more  amply,  spread  your  elbows  at  the  board;  and  when 

MARKHEIM        257 


the  night  begins  to  fall  and  the  curtains  to  be  drawn,  I  tell  you,  for  your 
greater  comfort,  that  you  will  find  it  even  easy  to  compound  your  quarrel 
with  your  conscience,  and  to  make  a  truckling  peace  with  God.  I  came  but 
now  from  such  a  deathbed,  and  the  room  was  full  of  sincere  mourners, 
listening  to  the  man's  last  words:  and  when  I  looked  into  that  face,  which 
had  been  set  as  a  flint  against  mercy,  I  found  it  smiling  with  hope." 

"And  do  you,  then,  suppose  me  such  a  creature?"  asked  Markheim.  "Do 
you  think  I  have  no  more  generous  aspirations  than  to  sin,  and  sin,  and  sin, 
and,  at  last,  sneak  into  heaven?  My  heart  rises  at  the  thought.  Is  this,  then, 
your  experience  of  mankind?  or  is  it  because  you  find  me  with  red  hands 
that  you  presume  such  baseness?  and  is  this  crime  of  murder  indeed  so 
impious  as  to  dry  up  the  very  springs  of  good?" 

"Murder  is  to  me  no  special  category,"  replied  the  other.  "All  sins  are 
murder,  even  as  all  life  is  war.  I  behold  your  race,  like  starving  mariners 
on  a  raft,  plucking  crusts  out  of  the  hands  of  famine  and  feeding  on  each 
other's  lives.  I  follow  sins  beyond  the  moment  of  their  acting;  I  find  in  all 
that  the  last  consequence  is  death;  and  to  my  eyes,  the  pretty  maid  who 
thwarts  her  mother  with  such  taking  graces  on  a  question  of  a  ball,  drips 
no  less  visibly  with  human  gore  than  such  a  murderer  as  yourself.  Do  I  say 
that  I  follow  sins?  I  follow  virtues  also;  they  differ  not  by  the  thickness  of  a 
nail,  they  are  both  scythes  for  the  reaping  angel  of  Death.  Evil,  for  which 
I  live,  consists  not  in  action  but  in  character.  The  bad  man  is  dear  to  me; 
not  the  bad  act,  whose  fruits,  if  we  could  follow  them  far  enough  down  the 
hurtling  cataract  of  the  ages,  might  yet  be  found  more  blessed  than  those 
of  the  rarest  virtues.  And  it  is  not  because  you  have  killed  a  dealer,  but 
because  you  are  Markheim,  that  I  offered  to  forward  your  escape." 

"I  will  lay  my  heart  open  to  you,"  answered  Markheim.  "This  crime  on 
which  you  find  me  is  my  last.  On  my  way  to  it  I  have  learned  many  lessons; 
itself  is  a  lesson,  a  momentous  lesson.  Hitherto  I  have  been  driven  with 
revolt  to  what  I  would  not;  I  was  a  bond-slave  to  poverty,  driven  and 
scourged.  There  are  robust  virtues  that  can  stand  in  these  temptations;  mine 
was  not  so:  I  had  a  thirst  of  pleasure.  But  to-day,  and  out  of  this  deed,  I 
pluck  both  warning  and  riches— both  the  power  and  a  fresh  resolve  to  be 
myself.  I  become  in  all  things  a  free  actor  in  the  world;  I  begin  to  see  myself 
all  changed,  these  hands  the  agents  of  good,  this  heart  at  peace.  Something 
comes  over  me  out  of  the  past;  something  of  what  I  have  dreamed  on  Sab- 
bath evenings  to  the  sound  of  the  church  organ,  of  what  I  forecast  when 
I  shed  tears  over  noble  books,  or  talked,  an  innocent  child,  with  my  mother. 
There  lies  my  life;  I  have  wandered  a  few  years,  but  now  I  see  once  more  my 
city  of  destination." 

258        THE  SHORT  STORY 


"You  are  to  use  this  money  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  I  think?"  remarked 
the  visitor;  "and  there,  if  I  mistake  not,  you  have  already  lost  some 
thousands?" 

"Ah,"  said  Markheim,  "but  this  time  I  have  a  sure  thing." 

"This  time,  again,  you  will  lose,"  replied  the  visitor,  quietly. 

"Ah,  but  I  keep  back  the  half  I"  cried  Markheim. 

"That  also  you  will  lose,"  said  the  other. 

The  sweat  started  upon  Markheim's  brow.  "Well,  then,  what  matter?"  he 
exclaimed.  "Say  it  be  lost,  say  I  am  plunged  again  in  poverty,  shall  one  part 
of  me,  and  that  the  worse,  continue  until  the  end  to  override  the  better? 
Evil  and  good  run  strong  in  me,  haling  me  both  ways.  I  do  not  love  the  one 
thing,  I  love  all.  I  can  conceive  great  deeds,  renunciations,  martyrdoms;  and 
though  I  be  fallen  to  such  a  crime  as  murder,  pity  is  no  stranger  to  my 
thoughts.  I  pity  the  poor;  who  knows  their  trials  better  than  myself?  I  pity 
and  help  them;  I  prize  love,  I  love  honest  laughter;  there  is  no  good  thing 
nor  true  thing  on  earth  but  I  love  it  from  my  heart.  And  are  my  vices  only 
to  direct  my  life,  and  my  virtues  to  lie  without  effect,  like  some  passive 
lumber  of  the  mind?  Not  so;  good,  also,  is  a  spring  of  acts." 

But  the  visitant  raised  his  finger.  "For  six-and-thirty  years  that  you  have 
been  in  this  world,"  said  he,  "through  many  changes  of  fortune  and  varieties 
of  humor,  I  have  watched  you  steadily  fall.  Fifteen  years  ago  you  would 
have  started  at  a  theft.  Three  years  back  you  would  have  blenched  at  the 
name  of  murder.  Is  there  any  crime,  is  there  any  cruelty  or  meanness,  from 
which  you  still  recoil?— five  years  from  now  I  shall  detect  you  in  the  fact! 
Downward,  downward,  lies  your  way;  nor  can  anything  but  death  avail 
to  stop  you." 

"It  is  true,"  Markheim  said,  huskily,  "I  have  in  some  degree  complied  with 
evil.  But  it  is  so  with  all:  the  very  saints,  in  the  mere  exercise  of  living,  grow 
less  dainty,  and  take  on  the  tone  of  their  surroundings." 

"I  will  propound  to  you  one  simple  question,"  said  the  other;  "and  as  you 
answer,  I  shall  read  to  you  your  moral  horoscope.  You  have  grown  in  many 
things  more  lax;  possibly  you  do  right  to  be  so;  and  at  any  account,  it  is  the 
same  with  all  men.  But  granting  that,  are  you  in  any  one  particular,  how- 
ever trifling,  more  difficult  to  please  with  your  own  conduct,  or  do  you  go 
in  all  things  with  a  looser  rein?" 

"In  any  one?"  repeated  Markheim,  with  an  anguish  of  consideration.  "No," 
he  added,  with  despair,  "in  none!  I  have  gone  down  in  all." 

"Then,"  said  the  visitor,  "content  yourself  with  what  you  are,  for  you  will 
never  change;  and  the  words  of  your  part  on  this  stage  are  irrevocably 
written  down." 

MARKHEIM        259 


Markheim  stood  for  a  long  while  silent,  and  indeed  it  was  the  visitor  who 
first  broke  the  silence.  "That  being  so,"  he  said,  "shall  I  show  you  the 
money?" 

"And  grace?"  cried  Markheim. 

"Have  you  not  tried  it?"  returned  the  other.  "Two  or  three  years  ago,  did 
I  not  see  you  on  the  platform  of  revival  meetings,  and  was  not  your  voice 
the  loudest  in  the  hymn?" 

"It  is  true,"  said  Markheim;  "and  I  see  clearly  what  remains  for  me  by  way 
of  duty.  I  thank  you  for  these  lessons  from  my  soul:  my  eyes  are  opened, 
and  I  behold  myself  at  last  for  what  I  am." 

At  this  moment,  the  sharp  note  of  the  door-bell  rang  through  the  house; 
and  the  visitant,  as  though  this  were  some  concerted  signal  for  which  he 
had  been  waiting,  changed  at  once  in  his  demeanor. 

"The  maid!"  he  cried.  "She  has  returned,  as  I  forewarned  you,  and  there 
is  now  before  you  one  more  difficult  passage.  Her  master,  you  must  say,  is 
ill;  you  must  let  her  in,  with  an  assured  but  rather  serious  countenance— no 
smiles,  no  overacting,  and  I  promise  you  success!  Once  the  girl  within,  and 
the  door  closed,  the  same  dexterity  that  has  already  rid  you  of  the  dealer  will 
relieve  you  of  this  last  danger  in  your  path.  Thenceforward  you  have  the 
whole  evening— the  whole  night,  if  needful— to  ransack  the  treasures  of  the 
house  and  to  make  good  your  safety.  This  is  help  that  comes  to  you  with  the 
mask  of  danger,  Up!"  he  cried:  "up,  friend;  your  life  hangs  trembling  in  the 
scales;  up,  and  actl" 

Markheim  steadily  regarded  his  counsellor.  "If  I  be  condemned  to  evil 
acts,"  he  said,  "there  is  still  one  door  of  freedom  open— I  can  cease  from 
action.  If  my  life  be  an  ill  thing,  I  can  lay  it  down.  Though  I  be,  as  you  say 
truly,  at  the  beck  of  every  small  temptation,  I  can  yet,  by  one  decisive  ges- 
ture, place  myself  beyond  the  reach  of  all.  My  love  of  good  is  damned  to 
barrenness;  it  may,  and  let  it  be!  But  I  have  still  my  hatred  of  evil;  and  from 
that,  to  your  galling  disappointment,  you  shall  see  that  I  can  draw  both 
energy  and  courage." 

The  features  of  the  visitor  began  to  undergo  a  wonderful  and  lovely 
change;  they  brightened  and  softened  with  a  tender  triumph;  and,  even  as 
they  brightened,  faded  and  dislimned.  But  Markheim  did  not  pause  to  watch 
or  understand  the  transformation.  He  opened  the  door  and  went  down- 
stairs very  slowly,  thinking  to  himself.  His  past  went  soberly  before  him; 
he  beheld  it  as  it  was,  ugly  and  strenuous  like  a  dream,  random  as  chance- 
medley—a  scene  of  defeat.  Life,  as  he  thus  reviewed  it,  tempted  him  no 
longer;  but  on  the  further  side  he  perceived  a  quiet  haven  for  his  bark.  He 
paused  in  the  passage,  and  looked  into  the  shop,  where  the  candle  still 

260        THE  SHORT   STORY 


burned  by  the  dead  body.  It  was  strangely  silent.  Thoughts  of  the  dealer 
swarmed  into  his  mind,  as  he  stood  gazing.  And  then  the  bell  once  more 
broke  out  into  impatient  clamor. 

He  confronted  the  maid  upon  the  threshold  with  something  like  a  smile. 

"You  had  better  go  for  the  police,"  said  he:  "I  have  killed  your  master/' 

(1885) 


RUDYARD    KIPLING 

The  man  who  would  be  king 

"Brother  to  a  prince  and  fellow  to  a  beggar  if  he  be  found  worthy." 

THE  LAW,  as  quoted,  lays  down  a  fair  conduct  of  life,  and  one  not  easy 
to  follow.  I  have  been  fellow  to  a  beggar  again  and  again  under  circum- 
stances which  prevented  either  of  us  finding  out  whether  the  other  was 
worthy.  I  have  still  to  be  brother  to  a  prince,  though  I  once  came  near  to 
kinship  with  what  might  have  been  a  veritable  king  and  was  promised  the 
reversion  of  a  kingdom— army,  law-courts,  revenue  and  policy  all  complete. 
But  today  I  greatly  fear  that  my  king  is  dead,  and  if  I  want  a  crown  I  must 
go  and  hunt  it  for  myself. 

The  beginning  of  everything  was  in  a  railway  train  upon  the  road  to 
Mhow  from  Ajmir.  There  had  been  a  Deficit  in  the  Budget,  which  necessi- 
tated traveling  not  second-class,  which  is  only  half  as  dear  as  first-class,  but 
by  intermediate,  which  is  very  awful  indeed.  There  are  no  cushions  in  the 
intermediate  class,  and  the  population  are  either  intermediate,  which  is 
Eurasian,  or  native,  which  for  a  long  night  journey  is  nasty,  or  loafer,  which 
is  amusing  though  intoxicated.  Intermediates  do  not  patronize  refreshment- 
rooms.  They  carry  their  food  in  bundles  and  pots,  and  buy  sweets  from  the 
native  sweetmeat  sellers,  and  drink  the  roadside  water.  That  is  why  in  the 
hot  weather  intermediates  are  taken  out  of  the  carriages  dead,  and  in  all 
weathers  are  most  properly  looked  down  upon. 

My  particular  intermediate  happened  to  be  empty  till  I  reached  Nasirabad, 
when  a  huge  gentleman  in  shirt-sleeves  entered  and,  following  the  custom  of 
intermediates,  passed  the  time  of  day.  He  was  a  wanderer  and  a  vagabond 
like  myself,  but  with  an  educated  taste  for  whisky.  He  told  tales  of  things 
he  had  seen  and  done,  of  out-of-the-way  corners  of  the  Empire  into  which 
he  had  penetrated,  and  of  adventures  in  which  he  risked  his  life  for  a  few 
days'  food.  "If  India  was  filled  with  men  like  you  and  me,  not  knowing  more 

THE    MAN   WHO  WOULD  BE   KING        261 


than  the  crows  where  they'd  get  their  next  day's  rations,  it  isn't  seventy 
millions  of  revenue  the  land  would  be  paying— it's  seven  hundred  millions," 
said  he;  and  as  I  looked  at  his  mouth  and  chin  I  was  disposed  to  agree  with 
him.  We  talked  politics— the  politics  of  loaferdom  that  sees  things  from  the 
underside  where  the  lath  and  plaster  is  not  smoothed  off— and  we  talked 
postal  arrangements  because  my  friend  wanted  to  send  a  telegram  back 
from  the  next  station  to  Ajmir,  which  is  the  turning-off  place  from  the 
Bombay  to  the  Mhow  line  as  you  travel  westward.  My  friend  had  no  money 
beyond  eight  annas  which  he  wanted  for  dinner,  and  I  had  no  money  at  all, 
owing  to  the  hitch  in  the  Budget  before  mentioned.  Further,  I  was  going  into 
a  wilderness  where,  though  I  should  resume  touch  with  the  Treasury,  there 
were  no  telegraph  offices.  I  was,  therefore,  unable  to  help  him  in  any  way. 

"We  might  threaten  a  station-master  to  make  him  send  a  wire  on  tick," 
said  my  friend,  "but  that'd  mean  inquiries  for  you  and  for  me,  and  I've  got 
my  hands  full  these  days.  Did  you  say  you  were  traveling  back  along  this 
line  within  any  days?" 

"Within  ten,"  I  said. 

"Can't  you  make  it  eight?"  said  he.  "Mine  is  rather  urgent  business." 

"I  can  send  your  telegram  within  ten  days  if  that  will  serve  you,"  I  said. 

"I  couldn't  trust  the  wire  to  fetch  him  now  I  think  of  it.  It's  this  way.  He 
leaves  Delhi  on  the  23d  for  Bombay.  That  means  he'll  be  running  through 
Ajmir  about  the  night  of  the  23d." 

"But  I'm  going  into  the  Indian  Desert,"  I  explained. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  he.  "You'll  be  changing  at  Marwar  Junction  to  get 
into  Jodhpore  territory— you  must  do  that— and  he'll  be  coming  through  Mar- 
war  Junction  in  the  early  morning  of  the  24th  by  the  Bombay  Mail.  Can  you 
be  at  Marwar  Junction  on  that  time?  'Twon't  be  inconveniencing  you,  be- 
cause I  know  that  there's  precious  few  pickings  to  be  got  out  of  those  Central 
India  States— even  though  you  pretend  to  be  correspondent  of  the  Back- 
woodsman" 

"Have  you  ever  tried  that  trick?"  I  asked. 

"Again  and  again,  but  the  Residents  find  you  out,  and  then  you  get  escorted 
to  the  Border  before  you've  time  to  get  your  knife  into  them.  But  about  my 
friend  here.  I  must  give  him  word  o'  mouth  to  tell  him  what's  come  to  me 
or  else  he  won't  know  where  to  go.  I  would  take  it  more  than  kind  of  you 
if  you  was  to  come  out  of  Central  India  in  time  to  catch  him  at  Marwar 
Junction,  and  say  to  him:  'He  has  gone  south  for  the  week/  He'll  know  what 
that  means.  He's  a  big  man  with  a  red  beard,  and  a  great  swell  he  is.  You'll 
find  him  sleeping  like  a  gentleman  with  all  his  luggage  round  him  in  a 
second-class  compartment.  But  don't  you  be  afraid.  Slip  down  the  window 
and  say:  'He  has  gone  south  for  the  week,'  and  he'll  tumble.  It's  only  cutting 

262        THE  SHORT  STORY 


your  time  of  stay  in  those  parts  by  two  days.  I  ask  you  as  a  stranger—going  to 
the  west,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 

"Where  have  you  come  from?"  said  I. 

"From  the  East,"  said  he,  "and  I  am  hoping  that  you  will  give  him  the 
message  on  the  square— for  the  sake  of  my  mother  as  well  as  your  own." 

Englishmen  are  not  usually  softened  by  appeals  to  the  memory  of  their 
mothers,  but  for  certain  reasons,  which  will  be  fully  apparent,  I  saw  fit  to 
agree. 

"It's  more  than  a  little  matter,"  said  he,  "and  that's  why  I  ask  you  to  do  it 
—and  now  I  know  that  I  can  depend  on  you  doing  it.  A  second-class  carriage 
at  Marwar  Junction,  and  a  red-haired  man  asleep  in  it.  You'll  be  sure  to 
remember.  I  get  out  at  the  next  station,  and  I  must  hold  on  there  till  he 
comes  or  sends  me  what  I  want." 

"I'll  give  the  message  if  I  catch  him,"  I  said,  "and  for  the  sake  of  your 
mother  as  well  as  mine  I'll  give  you  a  word  of  advice.  Don't  try  to  run  the 
Central  India  States  just  now  as  the  correspondent  of  the  Backwoodsman. 
There's  a  real  one  knocking  about  here,  and  it  might  lead  to  trouble." 

"Thank  you,"  said  he  simply,  "and  when  will  the  swine  be  gone?  I  can't 
starve  because  he's  ruining  my  work.  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the  Degumber 
Rajah  down  here  about  his  father's  widow,  and  give  him  a  jump." 

"What  did  he  do  to  his  father's  widow,  then?" 

"Filled  her  up  with  red  pepper  and  slippered  her  to  death  as  she  hung 
from  a  beam.  I  found  that  out  myself  and  I'm  the  only  man  that  would  dare 
going  into  the  state  to  get  hush-money  for  it.  They'll  try  to  poison  me,  same 
as  they  did  in  Chortumna  when  I  went  on  the  loot  there.  But  you'll  give  the 
man  at  Marwar  Junction  my  message?" 

He  got  out  at  a  little  roadside  station,  and  I  reflected.  I  had  heard,  more 
than  once,  of  men  personating  correspondents  of  newspapers  and  bleeding 
small  native  states  with  threats  of  exposure,  but  I  had  never  met  any  of  the 
caste  before.  They  lead  a  hard  life,  and  generally  die  with  great  suddenness. 
The  native  states  have  a  wholesome  horror  of  English  newspapers,  which 
may  throw  light  on  their  peculiar  methods  of  government,  and  do  their 
best  to  choke  correspondents  with  champagne,  or  drive  them  out  of  their 
mind  with  four-in-hand  barouches.  They  do  not  understand  that  nobody 
cares  a  straw  for  the  internal  administration  of  native  states  so  long  as  op- 
pression and  crime  are  kept  within  decent  limits,  and  the  ruler  is  not 
drugged,  drunk  or  diseased  from  one  end  of  the  year  to  the  other.  Native 
states  were  created  by  Providence  in  order  to  supply  picturesque  scenery, 
tigers  and  tall  writing.  They  are  the  dark  places  of  the  earth,  full  of  un- 
imaginable cruelty,  touching  the  Railway  and  the  Telegraph  on  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  the  days  of  Harun-al-Raschid.  When  I  left  the  train  I  did 


THE    MAN   WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


business  with  divers  kings,  and  in  eight  days  passed  through  many  changes 
of  life.  Sometimes  I  wore  dress  clothes  and  consorted  with  princes  and 
politicals,  drinking  from  crystal  and  eating  from  silver.  Sometimes  I  lay  out 
upon  the  ground  and  devoured  what  I  could  get  from  a  plate  made  of  a 
flapjack,  and  drank  the  running  water,  and  slept  under  the  same  rug  as  my 
servant.  It  was  all  in  the  day's  work. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Great  Indian  Desert  upon  the  proper  date,  as  I 
had  promised,  and  the  night  mail  set  me  down  at  Marwar  Junction,  where 
a  funny  little  happy-go-lucky,  native-managed  railway  runs  to  Jodhpore. 
The  Bombay  Mail  from  Delhi  makes  a  short  halt  at  Marwar.  She  arrived  as 
I  got  in,  and  I  had  just  time  to  hurry  to  her  platform  and  go  down  the  car- 
riages. There  was  only  one  second-class  on  the  train.  I  slipped  the  window 
and  looked  down  upon  a  flaming  red  beard,  half-covered  by  a  railway  rug. 
That  was  my  man,  fast  asleep,  and  I  dug  him  gently  in  the  ribs.  He  woke 
with  a  grunt  and  I  saw  his  face  in  the  light  of  the  lamps.  It  was  a  great 
and  shining  face. 

"Tickets  again?"  said  he. 

"No,"  said  I.  "I  am  to  tell  you  that  he  is  gone  south  for  the  week.  He  is 
gone  south  for  the  week!" 

The  train  had  begun  to  move  out.  The  red  man  rubbed  his  eyes.  "He  has 
gone  south  for  the  week,"  he  repeated.  "Now  that's  just  like  his  impidence. 
Did  he  say  that  I  was  to  give  you  anything?  'Cause  I  won't." 

"He  didn't,"  I  said  and  dropped  away,  and  watched  the  red  lights  die 
out  in  the  dark.  It  was  horribly  cold  because  the  wind  was  blowing  off  the 
sands.  I  climbed  into  my  own  train— not  an  intermediate  carriage  this  time 
—and  went  to  sleep. 

If  the  man  with  the  beard  had  given  me  a  rupee  I  should  have  kept  it 
as  a  memento  of  a  rather  curious  affair.  But  the  consciousness  of  having 
done  my  duty  was  my  only  reward. 

Later  on  I  reflected  that  two  gentlemen  like  my  friends  could  not  do  any 
good  if  they  foregathered  and  personated  correspondents  of  newspapers, 
and  might,  if  they  "stuck  up"  one  of  the  little  rat-trap  states  of  Central  India 
or  Southern  Rajputana,  get  themselves  into  serious  difficulties.  I  therefore 
took  some  trouble  to  describe  them  as  accurately  as  I  could  remember  to 
people  who  would  be  interested  in  deporting  them:  and  succeeded,  so  I 
was  later  informed,  in  having  them  headed  back  from  the  Degumber  borders. 

Then  I  became  respectable,  and  returned  to  an  office  where  there  were 
no  kings  and  no  incidents  except  the  daily  manufacture  of  a  newspaper.  A 
newspaper  office  seems  to  attract  every  conceivable  sort  of  person  to  the 
prejudice  of  discipline.  Zenana-mission  ladies  arrive,  and  beg  that  the  editor 
will  instantly  abandon  all  his  duties  to  describe  a  Christian  prize-giving  in 
a  back  slum  of  a  perfectly  inaccessible  village;  colonels  who  have  been 

264        THE   SHORT   8TORT 


overpassed  for  commands  sit  down  and  sketch  the  outline  of  a  series  of  ten, 
twelve  or  twenty-four  leading  articles  on  Seniority  versus  Selection;  mission- 
aries wish  to  know  why  they  have  not  been  permitted  to  escape  from  their 
regular  vehicles  of  abuse  and  swear  at  a  brother  missionary  under  special 
patronage  of  the  editorial  we;  stranded  theatrical  companies  troop  up  to  ex- 
plain that  they  cannot  pay  for  their  advertisements,  but  on  their  return  from 
New  Zealand  or  Tahiti  will  do  so  with  interest;  inventors  of  patent  punkah- 
pulling  machines,  carriage  couplings,  and  unbreakable  swords  and  axle- 
trees  call  with  specifications  in  their  pockets  and  hours  at  their  disposal; 
tea  companies  enter  and  elaborate  their  prospectuses  with  the  office  pens; 
secretaries  of  ball  committees  clamor  to  have  the  glories  of  their  last  dance 
more  fully  expounded;  strange  ladies  rustle  in  and  say:  "I  want  a  hundred 
lady's  cards  printed  at  once,  please,"  which  is  manifestly  part  of  an  editor's 
duty;  and  every  dissolute  ruffian  that  ever  tramped  the  Grand  Trunk  Road 
makes  it  his  business  to  ask  for  employment  as  a  proofreader.  And,  all  the 
time,  the  telephone  bell  is  ringing  madly,  and  kings  are  being  killed  on  the 
Continent,  and  empires  are  saying  "You're  another,"  and  Mister  Gladstone 
is  calling  down  brimstone  upon  the  British  Dominions,  and  the  little  black 
copy  boys  are  whining  "kaa-pi  chay-ha-yeh"  ( copy  wanted )  like  tired  bees, 
and  most  of  the  paper  is  as  blank  as  Modred's  shield. 

But  that  is  the  amusing  part  of  the  year.  There  are  other  six  months  where- 
in none  ever  come  to  call,  and  the  thermometer  walks  inch  by  inch  up  to 
the  top  of  the  glass,  and  the  office  is  darkened  to  just  above  reading  light, 
and  the  press  machines  are  red-hot  to  touch,  and  nobody  writes  anything 
but  accounts  of  amusements  in  the  hill-stations,  or  obituary  notices.  Then 
the  telephone  becomes  a  tinkling  terror,  because  it  tells  you  of  the  sudden 
deaths  of  men  and  women  that  you  knew  intimately,  and  the  prickly  heat 
covers  you  as  with  a  garment,  and  you  sit  down  and  write:  "A  slight  increase 
of  sickness  is  reported  from  the  Khuda  Janta  Khan  District.  The  outbreak 
is  purely  sporadic  in  its  nature,  and  thanks  to  the  energetic  efforts  of  the 
district  authorities,  is  now  almost  at  an  end.  It  is,  however,  with  deep  regret 
we  record  the  death,  etc." 

Then  the  sickness  really  breaks  out,  and  the  less  recording  and  reporting 
the  better  for  the  peace  of  the  subscribers.  But  the  empires  and  kings  con- 
tinue to  divert  themselves  as  selfishly  as  before,  and  the  foreman  thinks  that 
a  daily  paper  really  ought  to  come  out  once  in  twenty-four  hours,  and  all 
the  people  at  the  hill-stations  in  the  middle  of  their  amusements  say:  "Good 
graciousl  Why  can't  the  paper  be  sparkling?  I'm  sure  there's  plenty  going 
on  up  here." 

That  is  the  dark  half  of  the  moon,  and  as  the  advertisements  say,  "must 
be  experienced  to  be  appreciated." 

It  was  in  that  season,  and  a  remarkably  evil  season,  that  the  paper  began 

THE    MAN   WHO   WOULD    BE   KING        265 


running  the  last  issue  of  the  week  on  Saturday  night,  which  is  to  say  Sunday 
morning,  after  the  custom  of  a  London  paper.  This  was  a  great  convenience, 
for  immediately  after  the  paper  was  put  to  bed  the  dawn  would  lower  the 
thermometer  from  96°  to  almost  84°  for  half  an  hour,  and  in  that  chill— you 
have  no  idea  how  cold  is  84°  on  the  grass  until  you  begin  to  pray  for  it— a 
very  tired  man  could  set  off  to  sleep  ere  the  heat  roused  him. 

One  Saturday  night  it  was  my  pleasant  duty  to  put  the  paper  to  bed  alone. 
A  king  or  courtier  or  a  courtesan  or  a  community  was  going  to  die  or  get  a 
new  constitution,  or  do  something  that  was  important  on  the  other  side  of 
the  world,  and  the  paper  was  to  be  held  open  till  the  latest  possible  minute 
in  order  to  catch  the  telegram.  It  was  a  pitchy  black  night,  as  stifling  as  a 
June  night  can  be,  and  the  loo,  the  red-hot  wind  from  the  westward,  was 
booming  among  the  tinder-dry  trees  and  pretending  that  the  rain  was  on 
its  heels.  Now  and  again  a  spot  of  almost  boiling  water  would  fall  on  the  dust 
with  the  flop  of  a  frog,  but  all  our  weary  world  knew  that  was  only  pretense. 
It  was  a  shade  cooler  in  the  press-room  than  the  office,  so  I  sat  there  while 
the  type  clicked  and  clicked,  and  the  night-jars  hooted  at  the  windows,  and 
the  all  but  naked  compositors  wiped  the  sweat  from  their  foreheads  and 
called  for  water.  The  thing  that  was  keeping  us  back,  whatever  it  was,  would 
not  come  off,  though  the  loo  dropped  and  the  last  type  was  set,  and  the 
whole  round  earth  stood  still  in  the  choking  heat,  with  its  finger  on  its  lip, 
to  await  the  event.  I  drowsed,  and  wondered  whether  the  telegraph  was  a 
blessing,  and  whether  this  dying  man  or  struggling  people  was  aware  of  the 
inconvenience  the  delay  was  causing.  There  was  no  special  reason  beyond 
the  heat  and  worry  to  make  tension,  but  as  the  clock  hands  crept  up  to  three 
o'clock  and  the  machines  spun  their  flywheels  two  and  three  times  to  see  that 
all  was  in  order,  before  I  said  the  word  that  would  set  them  off,  I  could  have 
shrieked  aloud. 

Then  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wheels  shivered  the  quiet  into  little  bits. 
I  rose  to  go  away,  but  two  men  in  white  clothes  stood  in  front  of  me.  The 
first  one  said:  "It's  him!"  The  second  said:  "So  it  is!"  And  they  both  laughed 
almost  as  loudly  as  the  machinery  roared,  and  mopped  their  foreheads. 
"We  see  there  was  a  light  burning  across  the  road  and  we  were  sleeping  in 
that  ditch  there  for  coolness,  and  I  said  to  my  friend  here:  'The  office  is 
open.  Let's  come  along  and  speak  to  him  as  turned  us  back  from  the  Degum- 
ber  State/  "  said  the  smaller  of  the  two.  He  was  the  man  I  had  met  in  the 
Mhow  train,  and  his  fellow  was  the  red-bearded  man  of  Marwar  Junction. 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  eyebrows  of  the  one  or  the  beard  of  the  other. 

I  was  not  pleased,  because  I  wished  to  go  to  sleep,  not  to  squabble  with 
loafers.  "What  do  you  want?"  I  asked. 

"Half  an  hour's  talk  with  you  cool  and  comfortable,  in  the  office,"  said 

THE  SHORT  STORY 


the  red-bearded  man.  "We'd  like  some  drink—the  contrack  doesn't  begin 
yet,  Peachey,  so  you  needn't  look— but  what  we  really  want  is  advice.  We 
don't  want  money.  We  ask  you  as  a  favor,  because  you  did  us  a  bad  turn 
about  Degumber." 

I  led  from  the  press-room  to  the  stifling  office  with  the  maps  on  the  walls, 
and  the  red-haired  man  rubbed  his  hands.  "That's  something  like,"  said  he. 
"This  was  the  proper  shop  to  come  to.  Now,  sir,  let  me  introduce  to  you 
Brother  Peachey  Carnehan,  that's  him,  and  Brother  Daniel  Dravot,  that  is 
me,  and  the  less  said  about  our  professions  the  better,  for  we  have  been  most 
things  in  our  time.  Soldier,  sailor,  compositor,  photographer,  proofreader, 
street  preacher,  and  correspondents  of  the  Backwoodsman,  when  we  thought 
the  paper  wanted  one.  Carnehan  is  sober,  and  so  am  I.  Look  at  us  first  and 
see  that's  sure.  It  will  save  you  cutting  into  my  talk.  We'll  take  one  of  your 
cigars  apiece,  and  you  shall  see  us  light  it." 

I  watched  the  test:  The  men  were  absolutely  sober,  so  I  gave  them  each 
a  tepid  peg. 

"Well  and  good,"  said  Carnehan  of  the  eyebrows,  wiping  the  froth  from 
his  mustache.  "Let  me  talk  now,  Dan.  We  have  been  all  over  India,  mostly 
on  foot.  We  have  been  boiler-fitters,  engine-drivers,  petty  contractors,  and 
all  that,  and  we  have  decided  that  India  isn't  big  enough  for  such  as  us." 

They  certainly  were  too  big  for  the  office.  Dravot's  beard  seemed  to 
fill  half  the  room  and  Carnehan's  shoulders  the  other  half,  as  they  sat  on  the 
big  table.  Carnehan  continued:  "The  country  isn't  half  worked  out  because 
they  that  governs  it  won't  let  you  touch  it.  They  spend  all  their  blessed  time 
in  governing  it,  and  you  can't  lift  a  spade,  nor  chip  a  rock,  nor  look  for  oil, 
nor  anything  like  that  without  all  the  Government  saying:  'Leave  it  alone 
and  let  us  govern.'  Therefore,  such  as  it  is,  we  will  let  it  alone,  and  go  away 
to  some  other  place  where  a  man  isn't  crowded  and  can  come  to  his  own. 
We  are  not  little  men,  and  there  is  nothing  that  we  are  afraid  of  except 
drink,  and  we  have  signed  a  contrack  on  that.  Therefore  we  are  going  away 
to  be  kings." 

"Kings  in  our  own  right,"  muttered  Dravot. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  I  said.  "You've  been  tramping  in  the  sun,  and  it's  a  very 
warm  night,  and  hadn't  you  better  sleep  over  the  notion?  Come  tomorrow." 

"Neither  drunk  nor  sunstruck,"  said  Dravot.  "We  have  slept  over  the 
notion  half  a  year,  and  require  to  see  books  and  atlases,  and  we  have  decided 
that  there  is  only  one  place  now  in  the  world  that  two  strong  men  can  Sar-a- 
whack.  They  call  it  Kafiristan.  By  my  reckoning  it's  the  top  right-hand 
corner  of  Afghanistan,  not  more  than  three  hundred  miles  from  Peshawar. 
They  have  two-and-thirty  heathen  idols  there,  and  we'll  be  the  thirty-third. 
It's  a  mountainous  country,  and  the  women  of  those  parts  are  very  beautiful." 

THE   MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING        267 


"But  that  is  provided  against  in  the  contrack,"  said  Carnehan.  "Neither 
women  nor  liquor,  Daniel." 

"And  that's  all  we  know,  except  that  no  one  has  gone  there  and  they  fight, 
and  in  any  place  where  they  fight  a  man  who  knows  how  to  drill  men  can 
always  be  a  king.  We  shall  go  to  those  parts  and  say  to  any  king  we  find: 
'D'you  want  to  vanquish  your  foes?'  and  we  will  show  him  how  to  drill  men; 
for  that  we  know  better  than  anything  else.  Then  we  will  subvert  that  king 
and  seize  his  throne  and  establish  a  dy-nasty." 

"You'll  be  cut  to  pieces  before  you're  fifty  miles  across  the  border,"  I  said. 
"You  have  to  travel  through  Afghanistan  to  get  to  that  country.  It's  one 
mass  of  mountains  and  peaks  and  glaciers,  and  no  Englishman  has  been 
through  it.  The  people  are  utter  brutes,  and  even  if  you  reached  them  you 
couldn't  do  anything." 

"That's  more  like,"  said  Carnehan.  "If  you  could  think  us  a  little  more 
mad  we  would  be  more  pleased.  We  have  come  to  you  to  know  about  this 
country,  to  read  a  book  about  it,  and  to  be  shown  maps.  We  want  you  to 
tell  us  that  we  are  fools  and  to  show  us  your  books." 

He  turned  to  the  bookcases. 

"Are  you  at  all  in  earnest?"  I  said. 

"A  little,"  said  Dravot  sweetly.  "As  big  a  map  as  you  have  got,  even  if  it's 
all  blank  where  Kafiristan  is,  and  any  books  you've  got.  We  can  read, 
though  we  aren't  very  educated." 

I  uncased  the  big  thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch  map  of  India,  and  two 
smaller  Frontier  maps,  hauled  down  volume  Inf-Kan  of  the  Encyclopaedia 
Britannica,  and  the  men  consulted  them. 

"See  here!"  said  Dravot,  his  thumb  on  the  map.  "Up  to  Jagdallak,  Peachey 
and  me  know  the  road.  We  was  there  with  Roberts's  Army.  We'll  have  to 
turn  off  to  the  right  at  Jagdallak  through  Laghmann  territory.  Then  we  get 
among  the  hills— fourteen  thousand  feet—fifteen  thousand— it  will  be  cold 
work  there,  but  it  don't  look  very  far  on  the  map." 

I  handed  him  Wood  on  the  Sources  of  the  Oxus.  Carnehan  was  deep  in 
the  Encyclopaedia. 

"They're  a  mixed  lot,"  said  Dravot  reflectively;  "and  it  won't  help  us  to 
know  the  names  of  their  tribes.  The  more  tribes  the  more  they'll  fight,  and 
the  better  for  us.  From  Jagdallak  to  Ashang.  H'mm!" 

"But  all  the  information  about  the  country  is  as  sketchy  and  inaccurate  as 
can  be,"  I  protested.  "No  one  knows  anything  about  it  really.  Here's  the  file 
of  the  United  Services9  Institute.  Read  what  Bellew  says." 

"Blow  Bellew!"  said  Carnehan.  "Dan,  they're  an  all-fired  lot  of  heathens, 
but  this  book  here  says  they  think  they're  related  to  us  English." 

268        THE   SHORT   STORY 


I  smoked  while  the  men  pored  over  Raverty,  Wood,  the  maps  and  the 
Encyclopaedia. 

"There  is  no  use  your  waiting,"  said  Dravot  politely.  "It's  about  four 
o'clock  now.  We'll  go  before  six  o'clock  if  you  want  to  sleep,  and  we  won't 
steal  any  of  the  papers.  Don't  you  sit  up.  We're  two  harmless  lunatics,  and 
if  you  come  tomorrow  evening  down  to  the  Serai  we'll  say  good-by  to  you." 

"You  are  two  fools,"  I  answered.  "You'll  be  turned  back  at  the  frontier 
or  cut  up  the  minute  you  set  foot  in  Afghanistan.  Do  you  want  any  money 
or  a  recommendation  down-country?  I  can  help  you  to  the  chance  of  work 
next  week." 

"Next  week  we  shall  be  hard  at  work  ourselves,  thank  you,"  said  Dravot. 
"It  isn't  so  easy  being  a  king  as  it  looks.  When  we've  got  our  kingdom  in  go- 
ing order  we'll  let  you  know,  and  you  can  come  up  and  help  us  to  govern  it." 

"Would  two  lunatics  make  a  contrack  like  that?"  said  Carnehan,  with  sub- 
dued pride,  showing  me  a  greasy  half-sheet  of  note-paper  on  which  was 
written  the  following.  I  copied  it,  then  and  there,  as  a  curiosity; 

This  Contract  between  me  and  you  pcrsuing  witnesseth  in  the  name  of  God— 
Amen  and  so  forth. 

(One)  That  me  and  you  will  settle  this  matter  together:  i.e.,  to  be 

Kings  of  Kafiristan. 

(Two)  That  you  and  me  will  not,  while  this  matter  is  being  settled,  look 

at  any  liquor,  nor  any  woman  black,  white  or  brown,  so  as 
to  get  mixed  up  with  one  or  the  other  harmful. 
(Three)  That  we  conduct  ourselves  with  dignity  and  discretion,  and  if 

one  of  us  gets  into  trouble  the  other  will  stay  by  him. 
Signed  by  you  and  me  this  day. 

Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan. 

Daniel  Dravot. 

Both  Gentlemen  at  Large. 

"There  was  no  need  for  the  last  article,"  said  Carnehan,  blushing  modestly; 
"but  it  looks  regular.  Now  you  know  the  sort  of  men  that  loafers  are— we  are 
loafers,  Dan,  until  we  get  out  of  India—and  do  you  think  that  we  would 
sign  a  contrack  like  that  unless  we  was  in  earnest?  We  have  kept  away  from 
the  two  things  that  make  life  worth  having." 

"You  won't  enjoy  your  lives  much  longer  if  you  are  going  to  try  this  idiotic 
adventure.  Don't  set  the  office  on  fire,"  I  said,  "and  go  away  before  nine 
o'clock." 

I  left  them  still  poring  over  the  maps  and  making  notes  on  the  back  of  the 
"contrack."  "Be  sure  to  come  down  to  the  Serai  tomorrow,"  were  their  parting 
words. 

THE    MAN   WHO  WOULD  BE  KING        269 


TTie  Kumharsen  Serai  is  the  great  four-square  sink  of  humanity  where 
the  strings  of  camels  and  horses  from  the  North  load  and  unload.  All  the 
nationalities  of  Central  Asia  may  be  found  there,  and  most  of  the  folk  of 
India  proper.  Balkh  and  Bokhara  there  meet  Bengal  and  Bombay,  and  try 
to  draw  eye-teeth.  You  can  buy  ponies,  turquoises,  Persian  pussy-cats,  saddle- 
bags, fat-tailed  sheep  and  musk  in  the  Kumharsen  Serai,  and  get  many 
strange  things  for  nothing.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  down  there  to  see  whether 
my  friends  intended  to  keep  their  word  or  were  lying  about  drunk. 

A  priest  attired  in  fragments  of  ribbons  and  rags  stalked  up  to  me,  gravely 
twisting  a  child's  paper  whirligig.  Behind  him  was  his  servant  bending  under 
the  load  of  a  crate  of  mud  toys.  The  two  were  loading  up  two  camels,  and 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Serai  watched  them  with  shrieks  of  laughter. 

"The  priest  is  mad,"  said  a  horse-dealer  to  me.  "He  is  going  up  to  Kabul  to 
sell  toys  to  the  Amir.  He  will  either  be  raised  to  honor  or  have  his  head  cut 
off.  He  came  in  here  this  morning  and  has  been  behaving  madly  ever  since." 

"The  witless  are  under  the  protection  of  God,"  stammered  a  flat-cheeked 
Usbeg  in  broken  Hindi.  "They  foretell  future  events." 

"Would  they  could  have  foretold  that  my  caravan  would  have  been  cut 
up  by  the  Shinwaris  almost  within  shadow  of  the  Pass!"  grunted  the  Eusufzai 
agent  of  a  Rajputana  trading-house  whose  goods  had  been  feloniously 
diverted  into  the  hands  of  other  robbers  just  across  the  border,  and  whose 
misfortunes  were  the  laughing-stock  of  the  bazaar.  "Oh6,  priest,  whence 
come  you  and  whither  do  you  go?" 

"From  Roum  have  I  come,"  shouted  the  priest,  waving  his  whirligig; 
"from  Roum,  blown  by  the  breath  of  a  hundred  devils  across  the  sea!  O 
thieves,  robbers,  liars,  the  blessing  of  Pir  Khan  on  pigs,  dogs  and  perjurers! 
Who  will  take  the  Protected  of  God  to  the  north  to  sell  charms  that  are  never 
still  to  the  Amir?  The  camels  shall  not  gall,  the  sons  shall  not  fall  sick,  and 
the  wives  shall  remain  faithful  while  they  are  away,  of  the  men  who  give 
me  place  in  their  caravan.  Who  will  assist  me  to  slipper  the  King  of  the  Roos 
with  a  golden  slipper  with  a  silver  heel?  The  protection  of  Pir  Khan  be  upon 
his  labors!"  He  spread  out  the  skirts  of  his  gabardine  and  pirouetted  between 
the  lines  of  tethered  horses. 

"There  starts  a  caravan  from  Peshawar  to  Kabul  in  twenty  days,  Huzrut" 
said  the  Eusufzai  trader.  "My  camels  go  therewith.  Do  thou  also  go  and 
bring  us  good-luck." 

"I  will  go  even  now!"  shouted  the  priest.  "I  will  depart  upon  my  winged 
camels,  and  be  at  Peshawar  in  a  day!  Ho!  Hazar  Mir  Khan,"  he  yelled  to  his 
servant,  "drive  out  the  camels,  but  let  me  first  mount  my  own." 

He  leaped  on  the  back  of  his  beast  as  it  knelt,  and,  turning  round  to  me, 


270 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


cried:  "Come  thou  also,  Sahib,  a  little  along  the  road,  and  I  will  sell  thee 
a  charm— an  amulet  that  shall  make  thee  King  of  Kafiristan." 

Then  the  light  broke  upon  me,  and  I  followed  the  two  camels  out  of  the 
Serai  till  we  reached  open  road  and  the  priest  halted. 

"What  d  you  think  o'  that?"  said  he  in  English.  "Carnehan  can  t  talk  their 
patter,  so  I've  made  him  my  servant.  He  makes  a  handsome  servant.  'Tisn't 
for  nothing  that  I've  been  knocking  about  the  country  for  fourteen  years. 
Didn't  I  do  that  talk  neat?  We'll  hitch  on  to  a  caravan  at  Peshawar  till  we 
get  to  Jagdallak,  and  then  we'll  see  if  we  can  get  donkeys  for  our  camels, 
and  strike  into  Kafiristan.  Whirligigs  for  the  Amir,  O  Lor'!  Put  your  hand 
under  the  camel-bags  and  tell  me  what  you  feel." 

I  felt  the  butt  of  a  Martini,  and  another  and  another. 

"Twenty  of  'em,"  said  Dravot  placidly.  "Twenty  of  'em,  and  ammunition 
to  correspond,  under  the  whirligigs  and  the  mud  dolls." 

"Heaven  help  you  if  you  are  caught  with  those  things!"  I  said.  "A  Martini 
is  worth  her  weight  in  silver  among  the  Pathans." 

"Fifteen  hundred  rupees  of  capital— every  rupee  we  could  beg,  borrow, 
or  steal— are  invested  on  these  two  camels,"  said  Dravot.  "We  won't  get 
caught.  We're  going  through  the  Khaiber  with  a  regular  caravan.  Who'd 
touch  a  poor  mad  priest?" 

"Have  you  got  everything  you  want?"  I  asked,  overcome  with  astonish- 
ment. 

"Not  yet,  but  we  shall  soon.  Give  us  a  memento  of  your  kindness,  Brother. 
You  did  me  a  service  yesterday,  and  that  time  in  Marwar.  Half  my  kingdom 
shall  you  have,  as  the  saying  is."  I  slipped  a  small  charm  compass  from  my 
watch-chain  and  handed  it  up  to  the  priest. 

"Good-by,"  said  Dravot,  giving  me  his  hand  cautiously.  "It's  the  last  time 
we'll  shake  hands  with  an  Englishman  these  many  days.  Shake  hands  with 
him,  Carnehan,"  he  cried,  as  the  second  camel  passed  me. 

Carnehan  leaned  down  and  shook  hands.  Then  the  camels  passed  away 
along  the  dusty  road,  and  I  was  left  alone  to  wonder.  My  eye  could  detect  no 
failure  in  the  disguises.  The  scene  in  the  Serai  attested  that  they  were  com- 
plete to  the  native  mind.  There  was  just  the  chance,  therefore,  that  Carnehan 
and  Dravot  would  be  able  to  wander  through  Afghanistan  without  detection. 
But,  beyond,  they  would  find  death,  certain  and  awful  death. 

Ten  days  later  a  native  friend  of  mine,  giving  me  the  news  of  the  day  from 
Peshawar,  wound  up  his  letter  with:  "There  has  been  much  laughter  here 
on  account  of  a  certain  mad  priest  who  is  going  in  his  estimation  to  sell 
petty  gauds  and  insignificant  trinkets  which  he  ascribes  as  great  charms  to 
H.  H.  the  Amir  of  Bokhara.  He  passed  through  Peshawar  and  associated 

THE    MAN   WHO  WOULD  BE   KING        271 


himself  to  the  Second  Summer  caravan  that  goes  to  Kabul.  The  merchants 
are  pleased  because  through  superstition  they  imagine  that  such  mad  fellows 
bring  good  fortune/' 

The  two,  then,  were  beyond  the  border.  I  would  have  prayed  for  them, 
but  that  night  a  real  king  died  in  Europe,  and  demanded  an  obituary  notice. 


HE  WHEEL  of  the  world  swings  through  the  same  phases  again  and  again. 
-L  Summer  passed  and  winter  thereafter,  and  came  and  passed  again.  The 
daily  paper  continued  and  I  with  it,  and  upon  the  third  summer  there  fell  a 
hot  night,  a  night-issue,  and  a  strained  waiting  for  something  to  be  tele- 
graphed from  the  other  side  of  the  world,  exactly  as  had  happened  before. 
A  few  great  men  had  died  in  the  past  two  years,  the  machines  worked  with 
more  clatter  and  some  of  the  trees  in  the  office  garden  were  a  few  feet  taller. 
But  that  was  all  the  difference. 

I  passed  over  to  the  press-room,  and  went  through  just  such  a  scene  as 
I  have  already  described.  The  nervous  tension  was  stronger  than  it  had 
been  two  years  before  and  I  felt  the  heat  more  acutely.  At  three  o'clock  I 
cried  "Print  off,"  and  turned  to  go,  when  there  crept  to  my  chair  what  was 
left  of  a  man.  He  was  bent  into  a  circle,  his  head  was  sunk  between  his 
shoulders,  and  he  moved  his  feet  one  over  the  other  like  a  bear.  I  could 
hardly  see  whether  he  walked  or  crawled—  this  rag-wrapped,  whining  cripple 
who  addressed  me  by  name,  crying  that  he  was  come  back.  "Can  you  give 
me  a  drink?"  he  whimpered.  "For  the  Lord's  sake,  give  me  a  drink!" 

I  went  back  to  the  office,  the  man  following  with  groans  of  pain,  and  I 
turned  up  the  lamp. 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  he  gasped,  dropping  into  a  chair,  and  he  turned 
his  drawn  face,  surmounted  by  a  shock  of  gray  hair,  to  the  light. 

I  looked  at  him  intently.  Once  before  had  I  seen  eyebrows  that  met  over 
the  nose  in  an  inch-broad  black  band,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  tell 
where. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  I  said,  handing  him  the  whisky.  "What  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

He  took  a  gulp  of  the  spirit  raw,  and  shivered  in  spite  of  the  suffocating 
heat. 

"I've  come  back,"  he  repeated;  "and  I  was  the  King  of  Kafiristan—  me  and 
Dravot—  crowned  kings  we  was!  In  this  office  we  settled  it—  you  setting  there 
and  giving  us  the  books.  I  am  Peachey—  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan,  and 
you've  been  setting  here  ever  since—  O  Lord!" 

I  was  more  than  a  little  astonished  and  expressed  my  feelings  accordingly. 

"It's  true,"  said  Carnehan,  with  a  dry  cackle,  nursing  his  feet,  which  were 
wrapped  in  rags.  "True  as  gospel,  kings  we  were,  with  crowns  upon  our 

272        THE    SHORT   STORY 


heads— me  and  Dravot— poor  Dan— oh,  poor,  poor  Dan,  that  would  never 
take  advice,  not  though  I  begged  of  him!" 

"Take  the  whisky,"  I  said,  "and  take  your  own  time.  Tell  me  all  you  can 
recollect  of  everything  from  beginning  to  end.  You  got  across  the  border 
on  your  camels,  Dravot  dressed  as  a  mad  priest,  and  you  his  servant.  Do  you 
remember  that?" 

"I  ain't  mad— yet,  but  I  shall  be  that  way  soon.  Of  course  I  remember. 
Keep  looking  at  me,  or  maybe  my  words  will  go  all  to  pieces.  Keep  looking 
at  me  in  my  eyes  and  don't  say  anything." 

I  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  his  face  as  steadily  as  I  could.  He  dropped 
one  hand  upon  the  table  and  I  grasped  it  by  the  wrist.  It  was  twisted  like 
a  bird's  claw,  and  upon  the  back  was  a  ragged,  red,  diamond-shaped  scar. 

"No,  don't  look  there.  Look  at  me,"  said  Carnehan.  "That  comes  after- 
wards, but  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  distrack  me.  We  left  with  that  caravan, 
me  and  Dravot  playing  all  sorts  of  antics  to  amuse  the  people  we  were 
with.  Dravot  used  to  make  us  laugh  in  the  evening  when  all  the  people  was 
cooking  their  dinners— cooking  their  dinners,  and  .  .  .  what  did  they  do 
then?  They  lit  little  fires  with  sparks  that  went  into  Dravot's  beard,  and  we 
all  laughed— fit  to  die.  Little  red  fires  they  was,  going  into  Dravot's  big  red 
beard— so  funny."  His  eyes  left  mine  and  he  smiled  foolishly. 

"You  went  as  far  as  Jagdallak  with  that  caravan,"  I  said  at  a  venture, 
"after  you  had  lit  those  fires.  To  Jagdallak,  where  you  turned  off  to  try  to 
get  into  Kafiristan." 

"No,  we  didn't  neither.  What  are  you  talking  about?  We  turned  off  before 
Jagdallak,  because  we  heard  the  roads  was  good.  But  they  wasn't  good 
enough  for  our  two  camels— mine  and  Dravot's.  When  we  left  the  caravan 
Dravot  took  off  all  his  clothes  and  mine  too,  and  said  we  would  be  heathen, 
because  the  Kafirs  didn't  allow  Mohammedans  to  talk  to  them.  So  we  dressed 
betwixt  and  between,  and  such  a  sight  as  Daniel  Dravot  I  never  saw  yet 
nor  expect  to  see  again.  He  burned  half  his  beard,  and  slung  a  sheepskin 
over  his  shoulder,  and  shaved  his  head  into  patterns.  He  shaved  mine,  too, 
and  made  me  wear  outrageous  things  to  look  like  a  heathen.  That  was  in  a 
most  mountainous  country,  and  our  camels  couldn't  go  along  any  more 
because  of  the  mountains.  They  were  tall  and  black,  and  coming  home  I  saw 
them  fight  like  wild  goats— there  are  lots  of  goats  in  Kafiristan.  And  these 
mountains,  they  never  keep  still,  no  more  than  the  goats.  Always  fighting 
they  are,  and  don't  let  you  sleep  at  night." 

"Take  some  more  whisky,"  I  said  very  slowly.  "What  did  you  and  Daniel 
Dravot  do  when  the  camels  could  go  no  farther  because  of  the  rough  roads 
that  led  into  Kafiristan?" 

"What  did  which  do?  There  was  a  party  called  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carne- 

TIIE    MAN   WHO  WOULD  BE   KING        273 


ban  that  was  with  Dravot  Shall  I  tell  you  about  him?  He  died  out  there  in 
the  cold.  Slap  from  the  bridge  fell  old  Peachey,  turning  and  twisting  in  the 
air  like  a  penny  whirligig  that  you  can  sell  to  the  Amir.— No;  they  was  two 
for  three  ha'pence,  those  whirligigs,  or  I  am  much  mistaken  and  woeful 
sore.  And  then  these  camels  were  no  use,  and  Peachey  said  to  Dravot:  Tor 
the  Lord's  sake,  let's  get  out  of  this  before  our  heads  are  chopped  off,'  and 
with  that  they  killed  the  camels  all  among  the  mountains,  not  having  any- 
thing in  particular  to  eat,  but  first  they  took  off  the  boxes  with  the  guns  and 
the  ammunition,  till  two  men  came  along  driving  four  mules.  Dravot  up  and 
dances  in  front  of  them,  singing:  'Sell  me  four  mules/  Says  the  first  man: 
If  you  are  rich  enough  to  buy  you  are  rich  enough  to  rob';  but  before  ever 
he  could  put  his  hand  to  his  knife  Dravot  breaks  his  neck  over  his  knee,  and 
the  other  party  runs  away.  So  Carnehan  loaded  the  mules  with  the  rifles 
that  was  taken  off  the  camels,  and  together  we  starts  forward  into  those 
bitter  cold  mountainous  parts,  and  never  a  road  broader  than  the  back 
of  your  hand." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  I  asked  him  if  he  could  remember  the 
nature  of  the  country  through  which  he  had  journeyed. 

"I  am  telling  you  as  straight  as  I  can,  but  my  head  isn't  as  good  as  it  might 
be.  They  drove  nails  through  it  to  make  me  hear  better  how  Dravot  died. 
The  country  was  mountainous  and  the  mules  were  most  contrary,  and  the 
inhabitants  was  dispersed  and  solitary.  They  went  up  and  up,  and  down 
and  down,  and  that  other  party,  Carnehan,  was  imploring  of  Dravot  not  to 
sing  and  whistle  so  loud,  for  fear  of  bringing  down  the  tremenjus  avalanches. 
But  Dravot  says  that  if  a  king  couldn't  sing  it  wasn't  worth  being  king,  and 
whacked  the  mules  over  the  rump,  and  never  took  no  heed  for  ten  cold  days. 
We  came  to  a  big  level  valley  all  among  the  mountains,  and  the  mules  were 
near  dead,  so  we  killed  them,  not  having  anything  in  special  for  them  or  us 
to  eat.  We  sat  upon  the  boxes,  and  played  odd  and  even  with  the  cartridges 
that  was  jolted  out. 

"Then  ten  men  with  bows  and  arrows  ran  down  that  valley  chasing  twenty 
men  with  bows  and  arrows,  and  the  row  was  tremenjus.  They  was  fair  men 
—fairer  than  you  or  me— with  yellow  hair  and  remarkable  well  built.  Says 
Dravot,  unpacking  the  guns:  This  is  the  beginning  of  the  business.  We'll 
fight  for  the  ten  men,'  and  with  that  he  fires  two  rifles  at  the  twenty  men, 
and  drops  one  of  them  at  two  hundred  yards  from  the  rock  where  we  was 
sitting.  The  other  men  began  to  run,  but  Carnehan  and  Dravot  sits  on  the 
boxes  picking  them  off  at  all  ranges,  up  and  down  the  valley.  Then  we 
goes  up  to  the  ten  men  that  had  run  across  the  snow,  too,  and  they  fires  a 
footy  little  arrow  at  us.  Dravot  he  shoots  above  their  heads  and  they  all  falls 
down  flat.  Then  he  walks  over  them  and  kicks  them,  and  then  he  lifts  them 

274       THE   SHORT  STORY 


up  and  shakes  hands  all  around  to  make  them  friendly  like.  He  calls  them 
and  gives  them  the  boxes  to  carry,  and  waves  his  hand  for  all  the  world 
as  though  he  was  king  already.  They  take  the  boxes  and  him  across  the 
valley  and  up  the  hill  into  a  pine  wood  on  the  top,  where  there  was  half  a 
dozen  big  stone  idols.  Dravot  he  goes  to  the  biggest— a  fellow  they  call 
Imbra— and  lays  a  rifle  and  a  cartridge  at  his  feet,  rubbing  his  nose  respectful 
with  his  own  nose,  patting  him  on  the  head,  and  saluting  in  front  of  it. 
He  turns  round  to  the  men  and  nods  his  head,  and  says  That's  all  right. 
I'm  in  the  know,  too,  and  all  these  old  jim-jams  are  my  friends/  Then  he 
opens  his  mouth  and  points  down  it,  and  when  the  first  man  brings  him  food, 
he  says— 'No';  and  when  the  second  man  brings  him  food,  he  says— 'No';  but 
when  one  of  the  old  priests  and  the  boss  of  the  village  brings  him  food,  he 
says— 'Yes,'  very  haughty,  and  eats  it  slow.  That  was  how  we  came  to  our 
first  village,  without  any  trouble,  just  as  though  we  had  tumbled  from  the 
skies.  But  we  tumbled  from  one  of  those  damned  rope-bridges,  you  see,  and 
you  couldn't  expect  a  man  to  laugh  much  after  that." 

"Take  some  more  whisky  and  go  on,"  I  said.  "That  was  the  first  village  you 
came  into.  How  did  you  get  to  be  king?" 

"I  wasn't  king/'  said  Carnehan.  "Dravot  he  was  the  king,  and  a  handsome 
man  he  looked  with  the  gold  crown  on  his  head  and  all.  Him  and  the  other 
party  stayed  in  that  village,  and  every  morning  Dravot  sat  by  the  side  of  old 
Imbra,  and  the  people  came  and  worshiped.  That  was  Dravot's  order.  Then 
a  lot  of  men  came  into  the  valley,  and  Carnehan  and  Dravot  picks  them  off 
with  the  rifles  before  they  knew  where  they  was,  and  runs  down  into  the 
valley  and  up  again  the  other  side,  and  finds  another  village,  same  as  the 
first  one,  and  the  people  all  falls  down  flat  on  their  faces,  and  Dravot  says, 
'Now  what  is  the  trouble  between  you  two  villages?'  and  the  people  points 
to  a  woman,  as  fair  as  you  or  me,  that  was  carried  off,  and  Dravot  takes  her 
back  to  the  first  village  and  counts  up  the  dead— eight  there  was.  For  each 
dead  man  Dravot  pours  a  little  milk  on  the  ground  and  waves  his  arms  like 
a  whirligig  and  'That's  all  right,'  says  he.  Then  he  and  Carnehan  takes  the 
big  boss  of  each  village  by  the  arm  and  walks  them  down  into  the  valley, 
and  shows  them  how  to  scratch  a  line  with  a  spear  right  down  the  valley, 
and  gives  each  a  sod  of  turf  from  both  sides  o*  the  line.  Then  all  the  people 
comes  down  and  shouts  like  the  devil  and  all,  and  Dravot  says,  'Go  and  dig 
the  land,  and  be  fruitful  and  multiply,'  which  they  did,  though  they  didn't 
understand.  Then  we  asks  the  names  of  things  in  their  lingo— bread  and 
water  and  fire  and  idols  and  such,  and  Dravot  leads  the  priest  of  each  village 
up  to  the  idol,  and  says  he  must  sit  there  and  judge  the  people,  and  if  any- 
thing goes  wrong  he  is  to  be  shot. 

"Next  week  they  was  all  turning  up  the  knd  in  the  valley  as  quiet  as  bees 

THE   MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING        275 


and  much  prettier,  and  the  priests  heard  all  the  complaints  and  told  Dravot 
in  dumb  show  what  it  was  about.  That's  just  the  beginning,'  says  Dravot. 
They  think  we're  gods.'  He  and  Carnehan  picks  out  twenty  good  men  and 
shows  them  how  to  click  off  a  rifle  and  form  fours,  and  advance  in  line,  and 
they  was  very  pleased  to  do  so,  and  clever  to  see  the  hang  of  it.  Then  he 
takes  out  his  pipe  and  his  baccy-pouch  and  leaves  one  at  one  village  and 
one  at  the  other,  and  off  we  two  goes  to  see  what  was  to  be  done  in  the  next 
valley.  That  was  all  rock,  and  there  was  a  little  village  there,  and  Carnehan 
says,— 'Send  'em  to  the  old  valley  to  plant,'  and  takes  'em  there  and  gives  'em 
some  land  that  wasn't  took  before.  They  were  a  poor  lot,  and  we  blooded 
'em  with  a  kid  before  letting  'em  into  the  new  kingdom.  That  was  to  impress 
the  people,  and  then  they  settled  down  quiet,  and  Carnehan  went  back  to 
Dravot,  who  had  got  into  another  valley  all  snow  and  ice  and  most  moun- 
tainous. There  was  no  people  there  and  the  army  got  afraid,  so  Dravot  shoots 
one  of  them,  and  goes  on  till  he  finds  some  people  in  a  village,  and  the  army 
explains  that  unless  the  people  wants  to  be  killed  they  had  better  not  shoot 
their  little  matchlocks;  for  they  had  matchlocks.  We  makes  friends  with  the 
priest  and  I  stays  there  alone  with  two  of  the  army,  teaching  the  men  how  to 
drill,  and  a  thundering  big  chief  comes  across  the  snow  with  kettle-drums 
and  horns  twanging,  because  he  heard  there  was  a  new  god  kicking  about. 
Carnehan  sights  for  the  brown  of  the  men  half  a  mile  across  the  snow  and 
wings  one  of  them.  Then  he  sends  a  message  to  the  chief  that,  unless  he 
wished  to  be  killed,  he  must  come  and  shake  hands  with  me  and  leave  his 
arms  behind.  The  chief  comes  alone  first,  and  Carnehan  shakes  hands  with 
him  and  whirls  his  arms  about  same  as  Dravot  used,  and  very  much  sur- 
prised that  chief  was,  and  strokes  my  eyebrows.  Then  Carnehan  goes  alone 
to  the  chief  and  asks  him  in  dumb  show  if  he  had  an  enemy  he  hated.  1 
have,'  said  the  chief.  So  Carnehan  weeds  out  the  pick  of  his  men,  and  sets 
the  two  of  the  army  to  show  them  drill  and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  men 
can  maneuver  about  as  well  as  volunteers.  So  he  marches  with  the  chief 
to  a  great  big  plain  on  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  the  chief's  men  rushes 
into  a  village  and  takes  it;  we  three  Martinis  firing  into  the  brown  of  the 
enemy.  So  we  took  that  village  too,  and  I  gives  the  chief  a  rag  from  my 
coat,  and  says,  'Occupy  till  I  come,'  which  was  Scriptural.  By  way  of  a 
reminder,  when  me  and  the  army  was  eighteen  hundred  yards  away,  I 
drops  a  bullet  near  him  standing  on  the  snow,  and  all  the  people  falls  flat 
on  their  faces.  Then  I  sends  a  letter  to  Dravot,  wherever  he  be  by  land 
or  by  sea." 

At  the  risk  of  throwing  the  creature  out  of  train  I  interrupted,  "How 
could  you  write  a  letter  up  yonder?" 

"The  letter?  Oh!  The  letter!  Keep  looking  at  me  between  the  eyes,  please. 

276        THE   SHORT   STORY 


It  was  a  string-talk  letter,  that  we'd  learned  the  way  of  it  from  a  blind 
beggar  in  the  Punjab." 

I  remembered  that  there  had  once  come  to  the  office  a  blind  man  with  a 
knotted  twig  and  a  piece  of  string  which  he  wound  round  the  twig  accord- 
ing to  some  cipher  of  his  own.  He  could,  after  the  lapse  of  days  or  hours, 
repeat  the  sentence  which  he  had  reeled  up.  He  had  reduced  the  alphabet 
to  eleven  primitive  sounds;  and  tried  to  teach  me  his  method,  but  failed. 

"I  sent  that  letter  to  Dravot,"  said  Carnehan;  "and  told  him  to  come  back 
because  this  kingdom  was  growing  too  big  for  me  to  handle,  and  then  I 
struck  for  the  first  valley,  to  see  how  the  priests  were  working.  They  called 
the  village  we  took  along  with  the  chief,  Bashkai,  and  the  first  village  we 
took  Er-Heb.  The  priests  at  Er-Heb  was  doing  all  right,  but  they  had  a  lot 
of  pending  cases  about  land  to  show  me,  and  some  men  from  another  village 
had  been  firing  arrows  at  night.  I  went  out  and  looked  for  that  village  and 
fired  four  rounds  at  it  from  a  thousand  yards.  That  used  all  the  cartridges 
I  cared  to  spend,  and  I  waited  for  Dravot,  who  had  been  away  two  or  three 
months,  and  I  kept  my  people  quiet. 

"One  morning  I  heard  the  devil's  own  noise  of  drums  and  horns,  and  Dan 
Dravot  inarches  down  the  hill  with  his  army  and  a  tail  of  hundreds  of  men, 
and,  which  was  the  most  amazing— a  great  gold  crown  on  his  head.  'My 
Gord,  Carnehan/  says  Daniel,  'this  is  a  tremenjus  business,  and  weVe  got 
the  whole  country  as  far  as  it's  worth  having.  I  am  the  son  of  Alexander  by 
Queen  Semiramis,  and  you're  my  younger  brother  and  a  god  too!  It's  the 
biggest  thing  we've  ever  seen.  I've  been  marching  and  fighting  for  six  weeks 
with  the  army,  and  every  footy  little  village  for  fifty  miles  has  come  in  re- 
joiceful;  and  more  than  that,  I've  got  the  key  of  the  whole  show,  as  you'll 
see,  and  I've  got  a  crown  for  you!  I  told  'em  to  make  two  of  'em  at  a  place 
called  Shu,  where  the  gold  lies  in  the  rock  like  suet  in  mutton.  Gold  I've 
seen,  and  turquoise  I've  kicked  out  of  the  cliffs,  and  there's  garnets  in  the 
sands  of  the  river,  and  here's  a  chunk  of  amber  that  a  man  brought  me.  Call 
up  all  the  priests  and,  here,  take  your  crown/ 

"One  of  the  men  opens  a  black  hair  bag  and  I  slips  the  crown  on.  It  was 
too  small  and  too  heavy,  but  I  wore  it  for  the  glory.  Hammered  gold  it  was 
—five-pound  weight,  like  a  hoop  of  a  barrel. 

"  Teachey/  says  Dravot,  'we  don't  want  to  fight  no  more.  The  craft's  the 
trick,  so  help  me!'  and  he  brings  forward  that  same  chief  that  I  left  at 
Bashkai— Billy  Fish  we  called  him  afterwards,  because  he  was  so  like  Billy 
Fish  that  drove  the  big  tank-engine  at  Mach  on  the  Bolan  in  the  old  days. 
'Shake  hands  with  him/  says  Dravot,  and  I  shook  hands  and  nearly  dropped, 
for  Billy  Fish  gave  me  the  grip.  I  said  nothing,  but  tried  him  with  the  fellow- 
craft  grip.  He  answers  all  right,  and  I  tried  the  master's  grip,  but  that  was 

THE    MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE   KING        277 


a  slip.  'A  fellowcraft  he  is!'  I  says  to  Dan.  'Does  he  know  the  word?'  'He 
does/  says  Dan,  'and  all  the  priests  know.  It's  a  miracle!  The  chiefs  and  the 
priests  can  work  a  fellowcraft  lodge  in  a  way  that's  very  like  ours,  and 
they've  cut  the  marks  on  the  rocks,  but  they  don't  know  the  third  degree, 
and  they've  come  to  find  out.  It's  Cord's  truth.  I've  known  these  long  years 
that  the  Afghans  knew  up  to  the  fellowcraft  degree,  but  this  is  a  miracle. 
A  god  and  a  grand-master  of  the  craft  am  I,  and  a  lodge  in  the  third  degree 
I  will  open,  and  we'll  raise  the  head  priests  and  the  chiefs  of  the  villages/ 

"  It's  against  all  the  law,'  I  says,  'holding  a  lodge  without  warrant  from  any 
one;  and  we  never  held  office  in  any  lodge/ 

"  'It's  a  master-stroke  of  policy/  says  Dravot.  It  means  running  the  country 
as  easy  as  a  four-wheeled  bogy  on  a  down  grade.  We  can't  stop  to  inquire 
now,  or  they'll  turn  against  us.  I've  forty  chiefs  at  my  heel,  and  passed  and 
raised  according  to  their  merit  they  shall  be.  Billet  these  men  on  the  villages, 
and  see  that  we  run  up  a  lodge  of  some  kind.  The  temple  of  Imbra  will  do  for 
the  lodge  room.  The  women  must  make  aprons  as  you  show  them.  I'll  hold 
a  levee  of  chiefs  tonight  and  lodge  tomorrow/ 

"I  was  fair  run  off  my  legs,  but  I  wasn't  such  a  fool  as  not  to  see  what  a  pull 
this  craft  business  gave  us.  I  showed  the  priests'  families  how  to  make  aprons 
of  the  degrees,  but  for  Dravot's  apron  the  blue  border  and  marks  was  made 
of  turquoise  lumps  on  white  hide,  not  cloth.  We  took  a  great  square  stone 
in  the  temple  for  the  master's  chair,  and  little  stones  for  the  officers'  chairs, 
and  painted  the  black  pavement  with  white  squares,  and  did  what  we 
could  to  make  things  regular. 

"At  the  levee  which  was  held  that  night  on  the  hillside  with  big  bonfires, 
Dravot  gives  out  that  him  and  me  were  gods  and  sons  of  Alexander,  and  past 
grand-masters  in  the  craft,  and  was  come  to  make  Kafiristan  a  country  where 
every  man  should  eat  in  peace  and  drink  in  quiet,  and  specially  obey  us.  Then 
the  chiefs  come  round  to  shake  hands,  and  they  was  so  hairy  and  white  and 
fair  it  was  just  shaking  hands  with  old  friends.  We  gave  them  names  accord- 
ing as  they  were  like  men  we  had  known  in  India— Billy  Fish,  Holly  Dil- 
worth,  Pikky  Kargan  that  was  bazaar-master  when  I  was  at  Mhow,  and 
so  on  and  so  on. 

"The  most  amazing  miracle  was  at  lodge  next  night.  One  of  the  old  priests 
was  watching  us  continuous,  and  I  felt  uneasy,  for  I  knew  we'd  have  to  fudge 
the  ritual,  and  I  didn't  know  what  the  men  knew.  The  old  priest  was  a 
stranger  come  in  from  beyond  the  village  of  Bashkai.  The  minute  Dravot 
puts  on  the  master's  apron  that  the  girls  had  made  for  him,  the  priest 
fetches  a  whoop  and  a  howl,  and  tries  to  overturn  the  stone  that  Dravot  was 
sitting  on.  It's  all  up  now/  I  says.  That  comes  of  meddling  with  the  craft 
without  warrantl'  Dravot  never  winked  an  eye,  not  when  ten  priests  took 

278        THE   SHORT  STORY 


and  tilted  over  the  grand-master's  chair— which  was  to  say  the  stone  of 
Imbra.  The  priest  begins  rubbing  the  bottom  of  it  to  clear  away  the  black 
dirt,  and  presently  he  shows  all  the  other  priests  the  master's  mark,  same  as 
was  on  Dravot's  apron,  cut  into  the  stone.  Not  even  the  priests  of  the  temple 
of  Imbra  knew  it  was  there.  The  old  chap  falls  flat  on  his  face  at  Dravot's 
feet  and  kisses  'em.  'Luck  again,'  says  Dravot,  across  the  lodge  to  me,  'they 
say  it's  the  missing  mark  that  no  one  could  understand  the  why  of.  We're 
more  than  safe  now.'  Then  he  bangs  the  butt  of  his  gun  for  a  gavel  and  says: 
'By  virtue  of  the  authority  vested  in  me  by  my  own  right  hand  and  the  help 
of  Peachey,  I  declare  myself  Grand-Master  of  all  Freemasonry  in  Kafiristan 
in  this  the  mother  lodge  o'  the  country,  and  King  of  Kafiristan  equally  with 
Peachey!'  At  that  he  puts  on  his  crown  and  I  puts  on  mine— I  was  doing 
senior  warden— and  we  opens  the  lodge  in  most  ample  form.  It  was  an  amaz- 
ing miracle!  The  priests  moved  in  lodge  through  the  first  two  degrees  almost 
without  telling,  as  if  the  memory  was  coming  back  to  them.  After  that 
Peachey  and  Dravot  raised  such  as  was  worthy— high  priests  and  chiefs  of  far- 
off  villages.  Billy  Fish  was  the  first,  and  I  can  tell  you  we  scared  the  soul  out 
of  him.  It  was  not  in  any  way  according  to  ritual,  but  it  served  our  turn. 
We  didn't  raise  more  than  ten  of  the  biggest  men  because  we  didn't  want 
to  make  the  degree  common.  And  they  was  clamoring  to  be  raised. 

"  'In  another  six  months,'  says  Dravot,  'we'll  hold  another  communication 
and  see  how  you  are  working.'  Then  he  asks  them  about  their  villages,  and 
learns  that  they  was  fighting  one  against  the  other  and  were  fair  sick  and 
tired  of  it.  And  when  they  wasn't  doing  that  they  was  fighting  with  the 
Mohammedans.  'You  can  fight  those  when  they  come  into  our  country,'  says 
Dravot.  'Tell  off  every  tenth  man  of  your  tribes  for  a  frontier  guard,  and 
send  two  hundred  at  a  time  to  this  valley  to  be  drilled.  Nobody  is  going  to 
be  shot  or  speared  any  more  so  long  as  he  does  well,  and  I  know  that  you 
won't  cheat  me  because  you're  white  people— sons  of  Alexander— and  not 
like  common,  black  Mohammedans.  You  are  my  people,  and  by  God,'  says 
he,  running  off  into  English  at  the  end— I'll  make  a  damned  fine  nation  of 
you,  or  I'll  die  in  the  making!' 

"I  can't  tell  all  we  did  for  the  next  six  months,  because  Dravot  did  a  lot 
I  couldn't  see  the  hang  of,  and  he  learned  their  lingo  in  a  way  I  never  could. 
My  work  was  to  help  the  people  plow,  and  now  and  again  go  out  with  some 
of  the  army  and  see  what  the  other  villages  were  doing,  and  make  'em  throw 
rope  bridges  across  the  ravines  which  cut  up  the  country  horrid.  Dravot  was 
very  kind  to  me,  but  when  he  walked  up  and  down  in  the  pine  wood  pulling 
that  bloody  red  beard  of  his  with  both  fists  I  knew  he  was  thinking  plans 
I  could  not  advise  him  about  and  I  just  waited  for  orders. 

"But  Dravot  never  showed  me  disrespect  before  the  people.  They  were 

THE   MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KINO        279 


afraid  of  me  and  the  army,  but  they  loved  Dan.  He  was  the  best  of  friends 
with  the  priests  and  the  chiefs;  but  any  one  could  come  across  the  hills  with 
a  complaint  and  Dravot  would  hear  him  out  fair  and  call  four  priests  to- 
gether and  say  what  was  to  be  done.  He  used  to  call  in  Billy  Fish  from 
Bashkai  and  Pikky  Kargan  from  Shu,  and  an  old  chief  we  called  Kefuzelum 
—it  was  like  enough  to  his  real  name— and  held  councils  with  'em  when  there 
was  any  fighting  to  be  done  in  small  villages.  That  was  his  Council  of  War, 
and  the  four  priests  of  Bashkai,  Shu,  Khawak  and  Madora  was  his  Privy 
Council.  Between  the  lot  of  'em  they  sent  me,  with  forty  men  and  twenty 
rifles,  and  sixty  men  carrying  turquoises,  into  the  Ghorband  country  to  buy 
those  hand-made  Martini  rifles  that  come  out  of  the  Amir's  workshops  at 
Kabul,  from  one  of  the  Amir's  Herati  regiments  that  would  have  sold  the 
very  teeth  out  of  their  mouths  for  turquoises. 

"I  stayed  in  Ghorband  a  month,  and  gave  the  Governor  there  the  pick  of 
my  baskets  for  hush-money,  and  bribed  the  colonel  of  the  regiment  some 
more,  and  between  the  two  and  the  tribes  people,  we  got  more  than  a  hun- 
dred hand-made  Martinis,  a  hundred  good  Kohat  Jezails  that'll  throw  to  six 
hundred  yards,  and  forty  man-loads  of  very  bad  ammunition  for  the  rifles. 
I  came  back  with  what  I  had,  and  distributed  'em  among  the  men  that  the 
chiefs  sent  in  to  me  to  drill.  Dravot  was  too  busy  to  attend  to  those  things, 
but  the  old  army  that  we  first  made  helped  me,  and  we  turned  out  five  hun- 
dred men  that  could  drill,  and  two  hundred  that  knew  how  to  hold  arms 
pretty  straight.  Even  those  cork-screwed,  hand-made  guns  was  a  miracle  to 
them.  Dravot  talked  big  about  powder-shops  and  factories,  walking  up  and 
down  in  the  pine  wood  when  the  winter  was  coming  on. 

"  1  won't  make  a  nation,'  says  he.  I'll  make  an  empire!  These  men  aren't 
niggers;  they're  Englishl  Look  at  their  eyes— look  at  their  mouths.  Look  at 
the  way  they  stand  up.  They  sit  on  chairs  in  their  own  houses.  They're  the 
Lost  Tribes,  or  something  like  it,  and  they've  grown  to  be  English.  I'll  take 
a  census  in  the  spring  if  the  priests  don't  get  frightened.  There  must  be  fair 
two  million  of  'em  in  these  hills.  The  villages  are  full  o'  little  children.  Two 
million  people— two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  fighting  men— and  all  Eng- 
lish! They  only  want  the  rifles  and  a  little  drilling.  Two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  men,  ready  to  cut  in  on  Russia's  right  flank  when  she  tries  for 
India!  Peachey,  man,'  he  says,  chewing  his  beard  in  great  hunks,  'we  shall 
be  emperors— emperors  of  the  earth.  Rajah  Brooke  will  be  a  suckling  to  us. 
I'll  treat  with  the  Viceroy  on  equal  terms.  I'll  ask  him  to  send  me  twelve 
picked  English— twelve  that  I  know  of— to  help  us  govern  a  bit.  There's 
Mackray,  Sergeant-pensioner  at  Segowli— many's  the  good  dinner  he's  given 
me,  and  his  wife  a  pair  of  trousers.  There's  Donkin,  the  Warder  of  Toung- 
hoo  Jail;  there's  hundreds  that  I  could  lay  my  hands  on  if  I  was  in  India. 

280        THE   SHORT   STORY 


The  Viceroy  shall  do  it  for  me.  Ill  send  a  man  through  in  the  spring  for 
those  men,  and  I'll  write  for  a  dispensation  from  the  grand  lodge  for  what 
IVe  done  as  grand  master.  That— and  all  the  Sniders  that'll  be  thrown  out 
when  the  native  troops  in  India  take  up  the  Martini.  They'll  be  worn 
smooth,  but  they'll  do  for  fighting  in  these  hills.  Twelve  English,  a  hundred 
thousand  Sniders  run  through  the  Amir's  country  in  driblets—I'd  be  content 
with  twenty  thousand  in  one  year— and  we'd  be  an  empire.  When  everything 
was  shipshape,  I'd  hand  over  the  crown— this  crown  I'm  wearing  now— to 
Queen  Victoria  on  my  knees,  and  she'd  say:  "Rise  up,  Sir  Daniel  Dravot." 
Oh,  it's  big!  It's  big,  I  tell  you!  But  there's  so  much  to  be  done  in  every 
place— Bashkai,  Khawak,  Shu,  and  everywhere  else/ 

"  'What  is  it?'  I  says.  'There  are  no  more  men  coming  in  to  be  drilled  this 
autumn.  Look  at  those  fat,  black  clouds.  They're  bringing  the  snow/ 

"  It  isn't  that/  says  Daniel,  putting  his  hand  very  hard  on  my  shoulder; 
'and  I  don't  wish  to  say  anything  that's  against  you,  for  no  other  living  man 
would  have  followed  me  and  made  me  what  I  am  as  you  have  done.  You're 
a  first-class  commander-in-chief,  and  the  people  know  you;  but— it's  a  big 
country,  and  somehow  you  can't  help  me,  Peachey,  in  the  way  I  want  to  be 
helped/ 

"  'Go  to  your  blasted  priests,  then!'  I  said,  and  I  was  sorry  when  I  made 
that  remark,  but  it  did  hurt  me  sore  to  find  Daniel  talking  so  superior  when 
I'd  drilled  all  the  men,  and  done  all  he  told  me. 

"  'Don't  let's  quarrel,  Peachey/  says  Daniel  without  cursing.  'You're  a  king 
too,  and  the  half  of  this  kingdom  is  yours;  but  can't  you  see,  Peachey,  we 
want  cleverer  men  than  us  now— three  or  four  of  'em,  that  we  can  scatter 
about  for  our  deputies.  It's  a  huge  great  state,  and  I  can't  always  tell  the 
right  thing  to  do,  and  I  haven't  time  for  all  I  want  to  do,  and  here's  the  win- 
ter coming  on  and  all/  He  put  half  his  beard  into  his  mouth,  and  it  was  as 
red  as  the  gold  of  his  crown. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Daniel/  says  I.  I've  done  all  I  could.  I've  drilled  the  men  and 
shown  the  people  how  to  stack  their  oats  better;  and  I've  brought  in  those 
tinware  rifles  from  Ghorband— but  I  know  what  you're  driving  at.  I  take  it 
kings  always  feel  oppressed  that  way/ 

"  'There's  another  thing,  too/  says  Dravot,  walking  up  and  down.  'The 
winter's  coming  and  these  people  won't  be  giving  much  trouble,  and  if 
they  do  we  can't  move  about.  I  want  a  wife/ 

"  Tor  Cord's  sake  leave  the  women  alone!'  I  says.  We've  both  got  all  the 
work  we  can,  though  I  am  a  fool.  Remember  the  contrack  and  keep  clear 
o'  women/ 

"  'The  contrack  only  lasted  till  such  time  as  we  was  kings;  and  kings  we 
have  been  these  months  past/  says  Dravot,  weighing  his  crown  in  his  hand. 

THE    MAN   WHO   WOULD   BE   KING         281 


Tern  go  get  a  wife  too,  Peachey,  a  nice,  strappin',  plump  girl  that'll  keep  you 
warm  in  the  winter.  They're  prettier  than  English  girls,  and  we  can  take  the 
pick  of  'em.  Boil  'em  once  or  twice  in  hot  water,  and  they'll  come  as  fair  as 
chicken  and  ham/ 

"  'Don't  tempt  me!'  I  says.  1  will  not  have  any  dealings  with  a  woman, 
not  till  we  are  a  dam*  side  more  settled  than  we  are  now.  I've  been  doing  the 
work  o*  two  men  and  you've  been  doing  the  work  o'  three.  Let's  lie  off  a  bit, 
and  see  if  we  can  get  some  better  tobacco  from  Afghan  country  and  run  in 
some  good  liquor;  but  no  women/ 

"  Who's  talking  o*  women?  says  Dravot.  1  said  wife—a,  queen  to  breed  a 
king's  son  for  the  king.  A  queen  out  of  the  strongest  tribe,  that'll  make  them 
your  blood-brothers,  and  that'll  lie  by  your  side  and  tell  you  all  the  people 
thinks  about  you  and  their  own  affairs.  That's  what  I  want/ 

"  'Do  you  remember  that  Bengali  woman  I  kept  at  Mogul  Serai  when  I  was 
a  plate  layer?'  says  I.  'A  fat  lot  o*  good  she  was  to  me.  She  taught  me  the 
lingo  and  one  or  two  other  things;  but  what  happened?  She  ran  away  with 
the  station  master's  servant  and  half  my  month's  pay.  Then  she  turned  up 
at  Dadur  Junction  in  tow  of  a  half-caste,  and  had  the  impidence  to  say  I  was 
her  husband—all  among  the  drivers  in  the  running-shed/ 

"  We've  done  with  that,'  says  Dravot.  'These  women  are  whiter  than  you 
or  me,  and  a  queen  I  will  have  for  the  winter  months/ 

"  'For  the  last  time  o'  asking,  Dan,  do  not,'  I  says.  'It'll  only  bring  us  harm. 
The  Bible  says  that  kings  ain't  to  waste  their  strength  on  women,  'specially 
when  they've  got  a  new  raw  kingdom  to  work  over/ 

"  'For  the  last  time  of  answering  I  will/  says  Dravot,  and  he  went  away 
through  the  pine-trees  looking  like  a  big  red  devil.  The  low  sun  hit  his  crown 
and  beard  on  one  side,  and  the  two  blazed  like  hot  coals. 

"But  getting  a  wife  was  not  as  easy  as  Dan  thought.  He  put  it  before  the 
Council,  and  there  was  no  answer  till  Billy  Fish  said  he'd  better  ask  the  girls. 
Dravot  damned  them  all  round.  'What's  wrong  with  me?'  he  shouts,  stand- 
ing by  the  idol  Imbra.  'Am  I  a  dog  or  am  I  not  enough  of  a  man  for  your 
wenches?  Haven't  I  put  the  shadow  of  my  hand  over  this  country?  Who 
stopped  the  last  Afghan  raid?'  It  was  me  really,  but  Dravot  was  too  angry 
to  remember.  Who  bought  your  guns?  Who  repaired  the  bridges?  Who's 
the  grand  master  of  the  sign  cut  in  the  stone?'  and  he  thumped  his  hand  on 
the  block  that  he  used  to  sit  on  in  lodge,  and  at  council,  which  opened  like 
lodge  always.  Billy  Fish  said  nothing  and  no  more  did  the  others.  'Keep 
your  hair  on,  Dan/  said  I,  'and  ask  the  girls.  That's  how  it's  done  at  home, 
and  these  people  are  quite  English/ 

"  'The  marriage  of  the  king  is  a  matter  of  state/  says  Dan,  in  a  white-hot 

282        THE   SHORT  STORY 


rage,  for  he  could  feel,  I  hope,  that  he  was  going  against  his  better  mind. 
He  walked  out  of  the  council  room,  and  the  others  sat  still,  looking  at  the 
ground. 

"  'Billy  Fish/  says  I  to  the  Chief  of  the  Bashkai,  what's  the  difficulty  here? 
A  straight  answer  to  a  true  friend/  'You  know/  says  Billy  Fish.  'How  should 
a  man  tell  you,  who  knows  everything?  How  can  daughters  of  men  marry 
gods  or  devils?  It's  not  proper/ 

"I  remembered  something  like  that  in  the  Bible;  but  if,  after  seeing  us  as 
long  as  they  had,  they  still  believed  we  were  gods,  it  wasn't  for  me  to 
undeceive  them. 

"  'A  god  can  do  anything/  says  I.  If  the  king  is  fond  of  a  girl  he'll  not  let 
her  die/  'She'll  have  to/  said  Billy  Fish.  'There  are  all  sorts  of  gods  and 
devils  in  these  mountains,  and  now  and  again  a  girl  marries  one  of  them 
and  isn't  seen  any  more.  Besides,  you  two  know  the  mark  cut  in  the  stone. 
Only  the  gods  know  that.  We  thought  you  were  men  till  you  showed  the 
sign  of  the  master/ 

"I  wished  then  that  we  had  explained  about  the  loss  of  the  genuine 
secrets  of  a  Master  Mason  at  the  first  go-off;  but  I  said  nothing.  All  that  night 
there  was  a  blowing  of  horns  in  a  little  dark  temple  half-way  down  the  hill 
and  I  heard  a  girl  crying  fit  to  die.  One  of  the  priests  told  us  that  she  was 
being  prepared  to  marry  the  king. 

"  Til  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind/  says  Dan.  1  don't  want  to  interfere 
with  your  customs,  but  I'll  take  my  own  wife/  'The  girl's  a  little  bit  afraid/ 
says  the  priest.  'She  thinks  she's  going  to  die,  and  they  are  aheartening  her 
up  down  in  the  temple/ 

"  'Hearten  her  very  tender,  then/  says  Dravot,  'or  I'll  hearten  you  with 
the  butt  of  a  gun  so  that  you'll  never  want  to  be  heartened  again/  He  licked 
his  lips,  did  Dan,  and  stayed  up  walking  about  more  than  half  the  night, 
thinking  of  the  wife  that  he  was  going  to  get  in  the  morning.  I  wasn't  any 
means  comfortable,  for  I  knew  that  dealings  with  a  woman  in  foreign  parts, 
though  you  was  crowned  king  twenty  times  over,  could  not  but  be  risky. 
I  got  up  very  early  in  the  morning  while  Dravot  was  asleep,  and  I  saw  the 
priests  talking  together  in  whispers,  and  the  chiefs  talking  together,  too, 
and  they  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes. 

"  'What  is  up,  Fish?'  I  says  to  the  Bashkai  man,  who  was  wrapped  up  in 
his  furs  and  looking  splendid  to  behold. 

"  1  can't  rightly  say/  says  he;  *but  if  you  can  induce  the  king  to  drop  all 
this  nonsense  about  marriage  you'll  be  doing  him  and  me  and  yourself  a 
great  service/ 

"  'That  I  do  believe/  says  I.  'But  sure,  you  know,  Billy,  as  well  as  me, 

THE   MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING        283 


having  fought  against  and  for  us,  that  the  king  and  me  are  nothing  more 
than  two  of  the  finest  men  that  God  Almighty  ever  made.  Nothing  more, 
I  do  assure  you/ 

"  'That  may  be/  says  Billy  Fish,  'and  yet  I  should  be  sorry  if  it  was/  He 
sinks  his  head  upon  his  great  fur  coat  for  a  minute  and  thinks.  'King/  says 
he,  'be  you  man  or  god  or  devil,  I'll  stick  by  you  today.  I  have  twenty  of  my 
men  with  me,  and  they  will  follow  me.  Well  go  to  Bashkai  until  the  storm 
blows  over/ 

"A  little  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and  everything  was  white  except 
the  greasy  fat  clouds  that  blew  down  and  down  from  the  north.  Dravot 
came  out  with  his  crown  on  his  head,  swinging  his  arms  and  stamping  his 
feet,  and  looking  more  pleased  than  Punch. 

"  'For  the  last  time  drop  it,  Dan/  says  I  in  a  whisper.  'Billy  Fish  here  says 
that  there  will  be  a  row/ 

"  'A  row  among  my  people!'  says  Dravot.  'Not  much.  Peachey,  you're  a 
fool  not  to  get  a  wife  too.  Where's  the  girl?'  says  he  with  a  voice  as  loud  as 
the  braying  of  a  jackass.  'Call  up  all  the  chiefs  and  priests,  and  let  the 
emperor  see  if  his  wife  suits  him/ 

"There  was  no  need  to  call  any  one.  They  were  all  there  leaning  on  their 
guns  and  spears  round  the  clearing  in  the  center  of  the  pine  wood.  A  deputa- 
tion of  priests  went  down  to  the  little  temple  to  bring  up  the  girl,  and  the 
horns  blew  fit  to  wake  the  dead.  Billy  Fish  saunters  round  and  gets  as  close 
to  Daniel  as  he  could,  and  behind  him  stood  his  twenty  men  with  match- 
locks. Not  a  man  of  them  under  six  feet.  I  was  next  to  Dravot,  and  behind 
me  was  twenty  men  of  the  regular  army.  Up  comes  the  girl,  and  a  strapping 
wench  she  was,  covered  with  silver  and  turquoises,  but  white  as  death,  and 
looking  back  every  minute  at  the  priests. 

"  'She'll  do/  said  Dan,  looking  her  over.  'What's  to  be  afraid  of,  lass?  Come 
and  kiss  me/  He  puts  his  arm  round  her.  She  shuts  her  eyes,  gives  a  bit  of  a 
squeak,  and  down  goes  her  face  in  the  side  of  Dan's  flaming  red  beard. 

"  "The  slut's  bitten  me!'  says  he,  clapping  his  hand  to  his  neck;  and  sure 
enough  his  hand  was  red  with  blood.  Billy  Fish  and  two  of  his  matchlock- 
men  catches  hold  of  Dan  by  the  shoulders  and  drags  him  into  the  Bashkai 
lot,  while  the  priests  howls  in  their  lingo,  'Neither  god  nor  devil  but  a  man!' 
I  was  all  taken  aback,  for  a  priest  cut  at  me  in  front,  and  the  army  began 
firing  into  the  Bashkai  men. 

"  'God  A'mighty!'  says  Dan.  'What  is  the  meaning  o'  this?' 

"  'Come  back!  Come  away!'  says  Billy  Fish.  'Ruin  and  mutiny  is  the  mat- 
ter. We'll  break  for  Bashkai  if  we  can/ 

"I  tried  to  give  some  sort  of  orders  to  my  men— the  men  o'  the  regular 
army—but  it  was  no  use,  so  I  fired  into  the  brown  of  'em  with  an  English 

284       THE  SHORT  STORY 


Martini  and  drilled  three  beggars  in  a  line.  The  valley  was  full  of  shouting, 
howling  creatures,  and  every  soul  was  shrieking,  'Not  a  god  nor  a  devil  but 
only  a  man!'  The  Bashkai  troops  stuck  to  Billy  Fish  all  they  were  worth,  but 
their  matchlocks  wasn't  half  as  good  as  the  Kabul  breech-loaders,  and  four 
of  them  dropped.  Dan  was  bellowing  like  a  bull,  for  he  was  very  wrathy; 
and  Billy  Fish  had  a  hard  job  to  prevent  him  running  out  at  the  crowd. 

"'We  can't  stand/  said  Billy  Fish.  'Make  a  run  for  it  down  the  valley! 
The  whole  place  is  against  us.'  The  matchlock-men  ran,  and  we  went  down 
the  valley  in  spite  of  Dravot's  protestations.  He  was  swearing  horribly  and 
crying  out  that  he  was  a  king.  The  priests  rolled  great  stones  on  us,  and  the 
regular  army  fired  hard,  and  there  wasn't  more  than  six  men,  not  counting 
Dan,  Billy  Fish  and  me,  that  came  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  valley  alive. 

"Then  they  stopped  firing  and  the  horns  in  the  temple  blew  again.  'Come 
away—for  Cord's  sake  come  away!'  says  Billy  Fish.  'They'll  send  runners  out 
to  all  the  villages  before  ever  we  get  to  Bashkai.  I  can  protect  you  there, 
but  I  can't  do  anything  now.' 

"My  own  notion  is  that  Dan  began  to  go  mad  in  his  head  from  that  hour. 
He  stared  up  and  down  like  a  stuck  pig.  Then  he  was  all  for  walking  back 
alone  and  killing  the  priests  with  his  bare  hands,  which  he  could  have  done. 
'An  emperor  am  I,'  says  Daniel,  'and  next  year  I  shall  be  a  knight  of  the 
queen/ 

"  'All  right,  Dan,'  says  I;  'but  come  along  now  while  there's  time/ 

"  'It's  your  fault,'  says  he,  'for  not  looking  after  your  army  better.  There 
was  mutiny  in  the  midst,  and  you  didn't  know— you  damned  engine-driving, 
plate-laying,  missionaries'-pass  hunting  hound!'  He  sat  upon  a  rock  and 
called  me  every  foul  name  he  could  lay  tongue  to.  I  was  too  heartsick  to 
care,  though  it  was  all  his  foolishness  that  brought  the  smash. 

"  'I'm  sorry,  Dan,'  says  I,  'but  there's  no  accounting  for  natives.  This  busi- 
ness is  our  Fifty-Seven.  Maybe  we'll  make  something  out  of  it  yet,  when 
we've  got  back  to  Bashkai/ 

"  'Let's  get  to  Bashkai,  then,'  says  Dan,  'and  by  God,  when  I  come  back 
here  again  I'll  sweep  the  valley  so  there  isn't  a  bug  in  a  blanket  left!' 

"We  walked  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night  Dan  was  stumping  up  and 
down  on  the  snow,  chewing  his  beard  and  muttering  to  himself. 

"  'There's  no  hope  o'  getting  clear/  says  Billy  Fish.  'The  priests  will  have 
sent  runners  to  the  villages  to  say  that  you  are  only  men.  Why  didn't  you 
stick  on  as  gods  till  things  was  more  settled?  I'm  a  dead  man/  says  Billy 
Fish,  and  he  throws  himself  down  on  the  snow  and  begins  to  pray  to  his  gods. 

"Next  morning  we  was  in  a  cruel  bad  country— all  up  and  down,  no  level 
ground  at  all,  and  no  food  either.  The  six  Bashkai  men  looked  at  Billy  Fish 
hungry-wise  as  if  they  wanted  to  ask  something,  but  they  said  never  a  word. 

THE    MAN   WHO   WOULD   BE   UNO         285 


At  noon  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  flat  mountain  all  covered  with  snow,  and 
when  we  climbed  up  into  it,  behold,  there  was  an  army  in  position  waiting 
in  the  middle! 

"  'The  runners  have  been  very  quick/  says  Billy  Fish,  with  a  little  bit  of  a 
laugh.  'They  are  waiting  for  us/ 

"Three  or  four  men  began  to  fire  from  the  enemy's  side,  and  a  chance  shot 
took  Daniel  in  the  calf  of  the  leg.  That  brought  him  to  his  senses.  He  looks 
across  the  snow  at  the  army,  and  sees  the  rifles  that  we  had  brought  into 
the  country. 

"  We're  done  for/  says  he.  'They  are  Englishmen,  these  people—and  it's 
my  blasted  nonsense  that  has  brought  you  to  this.  Get  back,  Billy  Fish,  and 
take  your  men  away;  you've  done  what  you  could,  and  now  cut  for  it. 
Carnehan/  says  he,  'shake  hands  with  me  and  go  along  with  Billy.  Maybe 
they  won't  kill  you.  I'll  go  and  meet  'em  alone.  It's  me  that  did  it.  Me,  the 
king!"' 

"  'Go!'  says  I.  'Go  to  Hell,  Dan.  I'm  with  you  here.  Billy  Fish,  you  clear  out 
and  we  two  will  meet  those  folk.' 

"  'I'm  a  chief/  says  Billy  Fish  quite  quiet.  'I  stay  with  you.  My  men  can  go/ 

"The  Bashkai  fellows  didn't  wait  for  a  second  word  but  ran  off,  and  Dan 
and  me  and  Billy  Fish  walked  across  to  where  the  drums  were  drumming 
and  the  horns  were  horning.  It  was  cold— awful  cold.  I've  got  that  cold  in 
the  back  of  my  head  now.  There's  a  lump  of  it  there." 

The  punkah-coolies  had  gone  to  sleep.  Two  kerosene  lamps  were  blazing 
in  the  office,  and  the  perspiration  poured  down  my  face  and  splashed  on  the 
blotter  as  I  leaned  forward.  Carnehan  was  shivering,  and  I  feared  that  his 
mind  might  go.  I  wiped  my  face,  took  a  fresh  grip  of  the  piteously  mangled 
hands  and  said,  "What  happened  after  that?" 

The  momentary  shift  of  my  eyes  had  broken  the  clear  current. 

"What  was  you  pleased  to  sayr^'  whined  Carnehan.  "They  took  them  with- 
out any  sound.  Not  a  little  whisper  all  along  the  snow,  not  though  the  king 
knocked  down  the  first  man  that  set  hand  on  him— not  though  old  Peachey 
fired  his  last  cartridge  into  the  brown  of  'em.  Not  a  single  solitary  sound  did 
those  swines  make.  They  just  closed  up  tight,  and  I  tell  you  their  furs  stunk. 
There  was  a  man  called  Billy  Fish,  a  good  friend  of  us  all,  and  they  cut  his 
throat,  Sir,  then  and  there,  like  a  pig;  and  the  king  kicks  up  the  bloody  snow 
and  says: —'We've  had  a  dashed  fine  run  for  our  money.  What's  coming 
next?*  But  Peachey,  Peachey  Taliaferro,  I  tell  you,  Sir,  in  confidence  as 
betwixt  two  friends,  he  lost  his  head,  Sir.  No,  he  didn't  either.  The  king  lost 
his  head,  so  he  did,  all  along  o'  one  of  those  cunning  rope-bridges.  Kindly 
let  me  have  the  paper-cutter,  Sir.  It  tilted  this  way.  They  marched  him  a 
mile  across  that  snow  to  a  rope-bridge  over  a  ravine  with  a  river  at  the 

286       THE  SHORT  STORY 


bottom.  You  may  have  seen  such.  They  prodded  him  behind  like  an  ox. 
'Damn  your  eyes!'  says  the  king.  'D'  you  suppose  I  can't  die  like  a  gentle- 
man?' He  turns  to  Peachey— Peachey  that  was  crying  like  a  child.  Tve 
brought  you  to  this,  Peachey/  says  he.  'Brought  you  out  of  your  happy  life 
to  be  killed  in  Kafiristan,  where  you  was  late  commander-in-chief  of  the 
emperor's  forces.  Say  you  forgive  me,  Peachey.'  1  do,'  says  Peachey.  'Fully 
and  freely  do  I  forgive  you,  Dan.'  'Shake  hands,  Peachey,'  says  he.  Tm  going 
now.'  Out  he  goes,  looking  neither  right  nor  left,  and  when  he  was  plumb 
in  the  middle  of  those  dizzy  dancing  ropes,  'Cut,  you  beggars,'  he  shouts; 
and  they  cut,  and  old  Dan  fell,  turning  round  and  round  and  round,  twenty 
thousand  miles,  for  he  took  half  an  hour  to  fall  till  he  struck  the  water,  and 
I  could  see  his  body  caught  on  a  rock  with  the  gold  crown  close  beside. 

"But  do  you  know  what  they  did  to  Peachey  between  two  pine-trees? 
They  crucified  him,  Sir,  as  Peachey's  hands  will  show.  They  used  wooden 
pegs  for  his  hands  and  his  feet;  and  he  didn't  die.  He  hung  there  and 
screamed;  and  they  took  him  down  next  day  and  said  it  was  a  miracle  that 
he  wasn't  dead.  They  took  him  down— poor  old  Peachey  that  hadn't  done 
them  any  harm-— that  hadn't  done  them  any  .  .  ." 

He  rocked  to  and  fro  and  wept  bitterly,  wiping  his  eyes  with  the  back  of 
his  scarred  hands  and  moaning  like  a  child  for  some  ten  minutes. 

"They  was  cruel  enough  to  feed  him  up  in  the  temple,  because  they  said 
he  was  more  of  a  god  than  old  Daniel  that  was  a  man.  Then  they  turned  him 
out  on  the  snow,  and  told  him  to  go  home;  and  Peachey  came  home  in  about 
a  year,  begging  along  the  roads  quite  safe;  for  Daniel  Dravot  he  walked 
before  and  said:  'Come  along,  Peachey.  It's  a  big  thing  we're  doing.'  The 
mountains  they  danced  at  night,  and  the  mountains  they  tried  to  fall  on 
Peachey's  head,  but  Dan  he  held  up  his  hand  and  Peachey  came  along  bent 
double.  He  never  let  go  of  Dan's  hand,  and  he  never  let  go  of  Dan's  head. 
They  gave  it  to  him  as  a  present  in  the  temple,  to  remind  him  not  to  come 
again,  and  though  the  crown  was  pure  gold,  and  Peachey  was  starving, 
never  would  Peachey  sell  the  same.  You  knew  Dravot,  Sirl  You  knew  Right 
Worshipful  Brother  DravotI  Look  at  him  now!" 

He  fumbled  in  the  mass  of  rags  round  his  bent  waist;  brought  out  a  black 
horsehair  bag  embroidered  with  silver  thread;  and  shook  therefrom  onto  my 
table— the  dried,  withered  head  of  Daniel  DravotI  The  morning  sun  that  had 
long  been  paling  the  lamps  struck  the  red  beard  and  blind,  sunken  eyes; 
struck,  too,  a  heavy  circlet  of  gold  studded  with  raw  turquoises,  that  Carne- 
han  placed  tenderly  on  the  battered  temples. 

"You  behold  now,''  said  Carnehan,  "the  Emperor  in  his  habit  as  he  lived 
-the  King  of  Kafiristan  with  his  crown  upon  his  head.  Poor  old  Daniel  that 
was  a  monarch  oncer 

THE   MAN   WHO  WOULD  BE  KING        287 


I  shuddered,  for,  in  spite  of  defacements  manifold,  I  recognized  the  head 
of  the  man  of  Marwar  Junction.  Carnehan  rose  to  go.  I  attempted  to  stop 
him.  He  was  not  fit  to  walk  abroad.  "Let  me  take  away  the  whisky  and  give 
me  a  little  money,"  he  gasped.  "I  was  a  king  once.  I'll  go  to  the  deputy 
commissioner  and  ask  to  set  in  the  poor-house  till  I  get  my  health.  No,  thank 
you,  I  can't  wait  till  you  get  a  carriage  for  me.  I've  urgent  private  affairs 
—in  the  south— at  Marwar/' 

He  shambled  out  of  the  office  and  departed  in  the  direction  of  the  deputy 
commissioner's  house.  That  day  at  noon  I  had  occasion  to  go  down  the  blind- 
ing hot  Mall,  and  I  saw  a  crooked  man  crawling  along  the  white  dust  of  the 
roadside,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  quavering  dolorously  after  the  fashion  of 
street-singers  at  home.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and  he  was  out  of  all 
possible  earshot  of  the  houses.  And  he  sang  through  his  nose,  turning  his 
head  from  right  to  left: 

"The  Son  of  Man  goes  forth  to  war, 

A  golden  crown  to  gain: 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar— 
Who  follows  in  his  train?" 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  put  the  poor  wretch  into  my  carriage  and 
drove  him  off  to  the  nearest  missionary  for  eventual  transfer  to  the  asylum. 
He  repeated  the  hymn  twice  while  he  was  with  me,  whom  he  did  not  in  the 
least  recognize,  and  I  left  him  singing  it  to  the  missionary. 

Two  days  later  I  inquired  after  his  welfare  of  the  superintendent  of  the 
asylum. 

"He  was  admitted  suffering  from  sunstroke.  He  died  early  yesterday  morn- 
ing," said  the  superintendent.  "Is  it  true  that  he  was  half  an  hour  bareheaded 
in  the  sun  at  midday?" 

"Yes,"  said  I;  "but  do  you  happen  to  know  if  he  had  anything  upon  him  by 
any  chance  when  he  died?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  said  the  superintendent. 

And  there  the  matter  rests.  (1888) 


288        THE   SHORT   STORY 


"And  th'is  also,"  said  Marlow  suddenly,  "has  been  one  of  the  dark  places 
on  the  earth  " 

He  was  the  only  man  of  us  who  still  "followed  the  sea."  The  worst  that 
could  be  said  of  him  was  that  he  did  not  represent  his  class.  He  was  a  sea- 
man, but  he  was  a  wanderer,  too,  while  most  seamen  lead,  if  one  may  so 
express  it,  a  sedentary  life.  Their  minds  are  of  the  stay-at-home  order,  and 
their  home  is  always  with  them—the  ship;  and  so  is  their  country— the  sea. 
One  ship  is  very  much  like  another,  and  the  sea  is  always  the  same.  In  the 
immutability  of  their  surroundings  the  foreign  shores,  the  foreign  faces,  the 
changing  immensity  of  life,  glide  past,  veiled  not  by  a  sense  of  mystery  but 
by  a  slightly  disdainful  ignorance;  for  there  is  nothing  mysterious  to  a  sea- 
man unless  it  be  the  sea  itself,  which  is  the  mistress  of  his  existence  and  as 
inscrutable  as  Destiny.  For  the  rest,  after  his  hours  of  work,  a  casual  stroll 
or  a  casual  spree  on  shore  suffices  to  unfold  for  him  the  secret  of  a  whole 
continent,  and  generally  he  finds  the  secret  not  worth  knowing.  The  yarns 
of  seamen  have  a  direct  simplicity,  the  whole  meaning  of  which  lies  within 
the  shell  of  a  cracked  nut.  But  Marlow  was  not  typical  (if  his  propensity  to 
spin  yarns  be  excepted),  and  to  him  the  meaning  of  an  episode  was  not 
inside  like  a  kernel  but  outside,  enveloping  the  tale  which  brought  it  out 
only  as  a  glow  brings  out  a  haze,  in  the  likeness  of  one  of  these  misty  halos 
that  sometimes  are  made  visible  by  the  spectral  illumination  of  moonshine. 

His  remark  did  not  seem  at  all  surprising.  It  was  just  like  Marlow.  It  was 
accepted  in  silence.  No  one  took  the  trouble  to  grunt  even;  and  presently 
he  said,  very  slow— 

"I  was  thinking  of  very  old  times,  when  the  Romans  first  came  here,  nine- 
teen hundred  years  ago— the  other  day.  .  .  .  Light  came  out  of  this  river 
since— you  say  Knights?  Yes;  but  it  is  like  a  running  blaze  on  a  plain,  like 
a  flash  of  lightning  in  the  clouds.  We  live  in  the  flicker— may  it  last  as  long  as 
the  old  earth  keeps  rolling!  But  darkness  was  here  yesterday.  Imagine  the 
feelings  of  a  commander  of  a  fine— what  d'ye  call  'em— trireme  in  the  Medi- 
terranean, ordered  suddenly  to  the  north;  run  overland  across  the  Gauls  in  a 
hurry;  put  in  charge  of  one  of  these  craft  the  legionaries— a  wonderful  lot  of 
handy  men  they  must  have  been,  too— used  to  build,  apparently  by  the  hun- 
dred, in  a  month  or  two,  if  we  may  believe  what  we  read.  Imagine  him  here 
—the  very  end  of  the  world,  a  sea  the  color  of  lead,  a  sky  the  color  of  smoke, 
a  kind  of  ship  about  as  rigid  as  a  concertina— and  going  up  this  river  with 
stores,  or  orders,  or  what  you  like.  Sand-banks,  marshes,  forests,  savages,— 
precious  little  to  eat  fit  for  a  civilized  man,  nothing  but  Thames  water  to 
drink.  No  Falernian  wine  here,  no  going  ashore.  Here  and  there  a  military 
camp  lost  in  a  wilderness,  like  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay— cold,  fog,  tem- 
pests, disease,  exile,  and  death,— death  skulking  in  the  air,  in  the  water,  in 

HEART  OF  DARKNESS        319 


one,  and  could  not  exist  without  loving.  In  earlier  days  she  had  loved  her 
papa,  who  now  sat  in  a  darkened  room,  breathing  with  difficulty;  she  had 
loved  her  aunt  who  used  to  come  every  other  year  from  Bryansk;  and 
before  that,  when  she  was  at  school,  she  had  loved  her  French  master.  She 
was  a  gentle,  soft-hearted,  compassionate  girl,  with  mild,  tender  eyes  and 
very  good  health.  At  the  sight  of  her  full  rosy  cheeks,  her  soft  white  neck 
with  a  little  dark  mole  on  it,  and  the  kind,  naive  smile,  which  came  into  her 
face  when  she  listened  to  anything  pleasant,  men  thought,  "Yes,  not  half 
bad,"  and  smiled  too,  while  lady  visitors  could  not  refrain  from  seizing  her 
hand  in  the  middle  of  a  conversation,  exclaiming  in  a  gttsh  of  delight,  "You 
darling!" 

The  house  in  which  she  had  lived  from  her  birth  upwards,  and  which  was 
left  her  in  her  father's  will,  was  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  town,  not  far 
from  the  Tivoli.  In  the  evenings  and  at  night  she  could  hear  the  band  play- 
ing, and  the  crackling  and  banging  of  fireworks,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
it  was  Kukin  struggling  with  his  destiny,  storming  the  entrenchments  of  his 
chief  foe,  the  indifferent  public;  there  was  a  sweet  thrill  at  her  heart,  she 
had  no  desire  to  sleep,  and  when  he  returned  home  at  daybreak,  she  tapped 
softly  at  her  bedroom  window,  and  showing  him  only  her  face  and  one 
shoulder  through  the  curtain,  she  gave  him  a  friendly  smile.  .  .  . 

He  proposed  to  her,  and  they  were  married.  And  when  he  had  a  closer 
view  of  her  neck  and  her  plump,  fine  shoulders,  he  threw  up  his  hands,  and 
said: 

"You  darling!" 

He  was  happy,  but  as  it  rained  on  the  day  and  night  of  his  wedding,  his 
face  still  retained  an  expression  of  despair. 

They  got  on  very  well  together.  She  used  to  sit  in  his  office,  to  look  after 
things  in  the  Tivoli,  to  put  down  the  accounts  and  pay  the  wages.  And  her 
rosy  cheeks,  her  sweet,  naive,  radiant  smile,  were  to  be  seen  now  at  the 
office  window,  now  in  the  refreshment  bar  or  behind  the  scenes  of  the 
theater.  And  already  she  used  to  say  to  her  acquaintances  that  the  theater 
was  the  chief  and  most  important  thing  in  life,  and  that  it  was  only  through 
the  drama  that  one  could  derive  true  enjoyment  and  become  cultivated  and 
humane. 

"But  do  you  suppose  the  public  understands  that?"  she  used  to  say.  "What 
they  want  is  a  clown.  Yesterday  we  gave  Faust  Inside  Out,  and  almost  all 
the  boxes  were  empty;  but  if  Vanitchka  and  I  had  been  producing  some 
vulgar  thing,  I  assure  you  the  theater  would  have  been  packed.  Tomorrow 
Vanitchka  and  I  are  doing  Orpheus  in  Hell.  Do  come." 

And  what  Kukin  said  about  the  theater  and  the  actors  she  repeated.  Like 
him  she  despised  the  public  for  their  ignorance  and  their  indifference  to 
art;  she  took  part  in  the  rehearsals,  she  corrected  the  actors,  she  kept  an 


290 


THE  SHORT   STORY 


eye  on  the  behavior  of  the  musicians,  and  when  there  was  an  unfavorab 
notice  in  the  local  paper,  she  shed  tears,  and  then  went  to  the  editor's  offi< 
to  set  things  right. 

The  actors  were  fond  of  her  and  used  to  call  her  "Vanitchka  and  I,"  an 
"the  darling";  she  was  sorry  for  them  and  used  to  lend  them  small  sums  < 
money,  and  if  they  deceived  her,  she  used  to  shed  a  few  tears  in  privat 
but  did  not  complain  to  her  husband. 

They  got  on  well  in  the  winter  too.  They  took  the  theater  in  the  tow 
for  the  whole  winter,  and  let  it  for  short  terms  to  a  Little  Russian  compan 
or  to  a  conjurer,  or  to  a  local  dramatic  society.  Olenka  grew  stouter,  and  ws 
always  beaming  with  satisfaction,  while  Kukin  grew  thinner  and  yellowe 
and  continually  complained  of  their  terrible  losses,  although  he  had  not  dor 
badly  all  the  winter.  He  used  to  cough  at  night,  and  she  used  to  give  hii 
hot  raspberry  tea  or  lime-flower  water,  to  rub  him  with  eau  de  Cologne  an 
to  wrap  him  in  her  warm  shawls. 

"You're  such  a  sweet  pet!"  she  used  to  say  with  perfect  sincerity,  strokir 
his  hair.  "You're  such  a  pretty  dear!" 

Towards  Lent  he  went  to  Moscow  to  collect  a  new  troupe,  and  without  hi 
she  could  not  sleep,  but  sat  all  night  at  her  window,  looking  at  the  star 
and  she  compared  herself  to  the  hens,  who  are  awake  all  night  and  unea< 
when  the  cock  is  not  in  the  henhouse.  Kukin  was  detained  in  Moscow,  an 
wrote  that  he  would  be  back  at  Easter,  adding  some  instructions  about  tl 
Tivoli.  But  on  the  Sunday  before  Easter,  late  in  the  evening,  came  a  sudde 
ominous  knock  at  the  gate;  some  one  was  hammering  on  the  gate  as  thoug 
on  a  barrel— boom,  boom  boom!  The  drowsy  cook  went  flopping  with  h< 
bare  feet  through  the  puddles,  as  she  ran  to  open  the  gate. 

"Please  open,"  said  some  one  outside  in  a  thick  bass.  "There  is  a  telegrai 
for  you." 

Olenka  had  received  telegrams  from  her  husband  before,  but  this  tin 
for  some  reason  she  felt  numb  with  terror.  With  shaking  hands  she  openc 
the  telegram  and  read  as  follows: 

Ivan  Petrovitch  died  suddenly  today.  Awaiting  immate  instructions  fufuner 
Tuesday. 

That  was  how  it  was  written  in  the  telegram— "fufuneral,"  and  the  utter 
incomprehensible  word  "immate."  It  was  signed  by  the  stage  manager  < 
the  operatic  company. 

"My  darling!"  sobbed  Olenka.  "Vanitchka,  my  precious,  my  darling!  Wl 
did  I  ever  meet  you!  Why  did  I  know  you  and  love  you!  Your  poor  hear 
broken  Olenka  is  all  alone  without  you!" 

Kultin's  funeral  took  place  on  Tuesday  in  Moscow,  Olenka  returned  hon 

THE  DARLING        291 


on  Wednesday,  and  as  soon  as  she  got  indoors  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed 
and  sobbed  so  loudly  that  it  could  be  heard  next  door,  and  in  the  street. 

"Poor  darling!"  the  neighbors  said,  as  they  crossed  themselves.  "Olga 
Semyonovna,  poor  darling!  How  she  does  take  on!" 

Three  months  later  Olenka  was  coming  home  from  mass,  melancholy  and 
in  deep  mourning.  It  happened  that  one  of  her  neighbors,  Vassily  Andreitch 
Pustovalov,  returning  home  from  church,  walked  back  beside  her.  He  was 
the  manager  at  Babakayev's,  the  timber  merchant's.  He  wore  a  straw  hat, 
a  white  waistcoat,  and  a  gold  watch-chain,  and  looked  more  like  a  country 
gentleman  than  a  man  in  trade. 

"Everything  happens  as  it  is  ordained,  Olga  Semyonovna,"  he  said  gravely, 
with  a  sympathetic  note  in  his  voice;  "and  if  any  of  our  dear  ones  die,  it 
must  be  because  it  is  the  will  of  God,  so  we  ought  to  have  fortitude  and 
bear  it  submissively." 

After  seeing  Olenka  to  her  gate,  he  said  good-by  and  went  on.  All  day 
afterwards  she  heard  his  sedately  dignified  voice,  and  whenever  she  shut 
her  eyes  she  saw  his  dark  beard.  She  liked  him  very  much.  And  apparently 
she  had  made  an  impression  on  him  too,  for  not  long  afterwards  an  elderly 
lady,  with  whom  she  was  only  slightly  acquainted,  came  to  drink  coffee 
with  her,  and  as  soon  as  she  was  seated  at  table  began  to  talk  about  Pus- 
tovalov, saying  that  he  was  an  excellent  man  whom  one  could  thoroughly 
depend  upon,  and  that  any  girl  would  be  glad  to  marry  him.  Three  days 
later  Pustovalov  came  himself.  He  did  not  stay  long,  only  about  ten  minutes, 
and  he  did  not  say  much,  but  when  he  left,  Olenka  loved  him— loved  him 
so  much  that  she  lay  awake  all  night  in  a  perfect  fever,  and  in  the  morning 
she  sent  for  the  elderly  lady.  The  match  was  quickly  arranged,  and  then 
came  the  wedding. 

Pustovalov  and  Olenka  got  on  very  well  together  when  they  were  married. 

Usually  he  sat  in  the  office  till  dinnertime,  then  he  went  out  on  business, 
while  Olenka  took  his  place,  and  sat  in  the  office  till  evening,  making  up 
accounts  and  booking  orders. 

"Timber  gets  dearer  every  year;  the  price  rises  twenty  per  cent,"  she 
would  say  to  her  customers  and  friends.  "Only  fancy  we  used  to  sell  local 
timber,  and  now  Vassitchka  always  has  to  go  for  wood  to  the  Mogilev  district. 
And  the  freightl"  she  would  add,  covering  her  cheeks  with  her  hands  in 
horror.  "The  freight!" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been  in  the  timber  trade  for  ages  and  ages, 
and  that  the  most  important  and  necessary  thing  in  life  was  timber;' and 
there  was  something  intimate  and  touching  to  her  in  the  very  sound  of 
words  such  as  "baulk,"  "post,"  "beam,"  "pole,"  "scantling,"  "batten,"  "lath," 
"plank,"  etc. 

292        THE  SHORT  STORY 


At  night  when  she  was  asleep  she  dreamed  of  perfect  mountains  of  planks 
and  boards,  and  long  strings  of  wagons,  carting  timber  somewhere  far  away. 
She  dreamed  that  a  whole  regiment  of  six-inch  beams  forty  feet  high,  stand- 
ing on  end,  was  marching  upon  the  timber-yard;  that  logs,  beams,  and  boards 
knocked  together  with  the  resounding  crash  of  dry  wood,  kept  falling  and 
getting  up  again,  piling  themselves  on  each  other.  Olenka  cried  out  in  her 
sleep,  and  Pustovalov  said  to  her  tenderly:  "Olenka,  what's  the  matter, 
darling?  Cross  yourself!" 

Her  husband's  ideas  were  hers.  If  he  thought  the  room  was  too  hot,  or 
that  business  was  slack,  she  thought  the  same.  Her  husband  did  not  care  for 
entertainments,  and  on  holidays  he  stayed  at  home.  She  did  likewise. 

"You  are  always  at  home  or  in  the  office,"  her  friends  said  to  her.  "You 
should  go  to  the  theater,  darling,  or  to  the  circus." 

"Vassitchka  and  I  have  no  time  to  go  to  theaters,"  she  would  answer 
sedately.  "We  have  no  time  for  nonsense.  What's  the  use  of  these  theaters?" 

On  Saturdays  Pustovalov  and  she  used  to  go  to  the  evening  service;  on 
holidays  to  early  mass,  and  they  walked  side  by  side  with  softened  faces  as 
they  came  home  from  church.  There  was  a  pleasant  fragrance  about  them 
both,  and  her  silk  dress  rustled  agreeably.  At  home  they  drank  tea,  with 
fancy  bread  and  jams  of  various  kinds,  and  afterwards  they  ate  pie.  Every 
day  at  twelve  o'clock  there  was  a  savory  smell  of  beet-root  soup  and  of 
mutton  or  duck  in  their  yard,  and  on  fast-days  of  fish,  and  no  one  could 
pass  the  gate  without  feeling  hungry.  In  the  office  the  samovar  was  always 
boiling,  and  customers  were  regaled  with  tea  and  cracknels.  Once  a  week 
the  couple  went  to  the  baths  and  returned  side  by  side,  both  red  in  the  face. 

"Yes,  we  have  nothing  to  complain  of,  thank  God,"  Olenka  used  to  say  to 
her  acquaintances.  "I  wish  every  one  were  as  well  off  as  Vassitchka  and  I." 

When  Pustovalov  went  away  to  buy  wood  in  the  Mogilev  district,  she 
missed  him  dreadfully,  lay  awake  and  cried.  A  young  veterinary  surgeon  in 
the  army,  called  Smirnin,  to  whom  they  had  let  their  lodge,  used  sometimes 
to  come  in  in  the  evening.  He  used  to  talk  to  her  and  play  cards  with  her, 
and  this  entertained  her  in  her  husband's  absence.  She  was  particularly  in- 
terested in  what  he  told  her  of  his  home  life.  He  was  married  and  had  a  little 
boy,  but  was  separated  from  his  wife  because  she  had  been  unfaithful  to 
him,  and  now  he  hated  her  and  used  to  send  her  forty  roubles  a  month  for 
the  maintenance  of  their  son.  And  hearing  of  all  this,  Olenka  sighed  and 
shook  her  head.  She  was  sorry  for  him. 

"Well,  God  keep  you,"  she  used  to  say  to  him  at  parting,  as  she  lighted 
him  down  the  stairs  with  a  candle.  "Thank  you  for  coming  to  cheer  me  up, 
and  may  the  Mother  of  God  give  you  health." 

And  she  always  expressed  herself  with  the  same  sedateness  and  dignity, 

THE    DARLING        293 


the  same  reasonableness,  in  imitation  of  her  husband.  As  the  veterinary 
surgeon  was  disappearing  behind  the  door  below,  she  would  say: 

"You  know,  Vladimir  Platonitch,  you'd  better  make  it  up  with  your  wife. 
You  should  forgive  her  for  the  sake  of  your  son.  You  may  be  sure  the  little 
fellow  understands." 

And  when  Pustovalov  came  back,  she  told  him  in  a  low  voice  about  the 
veterinary  surgeon  and  his  unhappy  home  life,  and  both  sighed  and  shook 
their  heads  and  talked  about  the  boy,  who,  no  doubt,  missed  his  father, 
and  by  some  strange  connection  of  ideas,  they  went  up  to  the  holy  ikons, 
bowed  to  the  ground  before  them  and  prayed  that  God  would  give  them 
children. 

And  so  the  Pustovalovs  lived  for  six  years  quietly  and  peaceably  in  love 
and  complete  harmony. 

But  behold!  one  winter  day  after  drinking  hot  tea  in  the  office,  Vassily 
Andreitch  went  out  into  the  yard  without  his  cap  on  to  see  about  sending 
off  some  timber,  caught  cold  and  was  taken  ill.  He  had  the  best  doctors, 
but  he  grew  worse  and  died  after  four  months'  illness.  And  Olenka  was  a 
widow  once  more. 

"I've  nobody,  now  you've  left  me,  my  Darling,"  she  sobbed,  after  her 
husband's  funeral.  "How  can  I  live  without  you,  in  wretchedness  and  miseryl 
Pity  me,  good  people,  all  alone  in  the  world!" 

She  went  about  dressed  in  black  with  long  "weepers,"  and  gave  up  wear- 
ing hat  and  gloves  for  good.  She  hardly  ever  went  out,  except  to  church, 
or  to  her  husband's  grave,  and  led  the  life  of  a  nun.  It  was  not  till  six  months 
later  that  she  took  off  the  weepers  and  opened  the  shutters  of  the  windows. 
She  was  sometimes  seen  in  the  mornings,  going  with  her  cook  to  market  for 
provisions,  but  what  went  on  in  her  house  and  how  she  lived  now  could 
only  be  surmised.  People  guessed,  from  seeing  her  drinking  tea  in  her 
garden  with  the  veterinary  surgeon,  who  read  the  newspaper  aloud  to  her, 
and  from  the  fact  that,  meeting  a  lady  she  knew  at  the  post  office,  she  said 
to  her: 

"There  is  no  proper  veterinary  inspection  in  our  town,  and  that's  the  cause 
of  all  sorts  of  epidemics.  One  is  always  hearing  of  people's  getting  infection 
from  the  milk  supply,  or  catching  diseases  from  horses  and  cows.  The  health 
of  domestic  animals  ought  to  be  as  well  cared  for  as  the  health  of  human 
beings." 

She  repeated  the  veterinary  surgeon's  words,  and  was  of  the  same  opinion 
as  he  about  everything.  It  was  evident  that  she  could  not  live  a  year  with- 
out some  attachment,  and  had  found  new  happiness  in  the  lodge.  In  any 
one  else  this  would  have  been  censured,  but  no  one  could  think  ill  of 
Olenka;  everything  she  did  was  so  natural  Neither  she  nor  the  veterinary 

294       THE  SHORT  STORY 


surgeon  said  anything  to  other  people  of  the  change  in  their  relations,  and 
tried,  indeed,  to  conceal  it,  but  without  success,  for  Olenka  could  not  keep 
a  secret.  When  he  had  visitors,  men  serving  in  his  regiment,  and  she  poured 
out  tea  or  served  the  supper,  she  would  begin  talking  of  the  cattle  plague, 
of  the  foot  and  mouth  disease,  and  of  the  municipal  slaughter-houses.  He 
was  dreadfully  embarrassed,  and  when  the  guests  had  gone,  he  would  seize 
her  by  the  hand  and  hiss  angrily: 

"I've  asked  you  before  not  to  talk  about  what  you  don't  understand. 
When  we  veterinary  surgeons  are  talking  among  ourselves,  please  don't 
put  your  word  in.  It's  really  annoying." 

And  she  would  look  at  him  with  astonishment  and  dismay,  and  ask  him 
in  alarm:  "But,  Voloditchka,  what  am  I  to  talk  about?" 

And  with  tears  in  her  eyes  she  would  embrace  him,  begging  him  not  to 
be  angry,  and  they  were  both  happy. 

But  this  happiness  did  not  last  long.  The  veterinary  surgeon  departed, 
departed  forever  with  his  regiment,  when  it  was  transferred  to  a  distant  place 
—to  Siberia,  it  may  be.  And  Olenka  was  left  alone. 

Now  she  was  absolutely  alone.  Her  father  had  long  been  dead,  and  his 
armchair  lay  in  the  attic,  covered  with  dust  and  lame  of  one  leg.  She  got 
thinner  and  plainer,  and  when  people  met  her  in  the  street  they  did  not 
look  at  her  as  they  used  to,  and  did  not  smile  to  her;  evidently  her  best  years 
were  over  and  left  behind,  and  now  a  new  sort  of  life  had  begun  for  her, 
which  did  not  bear  thinking  about.  In  the  evening  Olenka  sat  in  the  porch, 
and  heard  the  band  playing  and  the  fireworks  popping  in  the  TivoH,  but 
now  the  sound  stirred  no  response.  She  looked  into  her  yard  without  interest, 
thought  of  nothing,  wished  for  nothing,  and  afterwards,  when  night  came  on 
she  went  to  bed  and  dreamed  of  her  empty  yard.  She  ate  and  drank  as  it 
were  unwillingly. 

And  what  was  worst  of  all,  she  had  no  opinions  of  any  sort.  She  saw  the 
objects  about  her  and  understood  what  she  saw,  but  could  not  form  any 
opinion  about  them,  and  did  not  know  what  to  talk  about.  And  how  awful 
it  is  not  to  have  any  opinions!  One  sees  a  bottle,  for  instance,  or  the  rain, 
or  a  peasant  driving  in  his  cart,  but  what  the  bottle  is  for,  or  the  rain,  or  the 
peasant,  and  what  is  the  meaning  of  it,  one  can't  say,  and  could  not  even  for 
a  thousand  roubles.  When  she  had  Kukin,  or  Pustovalov,  or  the  veterinary 
surgeon,  Olenka  could  explain  everything,  and  give  her  opinion  about  any- 
thing you  like,  but  now  there  was  the  same  emptiness  in  her  brain  and  in 
her  heart  as  there  was  in  her  yard  outside.  And  it  was  as  harsh  and  as  bitter 
as  wormwood  in  the  mouth. 

Little  by  little  the  town  grew  in  all  directions.  The  road  became  a  street, 
and  where  the  Tivoli  and  the  timber-yard  had  been  there  were  new  turnings 

THE  DARLING        295 


and  houses.  How  rapidly  time  passes!  Olenka's  house  grew  dingy,  the  roof 
got  rusty,  the  shed  sank  on  one  side,  and  the  whole  yard  was  overgrown  with 
docks  and  stinging-nettles.  Olenka  herself  had  grown  plain  and  elderly; 
in  summer  she  sat  in  the  porch,  and  her  soul,  as  before,  was  empty  and 
dreary  and  full  of  bitterness.  In  winter  she  sat  at  her  window  and  looked  at 
the  snow.  When  she  caught  the  scent  of  spring,  or  heard  the  chime  of  the 
church  bells,  a  sudden  rush  of  memories  from  the  past  came  over  her,  there 
was  a  tender  ache  in  her  heart,  and  her  eyes  brimmed  over  with  tears;  but 
this  was  only  for  a  minute,  and  then  came  emptiness  again  and  the  sense  of 
the  futility  of  life.  The  black  kitten,  Briska,  rubbed  against  her  and  purred 
softly,  but  Olenka  was  not  touched  by  these  feline  caresses.  That  was  not 
what  she  needed.  She  wanted  a  love  that  would  absorb  her  whole  being, 
her  whole  soul  and  reason— that  would  give  her  ideas  and  an  object  in  life, 
and  would  warm  her  old  blood.  And  she  would  shake  the  kitten  off  her 
skirt  and  say  with  vexation: 

"Get  along;  I  don't  want  you!" 

And  so  it  was,  day  after  day  and  year  after  year,  and  no  joy,  and  no 
opinions.  Whatever  Mavra,  the  cook,  said  she  accepted. 

One  hot  July  day,  towards  evening,  just  as  the  cattle  were  being  driven 
away,  and  the  whole  yard  was  full  of  dust,  some  one  suddenly  knocked  at 
the  gate.  Olenka  went  to  open  it  herself  and  was  dumbfounded  when  she 
looked  out:  she  saw  Smirnin,  the  veterinary  surgeon,  gray-headed,  and 
dressed  as  a  civilian.  She  suddenly  remembered  everything.  She  could  not 
help  crying  and  letting  her  head  fall  on  his  breast  without  uttering  a  word, 
and  in  the  violence  of  her  feeling  she  did  not  notice  how  they  both  walked 
into  the  house  and  sat  down  to  tea. 

"My  dear  Vladimir  Platonitch!  What  fate  has  brought  you?"  she  muttered, 
trembling  with  joy. 

"I  want  to  settle  here  for  good,  Olga  Semyonovna,"  he  told  her.  "I  have 
resigned  my  post,  and  have  come  to  settle  down  and  try  my  luck  on  my  own 
account.  Besides,  it's  time  for  my  boy  to  go  to  school.  He's  a  big  boy.  I  am 
reconciled  with  my  wife,  you  know." 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Olenka. 

"She's  at  the  hotel  with  the  boy,  and  I'm  looking  for  lodgings." 

"Good  gracious,  my  dear  soul!  Lodgings?  Why  not  have  my  house?  Why 
shouldn't  that  suit  you?  Why,  my  goodness,  I  wouldn't  take  any  rent!"  cried 
Olenka  in  a  flutter,  beginning  to  cry  again.  "You  live  here,  and  the  lodge 
will  do  nicely  for  me.  Oh,  dear!  how  glad  I  am!" 

Next  day  the  roof  was  painted  and  the  walls  were  whitewashed,  and 
Olenka,  with  her  arms  akimbo,  walked  about  the  yard  giving  directions. 
Her  face  was  beaming  with  her  old  smile,  and  she  was  brisk  and  alert  as 

296        THE  SHORT  STORY 


though  she  had  waked  from  a  long  sleep.  The  veterinary  s  wife  arrived— a 
thin,  plain  lady,  with  short  hair  and  a  peevish  expression.  With  her  was  her 
little  Sasha,  a  boy  of  ten,  small  for  his  age,  blue-eyed,  chubby,  with  dimples 
in  his  cheeks.  And  scarcely  had  the  boy  walked  into  the  yard  when  he  ran 
after  the  cat,  and  at  once  there  was  the  sound  of  his  gay,  joyous  laugh. 

"Is  that  your  puss,  Auntie?"  he  asked  Olenka,  "When  she  has  little  ones, 
do  give  us  a  kitten.  Mamma  is  awfully  afraid  of  mice." 

Olenka  talked  to  him,  and  gave  him  tea.  Her  heart  warmed  and  there 
was  a  sweet  ache  in  her  bosom,  as  though  the  boy  had  been  her  own  child. 
And  when  he  sat  at  the  table  in  the  evening,  going  over  his  lessons,  she 
looked  at  him  with  deep  tenderness  and  pity  as  she  murmured  to  herself: 

"You  pretty  pet!  . . .  my  precious! . . .  Such  a  fair  little  thing,  and  so  clever." 

"  'An  island  is  a  piece  of  land  which  is  entirely  surrounded  by  water/  "  he 
read  aloud. 

"An  island  is  a  piece  of  land,"  she  repeated,  and  this  was  the  first  opinion 
to  which  she  gave  utterance  with  positive  conviction  after  so  many  years  of 
silence  and  dearth  of  ideas. 

Now  she  had  opinions  of  her  own,  and  at  supper  she  talked  to  Sasha's 
parents,  saying  how  difficult  the  lessons  were  at  the  high  schools,  but  that 
yet  the  high  school  was  better  than  a  commercial  one,  since  with  a  high 
school  education  all  careers  were  open  to  one,  such  as  being  a  doctor  or  an 
engineer. 

Sasha  began  going  to  the  high  school.  His  mother  departed  to  Harkov 
to  her  sister's  and  did  not  return;  his  father  used  to  go  off  every  day  to 
inspect  cattle,  and  would  often  be  away  from  home  for  three  days  together, 
and  it  seemed  to  Olenka  as  though  Sasha  was  entirely  abandoned,  that  he 
was  not  wanted  at  home,  that  he  was  being  starved,  and  she  carried  him  off 
to  her  lodge  and  gave  him  a  little  room  there. 

And  for  six  months  Sasha  had  lived  in  the  lodge  with  her.  Every  morning 
Olenka  came  into  his  bedroom  and  found  him  fast  asleep,  sleeping  noise- 
lessly with  his  hand  under  his  cheek.  She  was  sorry  to  wake  him. 

"Sashenka,"  she  would  say  mournfully,  "get  up,  Darling.  It's  time  for 
school." 

He  would  get  up,  dress  and  say  his  prayers,  and  then  sit  down  to  break- 
fast, drink  three  glasses  of  tea,  and  eat  two  large  cracknels  and  half  a  but- 
tered roll.  All  this  time  he  was  hardly  awake  and  a  little  ill-humored  in  con- 
sequence. 

"You  don't  quite  know  your  fable,  Sashenka,"  Olenka  would  say,  looking 
at  him  as  though  he  were  about  to  set  off  on  a  long  journey.  "What  a  lot  of 
trouble  I  have  with  youl  You  must  work  and  do  your  best,  Darling,  and 
obey  your  teachers." 

THE  DARLING        297 


"Oh,  do  leave  me  alone!"  Sasha  would  say. 

Then  he  would  go  down  the  street  to  school,  a  little  figure,  wearing  a  big 
cap  and  carrying  a  satchel  on  his  shoulder.  Olenka  would  follow  him  noise- 
lessly. 

"Sashenka!"  she  would  call  after  him,  and  she  would  pop  into  his  hand  a 
date  or  a  caramel.  When  he  reached  the  street  where  the  school  was,  he 
would  feel  ashamed  of  being  followed  by  a  tall,  stout  woman;  he  would 
turn  round  and  say: 

"You'd  better  go  home,  Auntie.  I  can  go  the  rest  of  the  way  alone." 

She  would  stand  still  and  look  after  him  fixedly  till  he  had  disappeared 
at  the  school  gate. 

Ah,  how  she  loved  him!  Of  her  former  attachments  not  one  had  been  so 
deep;  never  had  her  soul  surrendered  to  any  feeling  so  spontaneously,  so 
disinterestedly,  and  so  joyously  as  now  that  her  maternal  instincts  were 
aroused.  For  this  little  boy  with  the  dimple  in  his  cheek  and  the  big  school 
cap  she  would  have  given  her  whole  life,  she  would  have  given  it  with  joy 
and  tears  of  tenderness.  Why?  Who  can  tell  why? 

When  she  had  seen  the  last  of  Sasha,  she  returned  home,  contented  and 
serene,  brimming  over  with  love;  her  face,  which  had  grown  younger  during 
the  last  six  months,  smiled  and  beamed;  people  meeting  her  looked  at  her 
with  pleasure. 

"Good  morning,  Olga  Semyonovna,  Darling.  How  are  you,  Darling?" 

"The  lessons  at  the  high  school  are  very  difficult  now,"  she  would  relate 
at  the  market.  "It's  too  much;  in  the  first  class  yesterday  they  gave  him  a 
fable  to  learn  by  heart,  and  a  Latin  translation  and  a  problem.  You  know 
it's  too  much  for  a  little  chap." 

And  she  would  begin  talking  about  the  teachers,  the  lessons,  and  the 
school  books,  saying  just  what  Sasha  said. 

At  three  o'clock  they  had  dinner  together:  in  the  evening  they  learned 
their  lessons  together  and  cried.  When  she  put  him  to  bed,  she  would  stay 
a  long  time  making  the  cross  over  him  and  murmuring  a  prayer;  then  she 
would  go  to  bed  and  dream  of  that  far-away,  misty  future  when  Sasha 
would  finish  his  studies  and  become  a  doctor  or  an  engineer,  would  have  a 
big  house  of  his  own  with  horses  and  a  carriage,  would  get  married  and 
have  children.  .  .  .  She  would  fall  asleep  still  thinking  of  the  same  thing, 
and  tears  would  run  down  her  cheeks  from  her  closed  eyes,  while  the  black 
cat  lay  purring  beside  her:  "Mrr,  mrr,  mrr." 

Suddenly  there  would  come  a  loud  knock  at  the  gate. 

Olenka  would  wake  up  breathless  with  alarm,  her  heart  throbbing.  Half 
a  minute  later  would  come  another  knock. 

"It  must  be  a  telegram  from  Harkov,"  she  would  think,  beginning  to 

208        THE   SHORT   STORY 


tremble  from  head  to  foot.  "Sasha's  mother  is  sending  for  him  from  Harkov. 
. . .  Oh,  mercy  on  us!" 

She  was  in  despair.  Her  head,  her  hands,  and  her  feet  would  turn  chill, 
and  she  would  feel  that  she  was  the  most  unhappy  woman  in  the  world.  But 
another  minute  would  pass,  voices  would  be  heard:  it  would  turn  out  to  be 
the  veterinary  surgeon  coming  home  from  the  club. 

"Well,  thank  God!"  she  would  think. 

And  gradually  the  load  in  her  heart  would  pass  off,  and  she  would  feel  at 
ease.  She  would  go  back  to  bed  thinking  of  Sasha,  who  lay  sound  asleep  in 
the  next  room,  sometimes  crying  out  in  his  sleep: 

"111  give  it  you!  Get  awayl  Shut  upl" 


HENRY   JAMES 


Mrs.  Medwin 


WELL,  we  are  a  pair!"  the  poor  lady's  visitor  broke  out  to  her,  at  the 
end  of  her  explanation,  in  a  manner  disconcerting  enough.  The  poor 
lady  was  Miss  Cutter,  who  lived  in  South  Audley  Street,  where  she  had  an 
"upper  half"  so  concise  that  it  had  to  pass,  boldly,  for  convenient;  and  her 
visitor  was  her  half-brother,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  three  years.  She  was 
remarkable  for  a  maturity  of  which  every  symptom  might  have  been  ob- 
served to  be  admirably  controlled,  had  not  a  tendency  to  stoutness  just 
affirmed  its  independence.  Her  present,  no  doubt,  insisted  too  much  on  her 
past,  but  with  the  excuse,  sufficiently  valid,  that  she  must  certainly  once  have 
been  prettier.  She  was  clearly  not  contented  with  once— she  wished  to  be 
prettier  again.  She  neglected  nothing  that  could  produce  that  illusion,  and, 
being  both  fair  and  fat,  dressed  almost  wholly  in  black.  When  she  added 
a  little  color  it  was  not,  at  any  rate,  to  her  drapery.  Her  small  rooms  had  the 
peculiarity  that  everything  they  contained  appeared  to  testify  with  vividness 
to  her  position  in  society,  quite  as  if  they  had  been  furnished  by  the  bounty 
of  admiring  friends.  They  were  adorned  indeed  almost  exclusively  with 
objects  that  nobody  buys,  as  had  more  than  once  been  remarked  by  specta- 
tors of  her  own  sex,  for  herself,  and  would  have  been  luxurious  if  luxury 
consisted  mainly  in  photographic  portraits  slashed  across  with  signatures, 
in  baskets  of  flowers  beribboned  with  the  cards  of  passing  compatriots,  and 
in  a  neat  collection  of  red  volumes,  blue  volumes,  alphabetical  volumes, 


Reprinted  from  The  Better  Sort  by  Henry  James;  copyright  1903  by  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  1931  by  Henry  James;  used  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 

MRS.   MXDWIN        299 


aids  to  London  lucidity,  of  every  sort,  devoted  to  addresses  and  engage- 
ments. To  be  in  Miss  Cutter's  tiny  drawing-room,  in  short,  even  with  Miss 
Cutter  alone— should  you  by  any  chance  have  found  her  so— was  somehow 
to  be  in  the  world  and  in  a  crowd.  It  was  like  an  agency— it  bristled  with 
particulars. 

That  was  what  the  tall,  lean,  loose  gentleman  lounging  there  before  her 
might  have  appeared  to  read  in  the  suggestive  scene  over  which,  while  she 
talked  to  him,  his  eyes  moved  without  haste  and  without  rest.  "Oh,  come, 
Mamie!"  he  occasionally  threw  off;  and  the  words  were  evidently  connected 
with  the  impression  thus  absorbed.  His  comparative  youth  spoke  of  waste 
even  as  her  positive— her  too  positive— spoke  of  economy.  There  was  only 
one  thing,  that  is,  to  make  up  in  him  for  everything  he  had  lost,  though  it 
was  distinct  enough  indeed  that  this  thing  might  sometimes  serve.  It  con- 
sisted in  the  perfection  of  an  indifference,  an  indifference  at  the  present 
moment  directed  to  the  plea— a  plea  of  inability,  of  pure  destitution— with 
which  his  sister  had  met  him.  Yet  it  had  even  now  a  wider  embrace,  took  in 
quite  sufficiently  all  consequences  of  queerness,  confessed  in  advance  to  the 
false  note  that,  in  such  a  setting,  he  almost  excruciatingly  constituted.  He 
cared  as  little  that  he  looked  at  moments  all  his  impudence  as  that  he  looked 
all  his  shabbiness,  all  his  cleverness,  all  his  history.  These  different  things 
were  written  in  him— in  his  premature  baldness,  his  seamed,  strained  face, 
the  lapse  from  bravery  of  his  long  tawny  moustache;  above  all,  in  his  easy, 
friendly,  universally  acquainted  eye,  so  much  too  sociable  for  mere  con- 
versation. What  possible  relation  with  him  could  be  natural  enough  to  meet 
it?  He  wore  a  scant,  rough  Inverness  cape  and  a  pair  of  black  trousers, 
wanting  in  substance  and  marked  with  the  sheen  of  time,  that  had  pre- 
sumably once  served  for  evening  use.  He  spoke  with  the  slowness  helplessly 
permitted  to  Americans— as  something  too  slow  to  be  stopped— and  he  re- 
peated that  he  found  himself  associated  with  Miss  Cutter  in  a  harmony 
worthy  of  wonder.  She  had  been  telling  him  not  only  that  she  couldn't  pos- 
sibly give  him  ten  pounds,  but  that  his  unexpected  arrival,  should  he  insist 
on  being  much  in  view,  might  seriously  interfere  with  arrangements  neces- 
jsary  to  her  own  maintenance;  on  which  he  had  begun  by  replying  that  he 
of  course  knew  she  had  long  ago  spent  her  money,  but  that  he  looked  to  her 
now  exactly  because  she  had,  without  the  aid  of  that  convenience,  mastered 
the  art  of  life. 

"I'd  really  go  away  with  a  fiver,  my  dear,  if  you'd  only  tell  me  how  you 
do  it.  It's  no  use  saying  only,  as  you've  always  said,  that  'people  are  very 
kind  to  you/  What  the  devil  are  they  kind  to  you  for?9' 

"Well,  one  reason  is  precisely  that  no  particular  inconvenience  has  hith- 
erto been  supposed  to  attach  to  me.  I'm  just  what  I  am,"  said  Mamie  Cutter; 

300        THE   SHORT   STORY 


"nothing  less  and  nothing  more.  It's  awkward  to  have  to  explain  to  you, 
which,  moreover,  I  really  needn't  in  the  least.  I'm  clever  and  amusing  and 
charming."  She  was  uneasy  and  even  frightened,  but  she  kept  her  temper 
and  met  him  with  a  grace  of  her  own.  "I  don't  think  you  ought  to  ask  me 
more  questions  than  I  ask  you." 

"Ah,  my  dear,"  said  the  odd  young  man,  '*l've  no  mysteries.  Why  in  the 
world,  since  it  was  what  you  came  out  for  and  have  devoted  so  much  of 
your  time  to,  haven't  you  pulled  it  off?  Why  haven't  you  married?" 

"Why  haven't  you?"  she  retorted.  "Do  you  think  that  if  I  had  it  would  have 
been  better  for  you?— that  my  husband  would  for  a  moment  have  put  up 
with  you?  Do  you  mind  my  asking  you  if  you'll  kindly  go  now?"  she  went  on 
after  a  glance  at  the  clock.  "I'm  expecting  a  friend,  whom  I  must  see  alone, 
on  a  matter  of  great  importance — " 

"And  my  being  seen  with  you  may  compromise  your  respectability  or 
undermine  your  nerve?"  He  sprawled  imperturbably  in  his  place,  crossing 
again,  in  another  sense,  his  long  black  legs  and  showing,  above  his  low  shoes, 
an  absurd  reach  of  parti-coloured  sock.  "I  take  your  point  well  enough,  but 
mayn't  you  be  after  all  quite  wrong?  If  you  can't  do  anything  for  me 
couldn't  you  at  least  do  something  with  me?  If  it  comes  to  that,  I'm  clever 
and  amusing  and  charming  too!  I've  been  such  an  ass  that  you  don't  appre- 
ciate me.  But  people  like  me— I  assure  you  they  do.  They  usually  don't 
know  what  an  ass  I've  been;  they  only  see  the  surface,  which"— and  he 
stretched  himself  afresh  as  she  looked  him  up  and  down— "you  can  imagine 
them,  can't  you,  rather  taken  with?  I'm  'what  I  am'  too;  nothing  less  and 
nothing  more.  That's  true  of  us  as  a  family,  you  see.  We  are  a  crew!"  He 
delivered  himself  serenely.  His  voice  was  soft  and  flat,  his  pleasant  eyes, 
his  simple  tones  tending  to  the  solemn,  achieved  at  moments  that  effect  of 
quaintness  which  is,  in  certain  connections,  socially  so  known  and  enjoyed. 
"English  people  have  quite  a  weakness  for  me— more  than  any  others.  I  get 
on  with  them  beautifully.  I've  always  been  with  them  abroad.  They  think 
me,"  the  young  man  explained,  "diabolically  American." 

"You!"  Such  stupidity  drew  from  her  a  sigh  of  compassion. 

Her  companion  apparently  quite  understood  it.  "Are  you  homesick, 
Mamie?"  he  asked,  with  wondering  irrelevance. 

The  manner  of  the  question  made  her  for  some  reason,  in  spite  of  her  pre- 
occupations, break  into  a  laugh.  A  shade  of  indulgence,  a  sense  of  other 
things,  came  back  to  her.  "You  are  funny,  Scott!" 

"Well,"  remarked  Scott,  "that's  just  what  I  claim.  But  are  you  so  home- 
sick?" he  spaciously  inquired,  not  as  if  to  a  practical  end,  but  from  an  easy 
play  of  intelligence. 

"I'm  just  dying  of  itl"  said  Mamie  Gutter. 

MRS.   MEDWIN        301 


"Why,  so  am  I!"  Her  visitor  had  a  sweetness  of  concurrence. 

"We're  the  only  decent  people,"  Miss  Cutter  declared.  "And  I  know.  You 
don't— you  can't;  and  I  can't  explain.  Come  in,"  she  continued  with  a  return 
of  her  impatience  and  an  increase  of  her  decision,  "at  seven  sharp." 

She  had  quitted  her  seat  some  time  before,  and  now,  to  get  him  into 
motion,  hovered  before  him  while,  still  motionless,  he  looked  up  at  her. 
Something  intimate,  in  the  silence,  appeared  to  pass  between  them— a  com- 
munity of  fatigue  and  failure  and,  after  all,  of  intelligence.  There  was  a 
final,  cynical  humour  in  it.  It  determined  him,  at  any  rate,  at  last,  and  he 
slowly  rose,  taking  in  again  as  he  stood  there  the  testimony  of  the  room. 
He  might  have  been  counting  the  photographs,  but  he  looked  at  the 
flowers  with  detachment.  "Who's  coming?" 

"Mrs.  Medwin." 

"American?" 

"Dear  no!" 

"Then  what  are  you  doing  for  her?" 

"I  work  for  everyone,"  she  promptly  returned. 

"For  everyone  who  pays?  So  I  suppose.  Yet  isn't  it  only  we  who  do  pay?" 

There  was  a  drollery,  not  lost  on  her,  in  the  way  his  queer  presence  lent 
itself  to  his  emphasised  plural.  "Do  you  consider  that  you  do?" 

At  this,  with  his  deliberation,  he  came  back  to  his  charming  idea.  "Only 
try  me,  and  see  if  I  can't  be  made  to.  Work  me  in."  On  her  sharply  presenting 
her  back  he  stared  a  little  at  the  clock.  "If  I  come  at  seven  may  I  stay  to 
dinner?" 

It  brought  her  round  again.  "Impossible.  I'm  dining  out." 

"With  whom?" 

She  had  to  think.  "With  Lord  Considine." 

"Oh,  my  eye!"  Scott  exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him  gloomily.  "Is  that  sort  of  tone  what  makes  you  pay?  I 
think  you  might  understand,"  she  went  on,  "that  if  you're  to  sponge  on  me 
successfully  you  mustn't  ruin  me.  I  must  have  some  remote  resemblance  to 
a  lady." 

"Yes?  But  why  must  I?"  Her  exasperated  silence  was  full  of  answers,  of 
which,  howevei,  his  inimitable  manner  took  no  account.  "You  don't  under- 
stand my  real  strength;  I  doubt  if  you  even  understand  your  own.  You're 
clever,  Mamie,  but  you're  not  so  clever  as  I  supposed.  However,"  he  pursued, 
"it's  out  of  Mrs.  Medwin  that  you'll  get  it." 

"Get  what?" 

"Why,  the  cheque  that  will  enable  you  to  assist  me/' 

On  this,  for  a  moment,  she  met  his  eyes.  "If  you'll  come  back  at  seven 
sharp— not  a  minute  before,  and  not  a  minute  after,  I'll  give  you  two  five- 
pound  notes." 

302        THE   SHORT   STORY 


He  thought  it  over.  "Whom  are  you  expecting  a  minute  after?" 

It  sent  her  to  the  window  with  a  groan  almost  of  anguish,  and  she  an- 
swered nothing  till  she  had  looked  at  the  street.  "If  you  injure  me,  you  know, 
Scott,  you'll  be  sorry." 

"I  wouldn't  injure  you  for  the  world.  What  I  want  to  do  in  fact  is  really 
to  help  you,  and  I  promise  you  that  I  won't  leave  you— by  which  I  mean 
won't  leave  London— till  I've  effected  something  really  pleasant  for  you.  I 
like  you,  Mamie,  because  I  like  pluck;  I  like  you  much  more  than  you  like 
me.  I  like  you  very,  very  much."  He  had  at  last  with  this  reached  the  door 
and  opened  it,  but  he  remained  with  his  hand  on  the  latch.  "What  does 
Mrs.  Medwin  want  of  you?"  he  thus  brought  out. 

She  had  come  round  to  see  him  disappear,  and  in  the  relief  of  this  pros- 
pect she  again  just  indulged  him.  "The  impossible." 

He  waited  another  minute.  "And  you're  going  to  do  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  do  it,"  said  Mamie  Cutter. 

"Well,  then,  that  ought  to  be  a  haul.  Call  it  three  fivers!"  he  laughed.  "At 
seven  sharp."  And  at  last  he  left  her  alone. 

n 

Miss  CUTTER  waited  till  she  heard  the  house-door  close;  after  which,  in 
a  sightless,  mechanical  way,  she  moved  about  the  room,  readjusting 
various  objects  that  he  had  not  touched.  It  was  as  if  his  mere  voice  and 
accent  had  spoiled  her  form.  But  she  was  not  left  too  long  to  reckon  with 
these  things,  for  Mrs.  Medwin  was  promptly  announced.  This  lady  was  not, 
more  than  her  hostess,  in  the  first  flush  of  her  youth;  her  appearance— the 
scattered  remains  of  beauty  manipulated  by  taste— resembled  one  of  the 
light  repasts  in  which  the  fragments  of  yesterday's  dinner  figure  with  a  con- 
scious ease  that  makes  up  for  the  want  of  presence.  She  was  perhaps  of  an 
effect  still  too  immediate  to  be  called  interesting,  but  she  was  candid,  gentle 
and  surprised— not  fatiguingly  surprised,  only  just  in  the  right  degree;  and 
her  white  face— it  was  too  white— with  the  fixed  eyes,  the  somewhat  touzled 
hair  and  the  Louis  Seize  hat,  might  at  the  end  of  the  very  long  neck  have 
suggested  the  head  of  a  princess  carried,  in  a  revolution,  on  a  pike.  She 
immediately  took  up  the  business  that  had  brought  her,  with  the  air,  how- 
ever^  of  drawing  from  the  omens  then  discernible  less  confidence  than  she 
had  hoped.  The  complication  lay  in  the  fact  that  if  it  was  Mamie's  part  to 
present  the  omens,  that  lady  yet  had  so  to  colour  them  as  to  make  her  own 
service  large.  She  perhaps  overcoloured,  for  her  friend  gave  way  to  mo- 
mentary despair. 

"What  you  mean  is  then  that  it's  simply  impossible?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mamie,  with  a  qualified  emphasis.  "It's  possible." 

"But  disgustingly  difficult?" 

"As  difficult  as  you  like." 

MRS.    MEDWIN        303 


"Then  what  can  I  do  that  I  haven't  done?" 

"You  can  only  wait  a  little  longer." 

"But  that's  just  what  I  have  done.  I've  done  nothing  else.  I'm  always 
waiting  a  little  longer!" 

Miss  Cutter  retained,  in  spite  of  this  pathos,  her  grasp  of  the  subject. 
"The  thing,  as  I've  told  you,  is  for  you  first  to  be  seen." 

"But  if  people  won't  look  at  me?" 

"They  will." 

"They  will?"  Mrs.  Medwin  was  eager. 

"They  shall,"  her  hostess  went  on.  "It's  their  only  having  heard— without 
having  seen/* 

"But  if  they  stare  straight  the  other  way?"  Mrs.  Medwin  continued  to 
object.  "You  can't  simply  go  up  to  them  and  twist  their  heads  about." 

"It's  just  what  I  can,"  said  Mamie  Cutter. 

But  her  charming  visitor,  heedless  for  the  moment  of  this  attenuation,  had 
found  the  way  to  put  it.  "It's  the  old  story.  You  can't  go  into  the  water  till 
you  swim,  and  you  can't  swim  till  you  go  into  the  water.  I  can't  be  spoken 
to  till  I'm  seen,  but  I  can't  be  seen  till  I'm  spoken  to." 

She  met  this  lucidity,  Miss  Cutter,  with  but  an  instant's  lapse.  "You  say 
I  can't  twist  their  heads  about.  But  I  have  twisted  them." 

It  had  been  quietly  produced,  but  it  gave  her  companion  a  jerk.  "They 
say  *Yes'?" 

She  summed  it  up.  "All  but  one.  She  says  *No.'  " 

Mrs.  Medwin  thought;  then  jumped.  "Lady  Wantridge?" 

Miss  Cutter,  as  more  delicate,  only  bowed  admission.  "I  shall  see  her 
either  this  afternoon  or  late  to-morrow.  But  she  has  written." 

Her  visitor  wondered  again.  "May  I  see  her  letter?" 

"No."  She  spoke  with  decision.  "But  I  shall  square  her." 

"Then  how?" 

"Well"— and  Miss  Cutter,  as  if  looking  upward  for  inspiration,  fixed  her 
eyes  awhile  on  the  ceiling— "well,  it  will  come  to  me." 

Mrs.  Medwin  watched  her— it  was  impressive.  "And  will  they  come  to  you 
—the  others?"  This  question  drew  out  the  fact  that  they  would— so  far,  at 
least,  as  they  consisted  of  Lady  Edward,  Lady  Bellhouse  and  Mrs.  Pouncer, 
who  had  engaged  to  muster,  at  the  signal  of  tea,  on  the  14th— prepared,  as 
it  were,  for  the  worst.  There  was  of  course  always  the  chance  that  Lady 
Wantridge  might  take  the  field  in  such  force  as  to  paralyse  them,  though 
that  danger,  at  the  same  time,  seemed  inconsistent  with  her  being  squared. 
It  didn't  perhaps  all  quite  ideally  hang  together;  but  what  it  sufficiently 
came  to  was  that  if  she  was  the  one  who  could  do  most  for  a  person  in  Mrs. 
Medwin's  position  she  was  also  the  one  who  could  do  most  against.  It  would 

304        THE   SHORT   STORY 


therefore  be  distinctly  what  our  friend  familiarly  spoke  of  as  "collar-work." 
The  effect  of  these  mixed  considerations  was  at  any  rate  that  Mamie  eventu- 
ally acquiesced  in  the  idea,  handsomely  thrown  out  by  her  client,  that  she 
should  have  an  "advance"  to  go  on  with.  Miss  Cutter  confessed  that  it 
seemed  at  times  as  if  one  scarce  could  go  on;  but  the  advance  was,  in  spite 
of  this  delicacy,  still  more  delicately  made—made  in  the  form  of  a  bank- 
note, several  sovereigns,  some  loose  silver  and  two  coppers,  the  whole  con- 
tents of  her  purse,  neatly  disposed  by  Mrs.  Medwin  on  one  of  the  tiny  tables. 
It  seemed  to  clear  the  air  for  deeper  intimacies,  the  fruit  of  which  was  that 
Mamie,  lonely,  after  all,  in  her  crowd,  and  always  more  helpful  than  helped, 
eventually  brought  out  that  the  way  Scott  had  been  going  on  was  what 
seemed  momentarily  to  overshadow  her  own  power  to  do  so. 

"I've  had  a  descent  from  him/'  But  she  had  to  explain.  "My  half-brother— 
Scott  Homer.  A  wretch." 

"What  kind  of  a  wretch?" 

"Every  kind.  I  lose  sight  of  him  at  times— he  disappears  abroad.  But  he 
always  turns  up  again,  worse  than  ever." 

"Violent?" 

"No." 

"Maudlin?" 

"No." 

"Only  unpleasant?" 

"No.  Rather  pleasant.  Awfully  clever— awfully  travelled  and  easy." 

"Then  what's  the  matter  with  him?" 

Mamie  mused,  hesitated— seemed  to  see  a  wide  past.  "I  don't  know." 

"Something  in  the  background?"  Then  as  her  friend  was  silent,  "Some- 
thing queer  about  cards?"  Mrs.  Medwin  threw  off. 

"I  don't  know— and  I  don't  want  to!" 

"Ah,  well,  I'm  sure  I  don't,"  Mrs.  Medwin  returned  with  spirit.  The  note 
of  sharpness  was  perhaps  also  a  little  in  the  observation  she  made  as  she 
gathered  herself  to  go.  "Do  you  mind  my  saying  something?" 

Mamie  took  her  eyes  quickly  from  the  money  on  the  little  stand.  "You 
may  say  what  you  like." 

"I  only  mean  that  anything  awkward  you  may  have  to  keep  out  of  the  way 
does  seem  to  make  more  wonderful,  doesn't  it,  that  you  should  have  got 
just  where  you  are?  I  allude,  you  know,  to  your  position." 

"I  see."  Miss  Cutter  somewhat  coldly  smiled.  "To  my  power." 

"So  awfully  remarkable  in  an  American." 

"Ah,  you  like  us  so." 

Mrs.  Medwin  candidly  considered.  "But  we  don't,  dearest." 

Her  companion's  smile  brightened.  "Then  why  do  you  come  to  me?" 

MRS.    MEDWIN        305 


"Oh,  I  like  your  Mrs.  Medwin  made  out. 

"Then  that's  it.  There  are  no  'Americans/  It's  always  'you/  " 

"Me?"  Mrs.  Medwin  looked  lovely,  but  a  little  muddled. 

"Uel"  Mamie  Cutter  laughed.  "But  if  you  like  me,  you  dear  thing,  you 
can  judge  if  I  like  you."  She  gave  her  a  kiss  to  dismiss  her.  "I'll  see  you  again 
when  I've  seen  her." 

"Lady  Wantridge?  I  hope  so,  indeed.  I'll  turn  up  late  to-morrow,  if  you 
don't  catch  me  first.  Has  it  come  to  you  yet?"  the  visitor,  now  at  the  door, 
went  on. 

"No;  but  it  will.  There's  time." 

"Oh,  a  little  less  every  dayl" 

Miss  Cutter  had  approached  the  table  and  glanced  again  at  the  gold 
and  silver  and  the  note,  not  indeed  absolutely  overlooked  the  two  coppers. 
"The  balance,"  she  put  it,  "the  day  after?" 

"That  very  night,  if  you  like/' 

"Then  count  on  me." 

"Oh,  if  I  didn't — !"  But  the  door  closed  on  the  dark  idea.  Yearningly 
then,  and  only  when  it  had  done  so,  Miss  Cutter  took  up  the  money. 

She  went  out  with  it  ten  minutes  later,  and,  the  calls  on  her  time  being 
many,  remained  out  so  long  that  at  half-past  six  she  had  not  come  back. 
At  that  hour,  on  the  other  hand,  Scott  Homer  knocked  at  her  door,  where 
her  maid,  who  opened  it  with  a  weak  pretence  of  holding  it  firm,  ventured 
to  announce  to  him,  as  a  lesson  well  learnt,  that  he  had  not  been  expected 
till  seven.  No  lesson,  none  the  less,  could  prevail  against  his  native  art.  He 
pleaded  fatigue,  her,  the  maid's,  dreadful  depressing  London,  and  the  need 
to  curl  up  somewhere.  If  she  would  just  leave  him  quiet  half  an  hour  that 
old  sofa  upstairs  would  do  for  it,  of  which  he  took  quickly  such  effectual 
possession  that  when,  five  minutes  later,  she  peeped,  nervous  for  her  broken 
vow,  into  the  drawing-room,  the  faithless  young  woman  found  him  extended 
at  his  length  and  peacefully  asleep. 

m 

THE  SITUATION  before  Miss  Cutter's  return  developed  in  other  directions 
still,  and  when  that  event  took  place,  at  a  few  minutes  past  seven, 
these  circumstances  were,  by  the  foot  of  the  stair,  between  mistress  and  maid, 
the  subject  of  some  interrogative  gasps  and  scared  admissions.  Lady  Want- 
ridge  had  arrived  shortly  after  the  interloper,  and  wishing,  as  she  said,  to 
wait,  had  gbne  straight  up  in  spite  of  being  told  he  was  lying  down. 
"She  distinctly  understood  he  was  there?" 
"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  thought  it  right  to  mention/' 
"And  what  did  you  call  him?" 

306       THE   SHORT  STORY 


"Well,  ma'am,  I  thought  it  unfair  to  you  to  call  him  anything  but  a  gentle- 


man/' 


Mamie  took  it  all  in,  though  there  might  well  be  more  of  it  than  one 
could  quickly  embrace.  "But  if  she  has  had  time,"  she  flashed,  "to  find  out 
he  isn't  one?" 

"Oh,  ma'am,  she  had  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"Then  she  isn't  with  him  still?" 

"No,  ma'am;  she  came  down  again  at  last.  She  rang,  and  I  saw  her  here, 
and  she  said  she  wouldn't  wait  longer." 

Miss  Cutter  darkly  mused.  "Yet  had  already  waited — ?" 

"Quite  a  quarter/' 

"Mercy  on  us!"  She  began  to  mount.  Before  reaching  the  top,  however, 
she  had  reflected  that  quite  a  quarter  was  long  if  Lady  Wantridge  had  only 
been  shocked.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  short  if  she  had  only  been  pleased. 
But  how  could  she  have  been  pleased?  The  very  essence  of  their  actual 
crisis  was  just  that  there  was  no  pleasing  her.  Mamie  had  but  to  open  the 
drawing-room  door  indeed  to  perceive  that  this  was  not  true  at  least  of 
Scott  Homer,  who  was  horribly  cheerful. 

Miss  Cutter  expressed  to  her  brother  without  reserve  her  sense  of  the 
constitutional,  the  brutal  selfishness  that  had  determined  his  mistimed  re- 
turn. It  had  taken  place,  in  violation  of  their  agreement,  exactly  at  the 
moment  when  it  was  most  cruel  to  her  that  he  should  be  there,  and  if  she 
must  now  completely  wash  her  hands  of  him  he  had  only  himself  to  thank. 
She  had  come  in  flushed  with  resentment  and  for  a  moment  had  been  volu- 
ble; but  it  would  have  been  striking  that,  though  the  way  he  received  her 
might  have  seemed  but  to  aggravate,  it  presently  justified  him  by  causing 
their  relation  really  to  take  a  stride.  He  had  the  art  of  confounding  those 
who  would  quarrel  with  him  by  reducing  them  to  the  humiliation  of  an 
irritated  curiosity. 

"What  could  she  have  made  of  you?"  Mamie  demanded. 

"My  dear  girl,  she's  not  a  woman  who's  eager  to  make  too  much  of  any- 
thing—anything, I  mean,  that  will  prevent  her  from  doing  as  she  likes,  what 
she  takes  into  her  head.  Of  course,"  he  continued  to  explain,  "if  it's  some- 
thing she  doesn't  want  to  do,  she'll  make  as  much  as  Moses." 

Mamie  wondered  if  that  was  the  way  he  talked  to  her  visitor,  but  felt 
obliged  to  own  to  his  acuteness.  It  was  an  exact  description  of  Lady  Want- 
ridge,  and  she  was  conscious  of  tucking  it  away  for  future  use  in  a  corner 
of  her  miscellaneous  little  mind.  She  withheld,  however,  all  present  acknowl- 
edgment, only  addressing  him  another  question.  "Did  you  really  get  on 
with  her?" 

MRS.   MEDWIN        307 


"Have  you  still  to  learn,  darling—I  can't  help  again  putting  it  to  you— that 
I  get  on  with  everybody?  That's  just  what  I  don't  seem  able  to  drive  into 
you.  Only  see  how  I  get  on  with  you." 

She  almost  stood  corrected.  "What  I  mean  is,  of  course,  whether — " 

"Whether  she  made  love  to  me?  Shyly,  yet— or  because— shamefully?  She 
would  certainly  have  liked  awfully  to  stay." 

"Then  why  didn't  she?" 

"Because,  on  account  of  some  other  matter— and  I  could  see  it  was  true- 
she  hadn't  time.  Twenty  minutes— she  was  here  less— were  all  she  came  to 
give  you.  So  don't  be  afraid  I've  frightened  her  away.  She'll  come  back." 

Mamie  thought  it  over.  "Yet  you  didn't  go  with  her  to  the  door?" 

"She  wouldn't  let  me,  and  I  know  when  to  do  what  I'm  told— quite  as 
much  as  what  I'm  not  told.  She  wanted  to  find  out  about  me.  I  mean  from 
your  little  creature;  a  pearl  of  fidelity,  by  the  way." 

"But  what  on  earth  did  she  come  up  for?"  Mamie  again  found  herself 
appealing,  and,  just  by  that  fact,  showing  her  need  of  help. 

"Because  she  always  goes  up."  Then,  as,  in  the  presence  of  this  rapid 
generalisation,  to  say  nothing  of  that  of  such  a  relative  altogether,  Miss 
Cutter  could  only  show  as  comparatively  blank:  "I  mean  she  knows  when 
to  go  up  and  when  to  come  down.  She  has  instincts;  she  didn't  know  whom 
you  might  have  up  here.  It's  a  kind  of  compliment  to  you  anyway.  Why, 
Mamie,"  Scott  pursued,  "you  don't  know  the  curiosity  we  any  of  us  inspire. 
You  wouldn't  believe  what  I've  seen.  The  bigger  bugs  they  are  the  more 
they're  on  the  look-out." 

Mamie  still  followed,  but  at  a  distance.  "The  look-out  for  what?" 

"Why,  for  anything  that  will  help  them  to  live.  YouVe  been  here  all  this 
time  without  making  out  then,  about  them,  what  I've  had  to  pick  out  as  I 
can?  They're  dead,  don't  you  see?  And  were  alive." 

"You?  Oh!"— Mamie  almost  laughed  about  it. 

"Well,  they're  a  worn-out  old  lot,  anyhow;  they've  used  up  their  resources. 
They  do  look  out;  and  I'll  do  them  the  justice  to  say  they're  not  afraid— not 
even  of  me!"  he  continued  as  his  sister  again  showed  something  of  the  same 
irony.  "Lady  Wantridge,  at  any  rate,  wasn't;  that's  what  I  mean  by  her 
having  made  love  to  me.  She  does  what  she  likes.  Mind  it,  you  know."  He 
was  by  this  time  fairly  teaching  her  to  know  one  of  her  best  friends,  and 
when,  after  it,  he  had  come  back  to  the  great  point  of  his  lesson— that  of  her 
failure,  through  feminine  inferiority,  practically  to  grasp  the  truth  that 
their  being  just  as  they  were,  he  and  she,  was  the  real  card  for  them  to  play 
—when  he  had  renewed  that  reminder  he  left  her  absolutely  in  a  state  of 
dependence.  Her  impulse  to  press  him  on  the  subject  of  Lady  Wantridge 
dropped;  it  was  as  if  she  had  felt  that,  whatever  had  taken  place,  something 

308        THE   SHORT    STORY 


would  somehow  come  of  it.  She  was  to  be,  in  a  manner,  disappointed,  but 
the  impression  helped  to  keep  her  over  to  the  next  morning,  when,  as  Scott 
had  foretold,  his  new  acquaintance  did  reappear,  explaining  to  Miss  Cutter 
that  she  had  acted  the  day  before  to  gain  time  and  that  she  even  now  sought 
to  gain  it  by  not  waiting  longer.  What,  she  promptly  intimated  she  had 
asked  herself,  could  that  friend  be  thinking  of?  She  must  show  where  she 
stood  before  things  had  gone  too  far.  If  she  had  brought  her  answer  with- 
out more  delay  she  wished  to  make  it  sharp.  Mrs.  Medwin?  Never!  "No,  my 
dear— not  I.  There  I  stop." 

Mamie  had  known  it  would  be  "collar-work,"  but  somehow  now,  at  the 
beginning,  she  felt  her  heart  sink.  It  was  not  that  she  had  expected  to  carry 
the  position  with  a  rush,  but  that,  as  always  after  an  interval,  her  visitor's 
defences  really  loomed— and  quite,  as  it  were,  to  the  material  vision—too 
large.  She  was  always  planted  with  them,  voluminous,  in  the  very  centre  of 
the  passage;  was  like  a  person  accommodated  with  a  chair  in  some  unlawful 
place  at  the  theatre.  She  wouldn't  move  and  you  couldn't  get  round.  Mamie's 
calculation  indeed  had  not  been  on  getting  round;  she  was  obliged  to  recog- 
nise that,  too  foolishly  and  fondly,  she  had  dreamed  of  producing  a  sur- 
render. Her  dream  had  been  the  fruit  of  her  need;  but,  conscious  that  she 
was  even  yet  unequipped  for  pressure,  she  felt,  almost  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  superficial  and  crude.  She  was  to  be  paid— but  with  what  was  she, 
to  that  end,  to  pay?  She  had  engaged  to  find  an  answer  to  this  question,  but 
the  answer  had  not,  according  to  her  promise,  "come."  And  Lady  Wantridge 
meanwhile  massed  herself,  and  there  was  no  view  of  her  that  didn't  show 
her  as  verily,  by  some  process  too  obscure  to  be  traced,  the  hard  depository 
of  the  social  law.  She  was  no  younger,  no  fresher,  no  stronger,  really,  than 
any  of  them;  she  was  only,  with  a  kind  of  haggard  fineness,  a  sharpened 
taste  for  life,  and,  with  all  sorts  of  things  behind  and  beneath  her,  more 
abysmal  and  more  immoral,  more  secure  and  more  impertinent.  The  points 
she  made  were  two  in  number.  One  was  that  she  absolutely  declined;  the 
other  was  that  she  quite  doubted  if  Mamie  herself  had  measured  the  job. 
The  thing  couldn't  be  done.  But  say  it  could  be;  was  Mamie  quite  the  person 
to  do  it?  To  this  Miss  Cutter,  with  a  sweet  smile,  replied  that  she  quite 
understood  how  little  she  might  seem  so.  Tm  only  one  of  the  persons  to 
whom  it  has  appeared  that  you  are." 

"Then  who  are  the  others?" 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  Lady  Edward,  Lady  Bellhouse  and  Mrs.  Pouncer." 

"Do  you  mean  that  they'll  come  to  meet  her?" 

Tve  seen  them,  and  they've  promised." 

"To  come,  of  course,"  Lady  Wantridge  said,  "if  I  come." 

Her  hostess  hesitated.  "Oh,  of  course,  you  could  prevent  them.  But  1 

MRS.   MEDWIN       309 


should  take  it  as  awfully  kind  of  you  not  to.  Wont  you  do  this  for  me?" 
Mamie  pleaded. 

Her  friend  looked  about  the  room  very  much  as  Scott  had  done.  "Do  they 
really  understand  what  it's  /or?" 

"Perfectly.  So  that  she  may  call." 

"And  what  good  will  that  do  her?" 

Miss  Cutter  faltered,  but  she  presently  brought  it  out.  "Of  course  what 
one  hopes  is  that  you'll  ask  her." 

"Ask  her  to  call?" 

"Ask  her  to  dine.  Ask  her,  if  you'd  be  so  truly  sweet,  for  a  Sunday,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  and  even  if  only  in  one  of  your  most  mixed  parties, 
to  Catchmore." 

Miss  Cutter  felt  the  less  hopeful  after  this  effort  in  that  her  companion 
onty  showed  a  strange  good  nature.  And  it  was  not  the  amiability  of  irony; 
yet  it  was  amusement.  "Take  Mrs.  Medwin  into  my  family?" 

"Some  day,  when  you're  taking  forty  others." 

"Ah,  but  what  I  don't  see  is  what  it  does  for  you.  You're  already  so  wel- 
come among  us  that  you  can  scarcely  improve  your  position  even  by  forming 
for  us  the  most  delightful  relation." 

"Well,  I  know  how  dear  you  are,"  Mamie  Cutter  replied;  "but  one  has, 
after  all,  more  than  one  side,  and  more  than  one  sympathy.  I  like  her,  you 
know."  And  even  at  this  Lady  Wantridge  was  not  shocked;  she  showed 
that  ease  and  blandness  which  were  her  way,  unfortunately,  of  being  most 
impossible.  She  remarked  that  she  might  listen  to  such  things,  because  she 
was  clever  enough  for  them  not  to  matter;  only  Mamie  should  take  care 
how  she  went  about  saying  them  at  large.  When  she  became  definite,  how- 
ever, in  a  minute,  on  the  subject  of  the  public  facts,  Miss  Cutter  soon  found 
herself  ready  to  make  her  own  concession.  Of  course,  she  didn't  dispute  them: 
there  they  were;  they  were  unfortunately  on  record,  and  nothing  was  to  be 
done  about  them  but  to— Mamie  found  it,  in  truth,  at  this  point,  a  little 
difficult. 

"Well,  what?  Pretend  already  to  have  forgotten  them?" 

"Why  not,  when  you've  done  it  in  so  many  other  cases?" 

"There  are  no  other  cases  so  bad.  One  meets  them,  at  any  rate,  as  they 
come.  Some  you  can  manage,  others  you  can't.  It's  no  use,  you  must  give 
them  up.  They're  past  patching;  there's  nothing  to  be  done  with  them. 
There's  nothing,  accordingly,  to  be  done  with  Mrs.  Medwin  but  to  put 
her  off."  And  Lady  Wantridge  rose  to  her  height. 

"Well,  you  know,  I  do  do  things,"  Mamie  quavered  with  a  smile  so  strained 
that  it  partook  of  exaltation. 

"You  help  people?  Oh  yes,  I've  known  you  to  do  wonders.  But  stick," 

310       THB  SHORT   STORY 


said  Lady  Wantridge  with  strong  and  cheerful  emphasis,  "to  your  Ameri- 
cans!" 

Miss  Cutter,  gazing,  got  up.  "You  don't  do  justice,  Lady  Wantridge,  to 
your  own  compatriots.  Some  of  them  are  really  charming.  Besides,"  said 
Mamie,  "working  for  mine  often  strikes  me,  so  far  as  the  interest— the  in- 
spiration and  excitement,  don't  you  know?— go,  as  rather  too  easy.  You  all, 
as  I  constantly  have  occasion  to  say,  like  us  so!" 

Her  companion  frankly  weighed  it.  "Yes;  it  takes  that  to  account  for  your 
position.  I've  always  thought  of  you,  nevertheless,  as  keeping,  for  their 
benefit,  a  regular  working  agency.  They  come  to  you,  and  you  place  them. 
There  remains,  I  confess,"  her  ladyship  went  on  in  the  same  free  spirit,  "the 
great  wonder " 

"Of  how  I  first  placed  my  poor  little  self?  Yes,"  Mamie  bravely  conceded, 
"when  /  began  there  was  no  agency.  I  just  worked  my  passage.  I  didn't  even 
come  to  you,  did  I?  You  never  noticed  me  till,  as  Mrs.  Short  Stokes  says, 
1  was,  'way  up!'  Mrs.  Medwin,"  she  threw  in,  "can't  get  over  it."  Then, 
as  her  friend  looked  vague:  "Over  my  social  situation." 

"Well,  it's  no  great  flattery  to  you  to  say,"  Lady  Wantridge  good-hu- 
mouredly  returned,  "that  she  certainly  can't  hope  for  one  resembling  it." 
Yet  it  really  seemed  to  spread  there  before  them.  "You  simply  made  Mrs. 
Short  Stokes." 

"In  spite  of  her  name!"  Mamie  smiled. 

"Oh,  your  names — !  In  spite  of  everything." 

"Ah,  I'm  something  of  an  artist."  With  which,  and  a  relapse  marked  by 
her  wistful  eyes  into  the  gravity  of  the  matter,  she  supremely  fixed  her  friend. 
She  felt  how  little  she  minded  betraying  at  last  the  extremity  of  her  need, 
and  it  was  out  of  this  extremity  that  her  appeal  proceeded.  "Have  I  really 
had  your  last  word?  It  means  so  much  to  me." 

Lady  Wantridge  came  straight  to  the  point.  "You  mean  you  depend  on  it?" 

"Awfully!" 

"Is  it  all  you  have?" 

"All.  Now." 

"But  Mrs.  Short  Stokes  and  the  others- rolling/  aren't  they?  Don't  they 
pay  up?" 

"Ah,"  sighed  Mamie,  "if  it  wasn't  for  them — !" 

Lady  Wantridge  perceived.  "You've  had  so  much?" 

"I  couldn't  have  gone  on." 

"Then  what  do  you  do  with  it  all?" 

"Oh,  most  of  it  goes  back  to  them.  There  are  all  sorts,  and  it's  all  help. 
Some  of  them  have  nothing." 

"Oh,  if  you  feed  the  hungry,"  Lady  Wantridge  laughed,  "you're  indeed 

MRS.    MEDWIN        311 


in  a  great  way  of  business.  Is  Mrs.  Medwin"— her  transition  was  immediate— 
"really  rich?'* 

"Really.  He  left  her  everything." 

"So  that  if  I  do  say  'yes' — " 

"It  will  quite  set  me  up." 

"I  see— and  how  much  more  responsible  it  makes  one!  But  I'd  rather 
myself  give  you  the  money." 

"Oh!"  Mamie  coldly  murmured. 

"You  mean  I  mayn't  suspect  your  prices?  Well,  I  daresay  I  don't!  But  I'd 
rather  give  you  ten  pounds." 

"Oh!"  Mamie  repeated  in  a  tone  that  sufficiently  covered  her  prices.  The 
question  was  in  every  way  larger.  "Do  you  never  forgive?"  she  reproach- 
fully inquired.  The  door  opened,  however,  at  the  moment  she  spoke,  and 
Scott  Homer  presented  himself. 

IV 

SCOTT  HOMER  wore  exactly,  to  his  sister's  eyes,  the  aspect  he  had  worn 
the  day  before,  and  it  also  formed,  to  her  sense,  the  great  feature  of  his 
impartial  greeting. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Mamie?  How  d'ye  do,  Lady  Wantridge?" 

"How  d'ye  do  again?"  Lady  Wantridge  replied  with  an  equanimity  strik- 
ing to  her  hostess.  It  was  as  if  Scott's  own  had  been  contagious;  it  was 
almost  indeed  as  if  she  had  seen  him  before.  Had  she  ever  so  seen  him— 
before  the  previous  day?  While  Miss  Cutter  put  to  herself  this  question  her 
visitor,  at  all  events,  met  the  one  she  had  previously  uttered. 

"Ever  'forgive'?"  this  personage  echoed  in  a  tone  that  made  as  little 
account  as  possible  of  the  interruption.  "Dear,  yes!  The  people  I  have  for- 
given!" She  laughed— perhaps  a  little  nervously;  and  she  was  now  looking 
at  Scott.  The  way  she  looked  at  him  was  precisely  what  had  already  had  its 
effect  for  his  sister.  "The  people  I  can!" 

"Can  you  forgive  me?"  asked  Scott  Homer. 

She  took  it  so  easily.  "But— what?" 

Mamie  interposed;  she  turned  directly  to  her  brother.  "Don't  try  her. 
Leave  it  so."  She  had  had  an  inspiration;  it  was  the  most  extraordinary  thing 
in  the  world.  "Don't  try  him"— she  had  turned  to  their  companion.  She 
looked  grave,  sad,  strange.  "Leave  it  so."  Yes,  it  was  a  distinct  inspiration, 
which  she  couldn't  have  explained,  but  which  had  come,  prompted  by 
something  she  had  caught— the  extent  of  the  recognition  expressed— in  Lady 
Wantridge's  face.  It  had  come  absolutely  of  a  sudden,  straight  out  of  the 
opposition  of  the  two  figures  before  her— quite  as  if  a  concussion  had  struck 
a  light.  The  light  was  helped  by  her  quickened  sense  that  her  friends 
silence  on  the  incident  of  the  day  before  showed  some  sort  of  consciousness. 
She  looked  surprised.  "Do  you  know  my  brother?" 

312        THE   SHORT   STORY 


"Do  I  know  you?"  Lady  Wantridge  asked  of  him. 

"No,  Lady  Wantridge,"  Scott  pleasantly  confessed,  "not  one  little  mite!" 

"Well,  then,  if  you  must  go !"  and  Mamie  offered  her  a  hand.  "But  I'll 

go  down  with  you.  Not  you!"  she  launched  at  her  brother,  who  immediately 
effaced  himself.  His  way  of  doing  so—and  he  had  already  done  so,  as  for 
Lady  Wantridge,  in  respect  to  their  previous  encounter— struck  her  even  at 
the  moment  as  an  instinctive,  if  slightly  blind,  tribute  to  her  possession  of 
an  idea;  and  as  such,  in  its  celerity,  made  her  so  admire  him  and  their  com- 
mon wit,  that,  on  the  spot,  she  more  than  forgave  him  his  queerness.  He  was 
right.  He  could  be  as  queer  as  he  liked!  The  queerer  the  better!  It  was  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs,  when  she  had  got  her  guest  down,  that  what  she  had 
assured  Mrs.  Medwin  would  come  did  indeed  come.  "Did  you  meet  him 
here  yesterday?" 

"Dear,  yes,  Isn't  he  too  funny?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mamie  gloomily.  "He  is  funny.  But  had  you  ever  met  him 
before?" 

"Dear,  no!" 

"Oh!"— and  Mamie's  tone  might  have  meant  many  things. 

Lady  Wantridge,  however,  after  all,  easily  overlooked  it.  "I  only  knew 
he  was  one  of  your  odd  Americans.  That's  why,  when  I  heard  yesterday, 
here,  that  he  was  up  there  awaiting  your  return,  I  didn't  let  that  prevent 
me.  I  thought  he  might  be.  He  certainly,"  her  ladyship  laughed,  "is" 

"Yes,  he's  very  American,"  Mamie  went  on  in  the  same  way. 

"As  you  say,  we  are  fond  of  you!  Good-bye,"  said  Lady  Wantridge. 

But  Mamie  had  not  half  done  with  her.  She  felt  more  and  more— or  she 
hoped  at  least— that  she  looked  strange.  She  was,  no  doubt,  if  it  came  to  that, 
strange.  "Lady  Wantridge,"  she  almost  convulsively  broke  out,  "I  don't  know 
whether  you'll  understand  me,  but  I  seem  to  feel  that  I  must  act  with  you— 
I  don't  know  what  to  call  it!— responsibly.  He  is  my  brother." 

"Surely— and  why  not?"  Lady  Wantridge  stared.  "He's  the  image  of  you!" 

"Thank  you!"— and  Mamie  was  stranger  than  ever. 

"Oh,  he's  good-looking.  He's  handsome,  my  dear.  Oddly— but  distinctly!" 
Her  ladyship  was  for  treating  it  much  as  a  joke. 

But  Mamie,  all  sombre,  would  have  none  of  this.  She  boldly  gave  him 
up.  "I  think  he's  awful." 

"He  is  indeed— delightfully.  And  where  do  you  get  your  ways  of  saying 
things?  It  isn't  anything— and  the  things  aren't  anything.  But  it's  so  droll." 

"Don't  let  yourself,  all  the  same,"  Mamie  consistently  pursued,  "be  car- 
ried away  by  it.  The  thing  can't  be  done— simply." 

Lady  Wantridge  wondered.  "  'Done  simply'?" 

"Done  at  all." 

"But  what  can't  be?" 

MRS.    MEDWIN        313 


"Why,  what  you  might  think—from  his  pleasantness.  What  he  spoke  of 
vour  doing  for  him." 

Lady  Wantridge  recalled.  "Forgiving  him?" 

"He  asked  you  if  you  couldn't.  But  you  can't.  It's  too  dreadful  for  me,  as 
so  near  a  relation,  to  have,  loyally— loyally  to  you— to  say  it.  But  he's  im- 
possible." 

It  was  so  portentously  produced  that  her  ladyship  had  somehow  to  meet 
it.  "What's  the  matter  with  him?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Then  what's  the  matter  with  you?"  Lady  Wantridge  inquired. 

"It's  because  I  wont  know,"  Mamie— not  without  dignity— explained. 

"Then  I  won't  eitherl" 

"Precisely.  Don't.  It's  something,"  Mamie  pursued,  with  some  inconse- 
quence, "that— somewhere  or  other,  at  some  time  or  other— he  appears  to 
have  done;  something  that  has  made  a  difference  in  his  life." 

"  'Something'?"  Lady  Wantridge  echoed  again.  "What  kind  of  thing?" 

Mamie  looked  up  at  the  light  above  the  door  through  which  the  London 
sky  was  doubly  dim.  "I  haven't  the  least  idea." 

"Then  what  kind  of  difference?" 

Mamie's  gaze  was  still  at  the  light.  "The  difference  you  see." 

Lady  Wantridge,  rather  obligingly,  seemed  to  ask  herself  what  she  saw 
"But  I  don't  see  anyl  It  seems,  at  least,"  she  added,  "such  an  amusing  one! 
And  he  has  such  nice  eyes." 

"Oh,  dear  eyes!"  Mamie  conceded;  but  with  too  much  sadness,  for  the 
moment,  about  the  connections  of  the  subject,  to  say  more. 

It  almost  forced  her  companion,  after  an  instant,  to  proceed.  "Do  you 
mean  he  can't  go  home?" 

She  weighed  her  responsibility.  "I  only  make  out— more's  the  pity  1— that 
he  doesn't." 

"Is  it  then  something  too  terrible — ?" 

She  thought  again.  "I  don't  know  what— for  men— is  too  terrible." 

"Well  then,  as  you  don't  know  what  'is'  for  women  either— good-bye!"  her 
visitor  laughed. 

It  practically  wound  up  the  interview;  which,  however  terminating  thus 
on  a  considerable  stir  of  the  air,  was  to  give  Miss  Cutter,  the  next  few  days, 
the  sense  of  being  much  blown  about.  The  degree  to  which  to  begin  with, 
she  had  been  drawn— or  perhaps  rather  pushed— closer  to  Scott  was  marked 
in  the  brief  colloquy  that,  on  her  friend's  departure,  she  had  with  him.  He 
had  immediately  said  it.  "You'll  see  if  she  doesn't  ask  me  down!" 

"So  soon?" 

"Oh,  I've  known  them  at  places— at  Cannes,  at  Pau,  at  Shanghai— to  do  it 

314        THE   SHORT   STORY 


sooner  still.  I  always  know  when  they  will.  You  cant  make  out  they  don't 
love  me!"  He  spoke  almost  plaintively,  as  if  he  wished  she  could. 

"Then  I  don't  see  why  it  hasn't  done  you  more  good." 

"Why,  Mamie,"  he  patiently  reasoned,  "what  more  good  could  it?  As 
I  tell  you,"  he  explained,  "it  has  just  been  my  life." 

"Then  why  do  you  come  to  me  for  money?" 

"Oh,  they  don't  give  me  that!"  Scott  returned. 

"So  that  it  only  means  then,  after  all,  that  I,  at  the  best,  must  keep  you  up?" 

He  fixed  on  her  the  nice  eyes  that  Lady  Wantridge  admired.  "Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  already— at  this  very  moment— I  am  not  distinctly  keep- 
ing t/Ott?" 

She  gave  him  back  his  look.  "Wait  till  she  has  asked  you,  and  then," 
Mamie  added,  "decline." 

Scott,  not  too  grossly,  wondered.  "As  acting  for  you?" 

Mamie's  next  injunction  was  answer  enough.  "But  before— yes— call." 

He  took  it  in.  "Call-but  decline.  Good." 

"The  rest,"  she  said,  "I  leave  to  you."  And  she  left  it,  in  fact,  with  such  con- 
fidence that  for  a  couple  of  days  she  was  not  only  conscious  of  no  need  to 
give  Mrs.  Medwin  another  turn  of  the  screw,  but  positively  evaded,  in  her 
fortitude,  the  reappearance  of  that  lady.  It  was  not  till  the  third  day  that 
she  waited  upon  her,  finding  her,  as  she  had  expected,  tense. 

"Lady  Wantridge  will — ?" 

"Yes,  though  she  says  she  won't." 

"She  says  she  won't?  O— oh!"  Mrs.  Medwin  moaned. 

"Sit  tight  all  the  same.  I  have  her!" 

"But  how?" 

"Through  Scott— whom  she  wants." 

"Your  bad  brother!"  Mrs.  Medwin  stared.  "What  does  she  want  of  him?" 

"To  amuse  them  at  Catchmore.  Anything  for  that.  And  he  would.  But  he 
sha'n't!"  Mamie  declared. 

"He  sha'n't  go  unless  she  comes.  She  must  meet  you  first— You're  my  con- 
dition." 

"O— o— oh!"  Mrs.  Medwin's  tone  was  a  wonder  of  hope  and  fear.  "But 
doesn't  he  want  to  go?" 

"He  wants  what  7  want.  She  draws  the  line  at  you.  I  draw  the  line  at 
him." 

"But  she— doesn't  she  mind  that  he's  bad?" 

It  was  so  artless  that  Mamie  laughed.  "No;  it  doesn't  touch  her.  Besides, 
perhaps  he  isn't.  It  isn't  as  for  you— people  seem  not  to  know.  He  has 
settled  everything,  at  all  events,  by  going  to  see  her.  It's  before  her  that  he's 
the  thing  she  will  have  to  have." 

MRS.    MEDWIN        315 


"Have  to?" 

"For  Sundays  in  the  country.  A  feature— the  feature." 

"So  she  has  asked  him?" 

"Yes;  and  he  has  declined." 

"For  me?"  Mrs.  Medwin  panted. 

"For  me,"  said  Mamie,  on  the  doorstep.  "But  I  don't  leave  him  for  long." 
Her  hansom  had  waited.  "Shell  come." 

Lady  Wantridge  did  come.  She  met  in  South  Audley  Street,  on  the 
fourteenth,  at  tea,  the  ladies  whom  Mamie  had  named  to  her,  together  with 
three  or  four  others,  and  it  was  rather  a  masterstroke  for  Miss  Cutter  that, 
if  Mrs.  Medwin  was  modestly  present,  Scott  Homer  was  as  markedly  not. 
This  occasion,  however,  is  a  medal  that  would  take  rare  casting,  as  would 
also,  for  that  matter,  even  the  minor  light  and  shade,  the  lower  relief,  of 
the  pecuniary  transaction  that  Mrs.  Medwin's  flushed  gratitude  scarce 
awaited  the  dispersal  of  the  company  munificently  to  complete.  A  new 
understanding  indeed,  on  the  spot  rebounded  from  it,  the  conception  of 
which,  in  Mamie's  mind,  had  promptly  bloomed.  "He  sha'n't  go  now  unless 
he  takes  you."  Then,  as  her  fancy  always  moved  quicker  for  her  client  than 
her  client's  own— "Down  with  him  to  Catchmore!  When  he  goes  to  amuse 
them,  you"  she  comfortably  declared,  "shall  amuse  them  too."  Mrs.  Med- 
win's response  was  again  rather  oddly  divided,  but  she  was  sufficiently 
intelligible  when  it  came  to  meeting  the  intimation  that  this  latter  would  be 
an  opportunity  involving  a  separate  fee.  "Say,"  Mamie  had  suggested,  "the 
same." 

"Very  well;  the  same." 

The  knowledge  that  it  was  to  be  the  same  had  perhaps  something  to  do, 
also,  with  the  obliging  spirit  in  which  Scott  eventually  went.  It  was  all,  at  the 
last,  rather  hurried— a  party  rapidly  got  together  for  the  Grand  Duke,  who 
was  in  England  but  for  the  hour,  who  had  good-naturedly  proposed  him- 
self, and  who  liked  his  parties  small,  intimate  and  funny.  This  one  was  of  the 
smallest,  and  it  was  finally  judged  to  conform  neither  too  little  nor  too  much 
to  the  other  conditions— after  a  brief  whirlwind  of  wires  and  counterwires, 
and  an  iterated  waiting  of  hansoms  at  various  doors— to  include  Mrs.  Med- 
win. It  was  from  Catchmore  itself  that,  snatching  a  moment  on  the  wondrous 
Sunday  afternoon,  this  lady  had  the  harmonious  thought  of  sending  the  new 
cheque.  She  was  in  bliss  enough,  but  her  scribble  none  the  less  intimated 
that  it  was  Scott  who  amused  thean  most.  He  was  the  feature.  (1903) 


316        THE   SHORT   STORY 


JOSEPH  CONRAD 


Heart  of  darkness 


THE  Nellie,  a  cruising  yawl,  swung  to  her  anchor  without  a  flutter  of  the 
sails,  and  was  at  rest.  The  flood  had  made,  the  wind  was  nearly  calm, 
and  being  bound  down  the  river,  the  only  thing  for  it  was  to  come  to  and  wait 
for  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

The  sea-reach  of  the  Thames  stretched  before  us  like  the  beginning  of  an 
interminable  waterway.  In  the  offing  the  sea  and  the  sky  were  welded 
together  without  a  joint,  and  in  the  luminous  space  the  tanned  sails  of  the 
barges  drifting  up  with  the  tide  seemed  to  stand  still  in  red  clusters  of  canvas 
sharply  peaked,  with  gleams  of  varnished  sprits.  A  haze  rested  on  the  low 
shores  that  ran  out  to  sea  in  vanishing  flatness.  The  air  was  dark  above 
Gravesend,  and  farther  back  still  seemed  condensed  into  a  mournful  gloom, 
brooding  motionless  over  the  biggest,  and  the  greatest,  town  on  earth. 

The  Director  of  Companies  was  our  captain  and  our  host.  We  four  affec- 
tionately watched  his  back  as  he  stood  in  the  bows  looking  to  seaward.  On 
the  whole  river  there  was  nothing  that  looked  half  so  nautical.  He  resembled 
a  pilot,  which  to  a  seaman  is  trustworthiness  personified.  It  was  difficult  to 
realize  his  work  was  not  out  there  in  the  luminous  estuary,  but  behind  him, 
within  the  brooding  gloom. 

Between  us  there  was,  as  I  have  already  said  somewhere,  the  bond  of  the 
sea.  Besides  holding  our  hearts  together  through  long  periods  of  separation, 
it  had  the  effect  of  making  us  tolerant  of  each  other's  yarns— and  even  con- 
victions. The  Lawyer—the  best  of  old  fellows— had,  because  of  his  many 
years  and  many  virtues,  the  only  cushion  on  deck,  and  was  lying  on  the 
only  rug.  The  Accountant  had  brought  out  already  a  box  of  dominoes,  and 
was  toying  architecturally  with  the  bones.  Marlow  s$t  cross-legged  right 
aft,  leaning  against  the  mizzen-mast.  He  had  sunken  cheeks,  a  yellow  com- 
plexion, a  straight  back,  an  ascetic  aspect,  and,  with  his  arms  dropped,  the 
palms  of  hands  outwards,  resembled  an  idol.  The  director,  satisfied  the 
anchor  had  good  hold,  made  his  way  aft  and  sat  down  amongst  us.  We 
exchanged  a  few  words  lazily.  Afterwards  there  was  silence  on  board  the 
yacht.  For  some  reason  or  other  we  did  not  begin  that  game  of  dominoes* 
We  felt  meditative,  and  fit  for  nothing  but  placid  staring.  The  day  was  end- 
ing in  a  serenity  of  still  and  exquisite  brilliance.  The  water  shone  pacifically; 
the  sky,  without  a  speck,  was  a  benign  immensity  of  unstained  light;  the 

From  Youth  by  Joseph  Conrad.  Copyright,  1903,  1925  by  Doubleday  &  Company,  Inc. 

KRAUT  OF  DARKNE88        317 


very  mist  on  the  Essex  marshes  was  like  a  gauzy  and  radiant  fabric,  hung 
from  the  wooded  rises  inland,  and  draping  the  low  shores  in  diaphanous 
folds.  Only  the  gloom  to  the  west,  brooding  over  the  upper  reaches,  became 
more  somber  every  minute,  as  if  angered  by  the  approach  of  the  sun. 

And  at  last,  in  its  curved  and  imperceptible  fall,  the  sun  sank  low,  and  from 
glowing  white  changed  to  a  dull  red  without  rays  and  without  heat,  as  if 
about  to  go  out  suddenly,  stricken  to  death  by  the  touch  of  that  gloom 
brooding  over  a  crowd  of  men. 

Forthwith  a  change  came  over  the  waters,  and  the  serenity  became  less 
brilliant  but  more  profound.  The  old  river  in  its  broad  reach  rested  unruffled  at 
the  decline  of  day,  after  ages  of  good  service  done  to  the  race  that  peopled 
its  banks,  spread  out  in  the  tranquil  dignity  of  a  waterway  leading  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth.  We  looked  at  the  venerable  stream  not  in  the 
vivid  flush  of  a  short  day  that  comes  and  departs  forever,  but  in  the  august 
light  of  abiding  memories.  And  indeed  nothing  is  easier  for  a  man  who  has, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  "followed  the  sea"  with  reverence  and  affection,  than  to 
evoke  the  great  spirit  of  the  past  upon  the  lower  reaches  of  the  Thames.  The 
tidal  current  runs  to  and  fro  in  its  unceasing  service,  crowded  with  mem- 
ories of  men  and  ships  it  had  borne  to  the  rest  of  home  or  to  the  battles  of  the 
sea.  It  had  known  and  served  all  the  men  of  whom  the  nation  is  proud, 
from  Sir  Francis  Drake  to  Sir  John  Franklin,  knights  all,  titled  and  untitled 
—the  knights-errant  of  the  sea.  It  had  borne  all  the  ships  whose  names  are 
like  jewels  flashing  in  the  night  of  time,  from  the  Golden  Hind  returning 
with  her  round  flanks  full  of  treasure,  to  be  visited  by  the  Queen's  Highness 
and  thus  pass  out  of  the  gigantic  tale  to  the  Erebus  and  Terror,  bound  on 
other  conquests— and  that  never  returned.  It  had  known  the  ships  and  the 
men.  They  had  sailed  from  Deptford,  from  Greenwich,  from  Erith— the 
adventurers  and  the  settlers;  kings'  ships  and  the  ships  of  men  on  'Change; 
captains,  admirals,  the  dark  "interlopers"  of  the  Eastern  trade,  and  the  com- 
missioned "generals"  of  East  India  fleets.  Hunters  for  gold  or  pursuers  of 
fame,  they  all  had  gone  out  on  that  stream,  bearing  the  sword,  and  often  the 
torch,  messengers  of  the  might  within  the  land,  bearers  of  a  spark  from  the 
sacred  fire.  What  greatness  had  not  floated  on  the  ebb  of  that  river  into  the 
mystery  of  an  unknown  earthl  .  .  .  The  dreams  of  men,  the  seed  of  common- 
wealths, the  germs  of  empires. 

The  sun  set;  the  dusk  fell  on  the  stream,  and  lights  began  to  appear  along 
the  shore.  The  Chapman  lighthouse,  a  three-legged  thing  erect  on  a  mud- 
flat,  shone  strongly.  Lights  of  ships  moved  in  the  fairway—a  great  stir  of 
lights  going  up  and  going  down.  And  farther  west  on  the  upper  reaches  the 
place  of  the  monstrous  town  was  still  marked  ominously  on  the  sky,  a 
brooding  gloom  in  sunshine,  a  lurid  glare  under  the  stars. 

318       THE  SHORT   STOUT 


"And  this  also,"  said  Marlow  suddenly,  "has  been  one  of  the  dark  places 
on  the  earth  " 

He  was  the  only  man  of  us  who  still  "followed  the  sea."  The  worst  that 
could  be  said  of  him  was  that  he  did  not  represent  his  class.  He  was  a  sea- 
man, but  he  was  a  wanderer,  too,  while  most  seamen  lead,  if  one  may  so 
express  it,  a  sedentary  life.  Their  minds  are  of  the  stay-at-home  order,  and 
their  home  is  always  with  them—the  ship;  and  so  is  their  country— the  sea. 
One  ship  is  very  much  like  another,  and  the  sea  is  always  the  same.  In  the 
immutability  of  their  surroundings  the  foreign  shores,  the  foreign  faces,  the 
changing  immensity  of  life,  glide  past,  veiled  not  by  a  sense  of  mystery  but 
by  a  slightly  disdainful  ignorance;  for  there  is  nothing  mysterious  to  a  sea- 
man unless  it  be  the  sea  itself,  which  is  the  mistress  of  his  existence  and  as 
inscrutable  as  Destiny.  For  the  rest,  after  his  hours  of  work,  a  casual  stroll 
or  a  casual  spree  on  shore  suffices  to  unfold  for  him  the  secret  of  a  whole 
continent,  and  generally  he  finds  the  secret  not  worth  knowing.  The  yarns 
of  seamen  have  a  direct  simplicity,  the  whole  meaning  of  which  lies  within 
the  shell  of  a  cracked  nut.  But  Marlow  was  not  typical  (if  his  propensity  to 
spin  yarns  be  excepted),  and  to  him  the  meaning  of  an  episode  was  not 
inside  like  a  kernel  but  outside,  enveloping  the  tale  which  brought  it  out 
only  as  a  glow  brings  out  a  haze,  in  the  likeness  of  one  of  these  misty  halos 
that  sometimes  are  made  visible  by  the  spectral  illumination  of  moonshine. 

His  remark  did  not  seem  at  all  surprising.  It  was  just  like  Marlow.  It  was 
accepted  in  silence.  No  one  took  the  trouble  to  grunt  even;  and  presently 
he  said,  very  slow— 

"I  was  thinking  of  very  old  times,  when  the  Romans  first  came  here,  nine- 
teen hundred  years  ago— the  other  day.  .  .  .  Light  came  out  of  this  river 
since— you  say  Knights?  Yes;  but  it  is  like  a  running  blaze  on  a  plain,  like 
a  flash  of  lightning  in  the  clouds.  We  live  in  the  flicker— may  it  last  as  long  as 
the  old  earth  keeps  rolling!  But  darkness  was  here  yesterday.  Imagine  the 
feelings  of  a  commander  of  a  fine— what  d'ye  call  'em— trireme  in  the  Medi- 
terranean, ordered  suddenly  to  the  north;  run  overland  across  the  Gauls  in  a 
hurry;  put  in  charge  of  one  of  these  craft  the  legionaries— a  wonderful  lot  of 
handy  men  they  must  have  been,  too— used  to  build,  apparently  by  the  hun- 
dred, in  a  month  or  two,  if  we  may  believe  what  we  read.  Imagine  him  here 
—the  very  end  of  the  world,  a  sea  the  color  of  lead,  a  sky  the  color  of  smoke, 
a  kind  of  ship  about  as  rigid  as  a  concertina— and  going  up  this  river  with 
stores,  or  orders,  or  what  you  like.  Sand-banks,  marshes,  forests,  savages,— 
precious  little  to  eat  fit  for  a  civilized  man,  nothing  but  Thames  water  to 
drink.  No  Falernian  wine  here,  no  going  ashore.  Here  and  there  a  military 
camp  lost  in  a  wilderness,  like  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay— cold,  fog,  tem- 
pests, disease,  exile,  and  death,— death  skulking  in  the  air,  in  the  water,  in 

HEART  OF  DARKNESS        319 


the  bush.  They  must  have  been  dying  like  flies  here.  Oh,  yes— he  did  it. 
Did  it  very  well,  too,  no  doubt,  and  without  thinking  much  about  it  either, 
except  afterwards  to  brag  of  what  he  had  gone  through  in  his  time,  perhaps. 
They  were  men  enough  to  face  the  darkness.  And  perhaps  he  was  cheered 
by  keeping  his  eye  on  a  chance  of  promotion  to  the  fleet  at  Ravenna  by  and 
by,  if  he  had  good  friends  in  Rome  and  survived  the  awful  climate.  Or  think 
of  a  decent  young  citizen  in  a  toga—perhaps  too  much  dice,  you  know- 
coming  out  here  in  the  train  of  some  prefect,  or  tax-gatherer,  or  trader  even, 
to  mend  his  fortunes.  Land  in  a  swamp,  march  through  the  woods,  and  in 
some  inland  post  feel  the  savagery,  the  utter  savagery,  had  closed  round 
him,— all  that  mysterious  life  of  the  wilderness  that  stirs  in  the  forest,  in  the 
jungles,  in  the  hearts  of  wild  men.  There's  no  initiation  either  into  such 
mysteries.  He  has  to  live  in  the  midst  of  the  incomprehensible,  which  is 
also  detestable.  And  it  has  a  fascination,  too,  that  goes  to  work  upon  him. 
The  fascination  of  the  abomination— you  know,  imagine  the  growing  regrets, 
the  longing  to  escape,  the  powerless  disgust,  the  surrender,  the  hate." 

He  paused. 

"Mind,"  he  began  again,  lifting  one  arm  from  the  elbow,  the  palm  of  the 
hand  outwards,  so  that,  with  his  legs  folded  before  him,  he  had  the  pose 
of  a  Buddha  preaching  in  European  clothes  and  without  a  lotus-flower— 
"Mind,  none  of  us  would  feel  exactly  like  this.  What  saves  us  is  efficiency 
—the  devotion  to  efficiency.  But  these  chaps  were  not  much  account,  really. 
They  were  no  colonists;  their  administration  was  merely  a  squeeze,  and 
nothing  more,  I  suspect.  They  were  conquerors,  and  for  that  you  want  only 
brute  force— nothing  to  boast  of,  when  you  have  it,  since  your  strength  is 
just  an  accident  arising  from  the  weakness  of  others.  They  grabbed  what 
they  could  get  for  the  sake  of  what  was  to  be  got.  It  was  just  robbery  with 
violence,  aggravated  murder  on  a  great  scale,  and  men  going  at  it  blind- 
as  is  very  proper  for  those  who  tackle  a  darkness.  The  conquest  of  the 
earth,  which  mostly  means  the  taking  it  away  from  those  who  have  a  differ- 
ent complexion  or  slightly  flatter  noses  than  ourselves,  is  not  a  pretty  thing 
when  you  look  into  it  too  much.  What  redeems  it  is  the  idea  only.  An  idea 
at  the  back  of  it;  not  a  sentimental  pretense  but  an  idea;  and  an  unselfish 
belief  in  the  idea— something  you  can  set  up,  and  bow  down  before,  and 
offer  a  sacrifice  to.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off.  Flames  glided  in  the  river,  small  green  flames,  red  flames, 
white  flames,  pursuing,  overtaking,  joining,  crossing  each  other— then  sepa- 
rating slowly  or  hastily.  The  traffic  of  the  great  city  went  on  in  the  deepening 
night  upon  the  sleepless  river.  We  looked  on,  waiting  patiently— there  was 
nothing  else  to  do  till  the  end  of  the  flood;  but  it  was  only  after  a  long  silence, 
when  he  said,  in  a  hesitating  voice,  "I  suppose  you  fellows  remember 

320        THE   SHORT    STORY 


I  did  once  turn  fresh-water  sailor  for  a  bit/*  that  we  knew  we  were  fated, 
before  the  ebb  began  to  run,  to  hear  one  of  Marlow's  inconclusive  ex- 
periences. 

"I  don't  want  to  bother  you  much  with  what  happened  to  me  personally," 
he  began,  showing  in  this  remark  the  weakness  of  many  tellers  of  tales  who 
seem  so  often  unaware  of  what  their  audience  would  best  like  to  hear;  "yet 
to  understand  the  effect  of  it  on  me  you  ought  to  know  how  I  got  out  there, 
what  I  saw,  how  I  went  up  that  river  to  the  place  where  I  first  met  the  poor 
chap.  It  was  the  farthest  point  of  navigation  and  the  culminating  point 
of  my  experience.  It  seemed  somehow  to  throw  a  kind  of  light  on  every- 
thing about  me—and  into  my  thoughts.  It  was  somber  enough,  too— and 
pitiful—not  extraordinary  in  any  way— not  very  clear  either.  No,  not  very 
clear.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  throw  a  kind  of  light. 

"I  had  then,  as  you  remember,  just  returned  to  London  after  a  lot  of 
Indian  Ocean,  Pacific,  China  Seas— a  regular  dose  of  the  East— six  years 
or  so,  and  I  was  loafing  about,  hindering  you  fellows  in  your  work  and 
invading  your  homes,  just  as  though  I  had  got  a  heavenly  mission  to  civilize 
you.  It  was  very  fine  for  a  time,  but  after  a  bit  I  did  get  tired  of  resting. 
Then  I  began  to  look  for  a  ship— I  should  think  the  hardest  work  on  earth. 
But  the  ships  wouldn't  even  look  at  me.  And  I  got  tired  of  that  game,  too. 

"Now  when  I  was  a  little  chap  I  had  a  passion  for  maps.  I  would  look  for 
hours  at  South  America,  or  Africa,  or  Australia,  and  lose  myself  in  all  the 
glories  of  exploration.  At  that  time  there  were  many  blank  spaces  on  the 
earth,  and  when  I  saw  one  that  looked  particularly  inviting  on  a  map  ( but 
they  all  look  that)  I  would  put  my  finger  on  it  and  say,  When  I  grow  up 
I  will  go  there.  The  North  Pole  was  one  of  these  places,  I  remember.  Well, 
I  haven't  been  there  yet,  and  shall  not  try  now.  The  glamour's  off.  Other 
places  were  scattered  about  the  Equator,  and  in  every  sort  of  latitude  all 
over  the  two  hemispheres.  I  have  been  in  some  of  them,  and  .  .  .  well,  we 
won't  talk  about  that.  But  there  was  one  yet— the  biggest,  the  most  blank, 
so  to  speak— that  I  had  a  hankering  after. 

"True,  by  this  time  it  was  not  a  blank  space  any  more.  It  had  got  filled 
since  my  childhood  with  rivers  and  lakes  and  names.  It  had  ceased  to  be  a 
blank  space  of  delightful  mystery— a  white  patch  for  a  boy  to  dream  glori- 
ously over.  It  had  become  a  place  of  darkness.  But  there  was  in  it  one  river 
especially,  a  mighty  big  river,  that  you  could  see  on  the  map,  resembling 
an  immense  snake  uncoiled,  with  its  head  in  the  sea,  its  body  at  rest  curving 
afar  over  a  vast  country,  and  its  tail  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  land.  And  as 
I  looked  at  the  map  of  it  in  a  shop-window,  it  fascinated  me  as  a  snake  would 
a  bird— a  silly  little  bird.  Then  I  remembered  there  was  a  big  concern,  a 
Company  for  trade  on  that  river.  Dash  it  all!  I  thought  to  myself,  they  can't 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        321 


trade  without  using  some  kind  of  craft  on  that  lot  of  fresh  water— steamboats! 
Why  shouldn't  I  try  to  get  charge  of  one?  I  went  on  along  Fleet  Street,  but 
could  not  shake  off  the  idea.  The  snake  had  charmed  me. 

"You  understand  it  was  a  Continental  concern,  that  Trading  society;  but 
I  have  a  lot  of  relations  living  on  the  Continent,  because  it's  cheap  and  not 
so  nasty  as  it  looks,  they  say. 

"I  am  sorry  to  own  I  began  to  worry  them.  This  was  already  a  fresh  depar- 
ture for  me.  I  was  not  used  to  getting  things  that  way,  you  know.  I  always 
went  my  own  road  and  on  my  own  legs  where  I  had  a  mind  to  go.  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  myself;  but,  then— you  see— I  felt  somehow  I  must  get 
there  by  hook  or  by  crook.  So  I  worried  them.  The  men  said  'My  dear  fellow,' 
and  did  nothing.  Then— would  you  believe  it?— I  tried  the  women.  I,  Charlie 
Marlow,  set  the  women  to  work— to  get  a  job.  Heavens!  Well,  you  see,  the 
notion  drove  me.  I  had  an  aunt,  a  dear  enthusiastic  soul.  She  wrote:  It  will 
be  delightful.  I  am  ready  to  do  anything,  anything  for  you.  It  is  a  glorious 
idea.  I  know  the  wife  of  a  very  high  personage  in  the  Administration,  and 
also  a  man  who  has  lots  of  influence  with/  etc.,  etc.  She  was  determined  to 
make  no  end  of  fuss  to  get  me  appointed  skipper  of  a  river  steamboat,  if 
such  was  my  fancy. 

"I  got  my  appointment— of  course;  and  I  got  it  very  quick.  It  appears  the 
Company  had  received  news  that  one  of  their  captains  had  been  killed  in  a 
scuffle  with  the  natives.  This  was  my  chance,  and  it  made  me  the  more 
anxious  to  go.  It  was  only  months  and  months  afterwards,  when  I  made  the 
attempt  to  recover  what  was  left  of  the  body,  that  I  heard  the  original  quar- 
rel arose  from  a  misunderstanding  about  some  hens.  Yes,  two  black  hens. 
Fresleven— that  was  the  fellow's  name,  a  Dane— thought  himself  wronged 
somehow  in  the  bargain,  so  he  went  ashore  and  started  to  hammer  the  chief 
of  the  village  with  a  stick.  Oh,  it  didn't  surprise  me  in  the  least  to  hear  this, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  be  told  that  Fresleven  was  the  gentlest,  quietest 
creature  that  ever  walked  on  two  legs.  No  doubt  he  was;  but  he  had  been 
a  couple  of  years  already  out  there  engaged  in  the  noble  cause,  you  know, 
and  he  probably  felt  the  need  at  last  of  asserting  his  self-respect  in  some 
way.  Therefore  he  whacked  the  old  nigger  mercilessly,  while  a  big  crowd  of 
his  people  watched  him,  thunderstruck,  till  some  man— I  was  told  the  chiefs 
son— in  desperation  at  hearing  the  old  chap  yell,  made  a  tentative  jab  with  a 
spear  at  the  white  man— and  of  course  it  went  quite  easy  between  the 
shoulder-blades.  Then  the  whole  population  cleared  into  the  forest,  expect- 
ing all  kinds  of  calamities  to  happen,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  steamer 
Fresleven  commanded  left  also  in  a  bad  panic,  in  charge  of  the  engineer, 
I  believe.  Afterwards  nobody  seemed  to  trouble  much  about  Fresleven's 
remains,  till  I  got  out  and  stepped  into  his  shoes.  I  couldn't  let  it  rest,  though; 

322       THE  SHORT  STORY 


but  when  an  opportunity  offered  at  kst  to  meet  my  predecessor,  the  grass 
growing  through  his  ribs  was  tall  enough  to  hide  his  bones.  They  were  all 
there.  The  supernatural  being  had  not  been  touched  after  he  fell.  And  the 
village  was  deserted,  the  huts  gaped  black,  rotting,  all  askew  within  the 
fallen  enclosures.  A  calamity  had  come  to  it,  sure  enough.  The  people  had 
vanished.  Mad  terror  had  scattered  them,  men,  women,  and  children, 
through  the  bush,  and  they  had  never  returned.  What  became  of  the  hens 
I  don't  know  either.  I  should  think  the  cause  of  progress  got  them,  anyhow. 
However,  through  this  glorious  affair  I  got  my  appointment,  before  I  had 
fairly  begun  to  hope  for  it. 

"I  flew  around  like  mad  to  get  ready,  and  before  forty-eight  hours  I  was 
crossing  the  Channel  to  show  myself  to  my  employers,  and  sign  the  contract. 
In  a  very  few  hours  I  arrived  in  a  city  that  always  makes  me  think  of  a  whited 
sepulcher.  Prejudice  no  doubt.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  Company's 
offices.  It  was  the  biggest  thing  in  the  town,  and  everybody  I  met  was  full 
of  it.  They  were  going  to  run  an  over-sea  empire,  and  make  no  end  of  coin 
by  trade. 

"A  narrow  and  deserted  street  in  deep  shadow,  high  houses,  innumerable 
windows  with  Venetian  blinds,  a  dead  silence,  grass  sprouting  between  the 
stones,  imposing  carriage  archways  right  and  left,  immense  double  doors 
standing  ponderously  ajar.  I  slipped  through  one  of  these  cracks,  went  up 
a  swept  and  ungarnished  staircase,  as  arid  as  a  desert,  and  opened  the  first 
door  I  came  to.  Two  women,  one  fat  and  the  other  slim,  sat  on  straw- 
bottomed  chairs,  knitting  black  wool.  The  slim  one  got  up  and  walked 
straight  at  me— still  knitting  with  down-cast  eyes— and  only  just  as  I  began 
to  think  of  getting  out  of  her  way,  as  you  would  for  a  somnambulist,  stood 
still,  and  looked  up.  Her  dress  was  as  plain  as  an  umbrella-cover,  and  she 
turned  round  without  a  word  and  preceded  me  into  a  waiting-room.  I  gave 
my  name,  and  looked  about.  Deal  table  in  the  middle,  plain  chairs  all  around 
the  walls,  on  one  end  a  large  shining  map,  marked  with  all  the  colors  of  a 
rainbow.  There  was  a  vast  amount  of  red— good  to  see  at  any  time,  because 
one  knows  that  some  real  work  is  done  in  there,  a  deuce  of  a  lot  of  blue,  a 
little  green,  smears  of  orange,  and,  on  the  East  Coast,  a  purple  patch,  to 
show  where  the  jolly  pioneers  of  progress  drink  the  jolly  lager-beer.  How- 
ever, I  wasn't  going  into  any  of  these.  I  was  going  into  the  yellow.  Dead  in 
the  center.  And  the  river  was  there—fascinating— deadly— like  a  snake.  Ough! 
A  door  opened,  a  white-haired  secretarial  head,  but  wearing  a  compassionate 
expression,  appeared,  and  a  skinny  forefinger  beckoned  me  into  the  sanc- 
tuary. Its  light  was  dim,  and  a  heavy  writing-desk  squatted  in  the  middle. 
From  behind  that  structure  came  out  an  impression  of  pale  plumpness  in  a 
frock-coat.  The  great  man  himself.  He  was  five  feet  six,  I  should  judge,  and 

HEART  OF  DARKNESS        323 


had  his  grip  on  the  handle-end  of  ever  so  many  millions.  He  shook  hands, 
I  fancy,  murmured  vaguely,  was  satisfied  with  my  French.  Bon  voyage. 

"In  about  forty-five  seconds  I  found  myself  again  in  the  waiting-room  with 
the  compassionate  secretary,  who,  full  of  desolation  and  sympathy,  made  me 
sign  some  document.  I  believe  I  undertook  amongst  other  things  not  to  dis- 
close any  trade  secrets.  Well,  I  am  not  going  to. 

"I  began  to  feel  slightly  uneasy.  You  know  I  am  not  used  to  such  cere- 
monies, and  there  was  something  ominous  in  the  atmosphere.  It  was  just  as 
though  I  had  been  let  into  some  conspiracy— I  don't  know— something  not 
quite  right;  and  I  was  glad  to  get  out.  In  the  outer  room  the  two  women 
knitted  black  wool  feverishly.  People  were  arriving,  and  the  younger  one  was 
walking  back  and  forth  introducing  them.  The  old  one  sat  on  her  chair.  Her 
flat  cloth  slippers  were  propped  up  on  a  foot-warmer,  and  a  cat  reposed  on 
her  lap.  She  wore  a  starched  white  affair  on  her  head,  had  a  wart  on  one 
cheek,  and  silver-rimmed  spectacles  hung  on  the  tip  of  her  nose.  She  glanced 
at  me  above  the  glasses.  The  swift  and  indifferent  placidity  of  that  look 
troubled  me.  Two  youths  with  foolish  and  cheery  countenances  were  being 
piloted  over,  and  she  threw  at  them  the  same  quick  glance  of  unconcerned 
wisdom.  She  seemed  to  know  all  about  them  and  about  me,  too.  An  eerie 
feeling  came  over  me.  She  seemed  uncanny  and  fateful.  Often  far  away 
there  I  thought  of  these  two,  guarding  the  door  of  Darkness,  knitting  black 
wool  as  for  a  warm  pall,  one  introducing,  introducing  continuously  to  the 
unknown,  the  other  scrutinizing  the  cheery  and  foolish  faces  with  uncon- 
cerned old  eyes.  Ave!  Old  knitter  of  black  wool.  Morituri  te  salutant.  Not 
many  of  those  she  looked  at  ever  saw  her  again— not  half,  by  a  long  way. 

"There  was  yet  a  visit  to  the  doctor.  'A  simple  formality/  assured  me  the 
secretary,  with  an  air  of  taking  an  immense  part  in  all  my  sorrows.  Accord- 
ingly a  young  chap  wearing  his  hat  over  the  left  eyebrow,  some  clerk  I  sup- 
pose,—there  must  have  been  clerks  in  the  business,  though  the  house  was  as 
still  as  a  house  in  a  city  of  the  dead— came  from  somewhere  upstairs,  and 
led  me  forth.  He  was  shabby  and  careless,  with  inkstains  on  the  sleeves  of 
his  jacket,  and  his  cravat  was  large  and  billowy,  under  a  chin  shaped  like 
the  toe  of  an  old  boot.  It  was  a  little  too  early  for  the  doctor,  so  I  proposed 
a  drink,  and  thereupon  he  developed  a  vein  of  joviality.  As  we  sat  over  our 
vermouths  he  glorified  the  Company's  business,  and  by  and  by  I  expressed 
casually  my  surprise  at  him  not  going  out  there.  He  became  very  cool  and 
collected  all  at  once.  1  am  not  such  a  fool  as  I  look,  quoth  Plato  to  his 
disciples/  he  said  sententiously,  emptied  his  glass  with  great  resolution, 
and  we  rose. 

"The  old  doctor  felt  my  pulse,  evidently  thinking  of  something  else  the 
while.  'Good,  good  for  there/  he  mumbled,  and  then  with  a  certain  eager- 

324        THE  SHORT  STORY 


ness  asked  me  whether  I  would  let  him  measure  my  head.  Rather  surprised, 
I  said  Yes,  when  he  produced  a  thing  like  calipers  and  got  the  dimensions 
back  and  front  and  every  way,  taking  notes  carefully.  He  was  an  unshaven 
little  man  in  a  threadbare  coat  like  a  gaberdine,  with  his  feet  in  slippers, 
and  I  thought  him  a  harmless  fool.  1  always  ask  leave,  in  the  interests  of 
science,  to  measure  the  crania  of  those  going  out  there/  he  said.  *And  when 
they  come  back,  too?'  I  asked.  'Oh,  I  never  see  them,'  he  remarked;  and, 
moreover,  the  changes  take  place  inside,  you  know/  He  smiled,  as  if  at  some 
quiet  joke.  'So  you  are  going  out  there.  Famous.  Interesting,  too/  He  gave 
me  a  searching  glance,  and  made  another  note.  'Ever  any  madness  in  your 
family?'  he  asked,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone.  I  felt  very  annoyed.  Is  that  ques- 
tion in  the  interests  of  science,  too?'  'It  would  be/  he  said,  without  taking 
notice  of  my  irritation,  'interesting  for  science  to  watch  the  mental  changes 
of  individuals,  on  the  spot,  but  .  .  /  'Are  you  an  alienist?'  I  interrupted. 
'Every  doctor  should  be— a  little/  answered  that  original,  imperturbably. 
*I  have  a  little  theory  which  you  Messieurs  who  go  out  there  must  help  me 
to  prove.  This  is  my  share  in  the  advantages  my  country  shall  reap  from  the 
possession  of  such  a  magnificent  dependency.  The  mere  wealth  I  leave  to 
others.  Pardon  my  questions,  but  you  are  the  first  Englishman  coming  under 
my  observation  .  .  /  I  hastened  to  assure  him  I  was  not  in  the  least  typical. 
'If  I  were/  said  I,  'I  wouldn't  be  talking  like  this  with  you/  'What  you  say  is 
rather  profound,  and  probably  erroneous/  he  said,  with  a  laugh.  'Avoid 
irritation  more  than  exposure  to  the  sun.  Adieu.  How  do  you  English  say,  eh? 
Good-by.  Ah!  Good-by.  Adieu.  In  the  tropics  one  must  before  everything 
keep  calm.'  .  .  .  He  lifted  a  warning  forefinger.  .  .  .  *Du  calme,  du  calme. 
Adieu! 

"One  thing  more  remained  to  do—say  good-by  to  my  excellent  aunt.  I 
found  her  triumphant.  I  had  a  cup  of  tea— the  last  decent  cup  of  tea  for 
many  days— and  in  a  room  that  most  soothingly  looked  just  as  you  would 
expect  a  lady's  drawing-room  to  look,  we  had  a  long  quiet  chat  by  the  fire- 
side. In  the  course  of  these  confidences  it  became  quite  plain  to  me  I  had 
been  represented  to  the  wife  of  the  high  dignitary,  and  goodness  knows  to 
how  many  more  people  besides,  as  an  exceptional  and  gifted  creature— a 
piece  of  good  fortune  for  the  Company— a  man  you  don't  get  hold  of  every 
day.  Good  heavens!  and  I  was  going  to  take  charge  of  a  two-penny-half- 
penny river-steamboat  with  a  penny  whistle  attached!  It  appeared,  however, 
I  was  also  one  of  the  Workers,  with  a  capital— you  know.  Something  like  an 
emissary  of  light,  something  like  a  lower  sort  of  apostle.  There  had  been  a 
lot  of  such  rot  let  loose  in  print  and  talk  just  about  that  time,  and  the  excel- 
lent woman,  living  right  in  the  rush  of  all  that  humbug,  got  carried  off  her 
feet.  She  talked  about  'weaning  those  ignorant  millions  from  their  horrid 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        325 


ways,'  till,  upon  my  word,  she  made  me  quite  uncomfortable.  I  ventured  to 
hint  that  the  Company  was  run  for  profit. 

"  'You  forget,  dear  Charlie,  that  the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,'  she  said, 
brightly.  It's  queer  how  out  of  touch  with  truth  women  are.  They  live  in  a 
world  of  their  own,  and  there  has  never  been  anything  like  it,  and  never  can 
be.  It  is  too  beautiful  altogether,  and  if  they  were  to  set  it  up  it  would  go  to 
pieces  before  the  first  sunset.  Some  confounded  fact  we  men  have  been 
living  contentedly  with  ever  since  the  day  of  creation  would  start  up  and 
knock  the  whole  thing  over. 

"After  this  I  got  embraced,  told  to  wear  flannel,  be  sure  to  write  often, 
and  so  on— and  I  left.  In  the  street—I  don't  know  why— a  queer  feeling  came 
to  me  that  I  was  an  impostor.  Odd  thing  that  I,  who  used  to  clear  out  for 
any  part  of  the  world  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice,  with  less  thought  than 
most  men  give  to  the  crossing  of  a  street,  had  a  moment— I  won't  say  of 
hesitation,  but  of  startled  pause,  before  this  commonplace  affair.  The  best 
way  I  can  explain  it  to  you  is  by  saying  that,  for  a  second  or  two,  I  felt  as 
though,  instead  of  going  to  the  center  of  a  continent,  I  were  about  to  set  off 
for  the  center  of  the  earth. 

"I  left  in  a  French  steamer,  and  she  called  in  every  blamed  port  they  have 
out  there,  for,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  the  sole  purpose  of  landing  soldiers  and 
custom-house  officers.  I  watched  the  coast.  Watching  a  coast  as  it  slips  by 
the  ship  is  like  thinking  about  an  enigma.  There  it  is  before  you— smiling, 
frowning,  inviting,  grand,  mean,  insipid,  or  savage,  and  always  mute  with 
an  air  of  whispering,  Come  and  find  out.  This  one  was  almost  featureless,  as 
if  still  in  the  making,  with  an  aspect  of  monotonous  grimness.  The  edge  of  a 
colossal  jungle,  so  dark-green  as  to  be  almost  black,  fringed  with  white  surf, 
ran  straight,  like  a  ruled  line,  far,  far  away  along  a  blue  sea  whose  glitter  was 
blurred  by  a  creeping  mist.  The  sun  was  fierce,  the  land  seemed  to  glisten 
and  drip  with  steam.  Here  and  there  grayish-whitish  specks  showed  up 
clustered  inside  the  white  surf,  with  a  flag  flying  above  them  perhaps.  Set- 
tlements some  centuries  old,  and  still  no  bigger  than  pinheads  on  the  un- 
touched expanse  of  their  background.  We  pounded  along,  stopped,  landed 
soldiers;  went  on,  landed  custom-house  clerks  to  levy  toll  in  what  looked  like 
a  God-forsaken  wilderness,  with  a  tin  shed  and  a  flag-pole  lost  in  it;  landed 
more  soldiers—to  take  care  of  the  custom-house  clerks,  presumably.  Some, 
I  heard,  got  drowned  in  the  surf;  but  whether  they  did  or  not,  nobody 
seemed  particularly  to  care.  They  were  just  flung  out  there,  and  on  we  went. 
Every  day  the  coast  looked  the  same,  as  though  we  had  not  moved;  but  we 
passed  various  places— trading  places— with  names  like  Gran'  Bassam,  Little 
Popo;  names  that  seemed  to  belong  to  some  sordid  farce  acted  in  front  of  a 
sinister  backcloth.  The  idleness  of  a  passenger,  my  isolation  amongst  all 
these  men  with  whom  I  had  no  point  of  contact,  the  oily  and  languid  sea, 

326        THE  SHORT  STORY 


the  uniform  somberness  of  the  coast,  seemed  to  keep  me  away  from  the 
truth  of  things,  within  the  toil  of  a  mournful  and  senseless  delusion.  The 
voice  of  the  surf  heard  now  and  then  was  a  positive  pleasure,  like  the 
speech  of  a  brother.  It  was  something  natural,  that  had  its  reason,  that  had 
a  meaning.  Now  and  then  a  boat  from  the  shore  gave  one  a  momentary  con- 
tact with  reality.  It  was  paddled  by  black  fellows.  You  could  see  from  afar  the 
white  of  their  eyeballs  glistening.  They  shouted,  sang;  their  bodies  streamed 
with  perspiration;  they  had  faces  like  grotesque  masks— these  chaps;  but 
they  had  bone,  muscle,  a  wild  vitality,  an  intense  energy  of  movement, 
that  was  as  natural  and  true  as  the  surf  along  their  coast.  They  wanted  no 
excuse  for  being  there.  They  were  a  great  comfort  to  look  at.  For  a  time 
I  would  feel  I  belonged  still  to  a  world  of  straightforward  facts;  but  the  feel- 
ing would  not  last  long.  Something  would  turn  up  to  scare  it  away.  Once, 
I  remember,  we  came  upon  a  man-of-war  anchored  off  the  coast.  There 
wasn't  even  a  shed  there,  and  she  was  shelling  the  bush.  It  appears  the 
French  had  one  of  their  wars  going  on  thereabouts.  Her  ensign  dropped  limp 
like  a  rag;  the  muzzles  of  the  long  six-inch  guns  stuck  out  all  over  the  low 
hull;  the  greasy,  slimy  swell  swung  her  up  lazily  and  let  her  down,  swaying 
her  thin  masts.  In  the  empty  immensity  of  earth,  sky,  and  water,  there  she 
was,  incomprehensible,  firing  into  a  continent.  Pop,  would  go  one  of  the 
six-inch  guns;  a  small  flame  would  dart  and  vanish,  a  little  white  smoke 
would  disappear,  a  tiny  projectile  would  give  a  feeble  screech—and  nothing 
happened.  Nothing  could  happen.  There  was  a  touch  of  insanity  in  the  pro- 
ceeding, a  sense  of  lugubrious  drollery  in  the  sight;  and  it  was  not  dissipated 
by  somebody  on  board  assuring  me  earnestly  there  was  a  camp  of  natives- 
he  called  them  enemies!— hidden  out  of  sight  somewhere. 

"We  gave  her  her  letters  ( I  heard  the  men  in  that  lonely  ship  were  dying 
of  fever  at  the  rate  of  three  a  day)  and  went  on.  We  called  at  some  more 
places  with  farcical  names,  where  the  merry  dance  of  death  and  trade  goes 
on  in  a  still  and  earthy  atmosphere  as  of  an  overheated  catacomb;  all  along 
the  formless  coast  bordered  by  dangerous  surf,  as  if  Nature  herself  had  tried 
to  ward  off  intruders;  in  and  out  of  rivers,  streams  of  death  in  life,  whose 
banks  were  rotting  into  mud,  whose  waters,  thickened  into  slime,  invaded 
the  contorted  mangroves,  that  seemed  to  writhe  at  us  in  the  extremity  of  an 
impotent  despair.  Nowhere  did  we  stop  long  enough  to  get  a  particularized 
impression,  but  the  general  sense  of  vague  and  oppressive  wonder  grew 
upon  me.  It  was  like  a  weary  pilgrimage  amongst  hints  for  nightmares. 

"It  was  upward  of  thirty  days  before  I  saw  the  mouth  of  the  big  river.  We 
anchored  off  the  seat  of  the  government.  But  my  work  would  not  begin  till 
some  two  hundred  miles  farther  on.  So  as  soon  as  I  could  I  made  a  start  for 
a  place  thirty  miles  higher  up. 

"I  had  my  passage  on  a  little  sea-going  steamer.  Her  captain  was  a  Swede, 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        327 


and  knowing  me  for  a  seaman,  invited  me  on  the  bridge.  He  was  a  young 
man,  lean,  fair,  and  morose,  with  lanky  hair  and  a  shuffling  gait.  As  we  left  the 
miserable  little  wharf,  he  tossed  his  head  contemptuously  at  the  shore.  'Been 
living  there?'  he  asked.  I  said,  'Yes/  Tine  lot  these  government  chaps— are 
they  not?'  he  went  on,  speaking  English  with  great  precision  and  consider- 
able bitterness.  It  is  funny  what  some  people  will  do  for  a  few  francs  a 
month.  I  wonder  what  becomes  of  that  kind  when  it  goes  up-country?'  I 
said  to  him  I  expected  to  see  that  soon.  'So-o-o!'  he  exclaimed.  He  shuffled 
athwart,  keeping  one  eye  ahead  vigilantly.  'Don't  be  too  sure,'  he  continued. 
The  other  day  I  took  up  a  man  who  hanged  himself  on  the  road.  He  was  a 
Swede,  too.'  'Hanged  himself!  Why,  in  God's  name?'  I  cried.  He  kept  on 
looking  out  watchfully.  'Who  knows?  The  sun  was  too  much  for  him,  or  the 
country  perhaps.' 

"At  last  we  opened  a  reach.  A  rocky  cliff  appeared,  mounds  of  turned-up 
earth  by  the  shore,  houses  on  a  hill,  others  with  iron  roofs,  amongst  a  waste  of 
excavations,  or  hanging  to  the  declivity.  A  continuous  noise  of  the  rapids 
above  hovered  over  this  scene  of  inhabited  devastation.  A  lot  of  people, 
mostly  black  and  naked,  moved  about  like  ants.  A  jetty  projected  into  the 
river.  A  blinding  sunlight  drowned  all  this  at  times  in  a  sudden  recrudes- 
cence of  glare.  'There's  your  Company's  station,'  said  the  Swede,  pointing 
to  three  wooden  barrack-like  structures  on  the  rocky  slope.  'I  will  send  your 
things  up.  Four  boxes  did  you  say?  So.  Farewell.' 

"I  came  upon  a  boiler  wallowing  in  the  grass,  then  found  a  path  leading 
up  the  hill.  It  turned  aside  for  the  bowlders,  and  also  for  an  undersized 
railway-truck  lying  there  on  its  back  with  its  wheels  in  the  air.  One  was  off. 
The  thing  looked  as  dead  as  the  carcass  of  some  animal.  I  came  upon  more 
pieces  of  decaying  machinery,  a  stack  of  rusty  rails.  To  the  left  a  clump  of 
trees  made  a  shady  spot,  where  dark  things  seemed  to  stir  feebly.  I  blinked, 
the  path  was  steep.  A  horn  tooted  to  the  right,  and  I  saw  the  black  people 
run.  A  heavy  and  dull  detonation  shook  the  ground,  a  puff  of  smoke  came 
out  of  the  cliff,  and  that  was  all.  No  change  appeared  on  the  face  of  the 
rock.  They  were  building  a  railway.  The  cliff  was  not  in  the  way  or  any- 
thing; but  this  objectless  blasting  was  all  the  work  going  on. 

"A  slight  clinking  behind  me  made  me  turn  my  head.  Six  black  men  ad- 
vanced in  a  file,  toiling  up  the  path.  They  walked  erect  and  slow,  balancing 
small  baskets  full  of  earth  on  their  heads,  and  the  clink  kept  time  with  their 
footsteps.  Black  rags  were  wound  round  their  loins,  and  the  short  ends 
behind  waggled  to  and  fro  like  tails.  I  could  see  every  rib,  the  joints  of  their 
limbs  were  like  knots  in  a  rope;  each  had  an  iron  collar  on  his  neck,  and  all 
were  connected  together  with  a  chain  whose  bights  swung  between  them, 
rhythmically  clinking.  Another  report  from  the  cliff  made  me  think  suddenly 

328         THE   SHORT    STORY 


of  that  ship  of  war  I  had  seen  firing  into  a  continent.  It  was  the  same  kind 
of  ominous  voice;  but  these  men  could  by  no  stretch  of  imagination  be  called 
enemies.  They  were  called  criminals,  and  the  outraged  law,  like  the  bursting 
shells,  had  come  to  them,  an  insoluble  mystery  from  the  sea.  All  their  meager 
breasts  panted  together,  the  violently  dilated  nostrils  quivered,  the  eyes 
stared  stonily  up-hill.  They  passed  me  within  six  inches,  without  a  glance, 
with  that  complete,  deathlike  indifference  of  unhappy  savages.  Behind  this 
raw  matter  one  of  the  reclaimed,  the  product  of  the  new  forces  at  work, 
strolled  despondently,  carrying  a  rifle  by  its  middle.  He  had  a  uniform  jacket 
with  one  button  off,  and  seeing  a  white  man  on  the  path,  hoisted  his  weapon 
to  his  shoulder  with  alacrity.  This  was  simple  prudence,  white  men  being 
so  much  alike  at  a  distance  that  he  could  not  tell  who  I  might  be.  He  was 
speedily  reassured,  and  with  a  large,  white  rascally  grin,  and  a  glance  at  his 
charge,  seemed  to  take  me  into  partnership  in  his  exalted  trust.  After  all, 
I  also  was  a  part  of  the  great  cause  of  these  high  and  just  proceedings. 

"Instead  of  going  up,  I  turned  and  descended  to  the  left.  My  idea  was  to 
let  that  chain-gang  get  out  of  sight  before  I  climbed  the  hill.  You  know 
I  am  not  particularly  tender;  I've  had  to  strike  and  to  fend  off.  I've  had  to 
resist  and  to  attack  sometimes— that's  only  one  way  of  resisting— without 
counting  the  exact  cost,  according  to  the  demands  of  such  sort  of  life  as 
I  had  blundered  into.  I've  seen  the  devil  of  violence,  and  the  devil  of  greed, 
and  the  devil  of  hot  desire;  but,  by  all  the  stars!  these  were  strong,  lusty,  red- 
eyed  devils,  that  swayed  and  drove  men— men,  I  tell  you.  But  as  I  stood  on 
this  hillside,  I  foresaw  that  in  the  blinding  sunshine  of  that  land  I  would 
become  acquainted  with  a  flabby,  pretending,  weak-eyed  devil  of  a  rapa- 
cious and  pitiless  folly.  How  insidious  he  could  be,  too,  I  was  only  to  find  out 
several  months  later  and  a  thousand  miles  farther.  For  a  moment  I  stood 
appalled,  as  though  by  a  warning.  Finally  I  descended  the  hill,  obliquely, 
towards  the  trees  I  had  seen. 

"I  avoided  a  vast  artificial  hole  somebody  had  been  digging  on  the  slope, 
the  purpose  of  which  I  found  it  impossible  to  divine.  It  wasn't  a  quarry  or  a 
sandpit,  anyhow.  It  was  just  a  hole.  It  might  have  been  connected  with  the 
philanthropic  desire  of  giving  the  criminals  something  to  do.  I  don't  know. 
Then  I  nearly  fell  into  a  very  narrow  ravine,  almost  no  more  than  a  scar  in 
the  hillside.  I  discovered  that  a  lot  of  imported  drainage-pipes  for  the  settle- 
ment had  been  tumbled  in  there.  There  wasn't  one  that  was  not  broken.  It 
was  a  wanton  smash-up.  At  last  I  got  under  the  trees.  My  purpose  was  to 
stroll  into  the  shade  for  a  moment;  but  no  sooner  within  than  it  seemed  to 
me  I  had  stepped  into  the  gloomy  circle  of  some  Inferno.  The  rapids  were 
near,  and  an  uninterrupted,  uniform,  headlong,  rushing  noise  filled  the 
mournful  stillness  of  the  grove,  where  not  a  breath  stirred,  not  a  leaf  moved, 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        329 


with  a  mysterious  sound— as  though  the  tearing  pace  of  the  launched  earth 
had  suddenly  become  audible. 

"Black  shapes  crouched,  lay,  sat  between  the  trees  leaning  against  the 
trunks,  clinging  to  the  earth,  half  coming  out,  half  effaced  within  the  dim 
light,  in  all  the  attitudes  of  pain,  abandonment,  and  despair.  Another  mine 
on  the  cliff  went  off,  followed  by  a  slight  shudder  of  the  soil  under  my  feet. 
The  work  was  going  on.  The  work!  And  this  was  the  place  where  some  of 
the  helpers  had  withdrawn  to  die. 

'They  were  dying  slowly— it  was  very  clear.  They  were  not  enemies,  they 
were  not  criminals,  they  were  nothing  earthly  now,— nothing  but  black 
shadows  of  disease  and  starvation,  lying  confusedly  in  the  greenish  gloom. 
Brought  from  all  the  recesses  of  the  coast  in  all  the  legality  of  time  contracts, 
lost  in  uncongenial  surroundings,  fed  on  unfamiliar  food,  they  sickened,  be- 
came inefficient,  and  were  then  allowed  to  crawl  away  and  rest.  These  mori- 
bund shapes  were  free  as  air— and  nearly  as  thin.  I  began  to  distinguish  the 
gleam  of  the  eyes  under  the  trees.  Then,  glancing  down,  I  saw  a  face  near 
my  hand.  The  black  bones  reclined  at  full  length  with  one  shoulder  against 
the  tree,  and  slowly  the  eyelids  rose  and  the  sunken  eyes  looked  up  at  me, 
enormous  and  vacant,  a  kind  of  blind,  white  flicker  in  the  depths  of  the  orbs, 
which  died  out  slowly.  The  man  seemed  young— almost  a  boy— but  you  know 
with  them  it's  hard  to  tell.  I  found  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  offer  him  one 
of  my  good  Swede's  ship's  biscuits  I  had  in  my  pocket.  The  fingers  closed 
slowly  on  it  and  held— there  was  no  other  movement  and  no  other  glance. 
He  had  tied  a  bit  of  white  worsted  round  his  neck—  Why?  Where  did  he 
get  it?  Was  it  a  badge— an  ornament— a  charm— a  propitiatory  act?  Was  there 
any  idea  at  all  connected  with  it?  It  looked  startling  round  his  black  neck, 
this  bit  of  white  thread  from  beyond  the  seas. 

"Near  the  same  tree  two  more  bundles  of  acute  angles  sat  with  their  legs 
drawn  up.  One,  with  his  chin  propped  on  his  knees,  stared  at  nothing,  in  an 
intolerable  and  appalling  manner:  his  brother  phantom  rested  its  forehead, 
as  if  overcome  with  a  great  weariness;  and  all  about  others  were  scattered 
in  every  pose  of  contorted  collapse,  as  in  some  picture  of  a  massacre  or  a 
pestilence.  While  I  stood  horror-struck,  one  of  these  creatures  rose  to  his 
hands  and  knees,  and  went  off  on  all-fours  towards  the  river  to  drink.  He 
lapped  out  of  his  hand,  then  sat  up  in  the  sunlight,  crossing  his  shins  in  front 
of  him,  and  after  a  time  let  his  woolly  head  fall  on  his  breastbone. 

"I  didn't  want  any  more  loitering  in  the  shade,  and  I  made  haste  towards 
the  station.  When  near  the  buildings  I  met  a  white  man,  in  such  an  un- 
expected elegance  of  get-up  that  in  the  first  moment  I  took  him  for  a  sort 
of  vision.  I  saw  a  high  starched  collar,  white  cuffs,  a  light  alpaca  jacket, 
snowy  trousers,  a  clean  necktie,  and  varnished  boots.  No  hat.  Hair  parted, 

330        THE  SHORT  STORY 


brushed,  oiled,  under  a  green-lined  parasol  held  in  a  big  white  hand.  He  was 
amazing,  and  had  a  penholder  behind  his  ear. 

"I  shook  hands  with  this  miracle,  and  I  learned  he  was  the  Company's 
chief  accountant,  and  that  all  the  book-keeping  was  done  at  this  station.  He 
had  come  out  for  a  moment,  he  said,  'to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air/  The  ex- 
pression sounded  wonderfully  odd,  with  its  suggestion  of  sedentary  desk-life. 
I  wouldn't  have  mentioned  the  fellow  to  you  at  all,  only  it  was  from  his  lips 
that  I  first  heard  the  name  of  the  man  who  is  so  indissolubly  connected  with 
the  memories  of  that  time.  Moreover,  I  respected  the  fellow.  Yes;  I  respected 
his  collars,  his  vast  cuffs,  his  brushed  hair.  His  appearance  was  certainly 
that  of  a  hairdresser's  dummy;  but  in  the  great  demoralization  of  the  land 
he  kept  up  his  appearance.  That's  backbone.  His  starched  collars  and  got-up 
shirt-fronts  were  achievements  of  character.  He  had  been  out  nearly  three 
years;  and,  later,  I  could  not  help  asking  him  how  he  managed  to  sport  such 
linen.  He  had  just  the  faintest  blush,  and  said  modestly,  Tve  been  teaching 
one  of  the  native  women  about  the  station.  It  was  difficult.  She  had  a  distaste 
for  the  work/  Thus  this  man  had  verily  accomplished  something.  And  he  was 
devoted  to  his  books,  which  were  in  apple-pie  order. 

"Everything  else  in  the  station  was  in  a  muddle,— heads,  things,  buildings. 
Strings  of  dusty  niggers  with  splay  feet  arrived  and  departed;  a  stream  of 
manufactured  goods,  rubbishy  cottons,  beads,  and  brass-wire  set  into  the 
depths  of  darkness,  and  in  return  came  a  precious  trickle  of  ivory. 

"I  had  to  wait  in  the  station  for  ten  days— an  eternity.  I  lived  in  a  hut  in 
the  yard,  but  to  be  out  of  the  chaos  I  would  sometimes  get  into  the  account- 
ant's office.  It  was  built  of  horizontal  planks,  and  so  badly  put  together  that, 
as  he  bent  over  his  high  desk,  he  was  barred  from  neck  to  heels  with  narrow 
strips  of  sunlight.  There  was  no  need  to  open  the  big  shutter  to  see.  It  was 
hot  there,  too;  big  flies  buzzed  fiendishly,  and  did  not  sting,  but  stabbed. 
I  sat  generally  on  the  floor,  while,  of  faultless  appearance  (and  even  slightly 
scented),  perching  on  a  high  stool,  he  wrote,  he  wrote.  Sometimes  he  stood 
up  for  exercise.  When  a  trucklebed  with  a  sick  man  (some  invalid  agent 
from  up-country)  was  put  in  there,  he  exhibited  a  gentle  annoyance.  'The 
groans  of  this  sick  person/  he  said,  'distract  my  attention.  And  without  that 
it  is  extremely  difficult  to  guard  against  clerical  errors  in  this  climate/ 

"One  day  he  remarked,  without  lifting  his  head,  In  the  interior  you  will 
no  doubt  meet  Mr.  Kurtz/  On  my  asking  who  Mr.  Kurtz  was,  he  said  he  was 
a  first-class  agent;  and  seeing  my  disappointment  at  this  information,  he 
added  slowly,  laying  down  his  pen,  'He  is  a  very  remarkable  person/  Further 
questions  elicited  from  him  that  Mr.  Kurtz  was  at  present  in  charge  of  a 
trading  post,  a  very  important  one,  in  the  true  ivory-country,  at  'the  very 
bottom  of  there.  Sends  in  as  much  ivory  as  all  the  others  put  together.  .  .  / 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        331 


He  began  to  write  again.  The  sick  man  was  too  ill  to  groan.  The  flies  buzzed 
in  a  great  peace. 

"Suddenly  there  was  a  growing  murmur  of  voices  and  a  great  tramping  of 
feet.  A  caravan  had  come  in.  A  violent  babble  of  uncouth  sounds  burst  out 
on  the  other  side  of  the  planks.  All  the  carriers  were  speaking  together,  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  uproar  the  lamentable  voice  of  the  chief  agent  was  heard 
'giving  it  up'  tearfully  for  the  twentieth  time  that  day.  .  .  .  He  rose  slowly. 
*What  a  frightful  row/  he  said.  He  crossed  the  room  gently  to  look  at  the 
sick  man,  and  returning,  said  to  me,  'He  does  not  hear/  What!  Dead?'  I 
asked,  startled.  'No,  not  yet/  he  answered,  with  great  composure.  Then,  al- 
luding with  a  toss  of  the  head  to  the  tumult  in  the  stationyard,  'When  one 
has  got  to  make  correct  entries,  one  comes  to  hate  those  savages— hate  them 
to  the  death/  He  remained  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  'When  you  see  Mr. 
Kurtz/  he  went  on,  'tell  him  for  me  that  everything  here'— he  glanced  at  the 
desk— 'is  very  satisfactory.  I  don't  like  to  write  to  him— with  those  messengers 
of  ours  you  never  know  who  may  get  hold  of  your  letter— at  that  Central 
Station/  He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  with  his  mild,  bulging  eyes.  'Oh,  he 
will  go  far,  very  far/  he  began  again.  'He  will  be  a  somebody  in  the  Adminis- 
tration before  long.  They,  above— the  Council  in  Europe,  you  know— mean 
him  to  be/ 

"He  turned  to  his  work.  The  noise  outside  had  ceased,  and  presently  in 
going  out  I  stopped  at  the  door.  In  the  steady  buzz  of  flies  the  homeward- 
bound  agent  was  lying  flushed  and  insensible;  the  other,  bent  over  his  books, 
was  making  correct  entries  of  perfectly  correct  transactions;  and  fifty  feet 
below  the  doorstep  I  could  see  the  still  tree-tops  of  the  grove  of  death. 

"Next  day  I  left  that  station  at  last,  with  a  caravan  of  sixty  men,  for  a 
two-hundred-mile  tramp. 

"No  use  telling  you  much  about  that.  Paths,  paths,  everywhere;  a  stamped- 
in  network  of  paths  spreading  over  the  empty  land,  through  long  grass, 
through  burnt  grass,  through  thickets,  down  and  up  chilly  ravines,  up  and 
down  stony  hills  ablaze  with  heat;  and  a  solitude,  a  solitude,  nobody,  not  a 
hut.  The  population  had  cleared  out  a  long  time  ago.  Well,  if  a  lot  of 
mysterious  niggers  armed  with  all  kinds  of  fearful  weapons  suddenly  took  to 
traveling  on  the  road  between  Deal  and  Gravesend,  catching  the  yokels 
right  and  left  to  carry  heavy  loads  for  them,  I  fancy  every  farm  and  cottage 
thereabouts  would  get  empty  very  soon.  Only  here  the  dwellings  were  gone, 
too.  Still  I  passed  through  several  abandoned  villages.  There's  something 
pathetically  childish  in  the  ruins  of  grass  walls.  Day  after  day,  with  the 
stamp  and  shuffle  of  sixty  pair  of  bare  feet  behind  me,  each  pair  under  a 
sixty-lb.  load.  Camp,  cook,  sleep,  strike  camp,  march.  Now  and  then  a 
carrier  dead  in  harness,  at  rest  in  the  long  grass  near  the  path,  with  an 

332         THE    SHORT   STORY 


empty  water-gourd  and  his  long  staff  lying  by  his  side.  A  great  silence 
around  and  above.  Perhaps  on  some  quiet  night  the  tremor  of  far-off  drums, 
sinking,  swelling,  a  tremor  vast,  faint;  a  sound  weird,  appealing,  suggestive, 
and  wild— and  perhaps  with  as  profound  a  meaning  as  the  sound  of  bells 
in  a  Christian  country.  Once  a  white  man  in  an  unbuttoned  uniform,  camp- 
ing on  the  path  with  an  armed  escort  of  lank  Zanzibars,  very  hospitable  and 
festive—not  to  say  drunk.  Was  looking  after  the  upkeep  of  the  road,  he 
declared.  Can't  say  I  saw  any  road  or  any  upkeep,  unless  the  body  of  a 
middle-aged  Negro,  with  a  bullet-hole  in  the  forehead,  upon  which  I  abso- 
lutely stumbled  three  miles  farther  on,  may  be  considered  as  a  permanent 
improvement.  I  had  a  white  companion,  too,  not  a  bad  chap,  but  rather  too 
fleshy  and  with  the  exasperating  habit  of  fainting  on  the  hot  hillsides,  miles 
away  from  the  least  bit  of  shade  and  water.  Annoying,  you  know,  to  hold 
your  own  coat  like  a  parasol  over  a  man's  head  while  he  is  coming-to.  I 
couldn't  help  asking  him  once  what  he  meant  by  coming  there  at  all.  "To 
make  money,  of  course.  What  do  you  think?'  he  said,  scornfully.  Then  he  got 
fever,  and  had  to  be  carried  in  a  hammock  slung  under  a  pole.  As  he  weighed 
sixteen  stone  I  had  no  end  of  rows  with  the  carriers.  They  jibbed,  ran  away, 
sneaked  off  with  their  loads  in  the  night— quite  a  mutiny.  So,  one  evening,  I 
made  a  speech  in  English  with  gestures,  not  one  of  which  was  lost  to  the 
sixty  pairs  of  eyes  before  me,  and  the  next  morning  I  started  the  hammock 
off  in  front  all  right.  An  hour  afterwards  I  came  upon  the  whole  concern 
wrecked  in  a  bush— man,  hammock,  groans,  blankets,  horrors.  The  heavy 
pole  had  skinned  his  poor  nose.  He  was  very  anxious  for  me  to  kill  somebody, 
but  there  wasn't  the  shadow  of  a  carrier  near.  I  remembered  the  old  doctor 
—It  would  be  interesting  for  science  to  watch  the  mental  changes  of  individ- 
uals, on  the  spot.'  I  felt  I  was  becoming  scientifically  interesting.  However, 
all  that  is  to  no  purpose.  On  the  fifteenth  day  I  came  in  sight  of  the  big  river 
again,  and  hobbled  into  the  Central  Station.  It  was  on  a  back  water  sur- 
rounded by  scrub  and  forest,  with  a  pretty  border  of  smelly  mud  on  one 
side,  and  on  the  three  others  enclosed  by  a  crazy  fence  of  rushes.  A  neglected 
gap  was  all  the  gate  it  had,  and  the  first  glance  at  the  place  was  enough  to 
let  you  see  the  flabby  devil  was  running  that  show.  White  men  with  long 
staves  in  their  hands  appeared  languidly  from  amongst  the  buildings,  stroll- 
ing up  to  take  a  look  at  me,  and  then  retired  out  of  sight  somewhere.  One  of 
them,  a  stout,  excitable  chap  with  black  mustaches,  informed  me  with  great 
volubility  and  many  digressions,  as  soon  as  I  told  him  who  I  was,  that  my 
steamer  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  river.  I  was  thunderstruck.  What,  how, 
why?  Oh,  it  was  'all  right.'  The  'manager  himself  was  there.  All  quite 
correct.  'Everybody  had  behaved  splendidly!  splendidly!'— 'you  must/  he  said 
in  agitation,  'go  and  see  the  general  manager  at  once.  He  is  waiting!' 

HEART   OF   DARKNESS         333 


"I  did  not  see  the  real  significance  of  that  wreck  at  once.  I  fancy  I  see  it 
now,  but  I  am  not  sure— not  at  all.  Certainly  the  affair  was  too  stupid— when  I 
think  of  it— to  be  altogether  natural.  Still.  . .  .  But  at  the  moment  it  presented 
itself  simply  as  a  confounded  nuisance.  The  steamer  was  sunk.  They  had 
started  two  days  before  in  a  sudden  hurry  up  the  river  with  the  manager 
on  board,  in  charge  of  some  volunteer  skipper,  and  before  they  had  been 
out  three  hours  they  tore  the  bottom  out  of  her  on  stones,  and  she  sank  near 
the  south  bank.  I  asked  myself  what  I  was  to  do  there,  now  my  boat  was 
lost.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  plenty  to  do  in  fishing  my  command  out  of 
the  river.  I  had  to  set  about  it  the  very  next  day.  That,  and  the  repairs 
when  I  brought  the  pieces  to  the  station,  took  some  months. 

"My  first  interview  with  the  manager  was  curious.  He  did  not  ask  me  to 
sit  down  after  my  twenty-mile  walk  that  morning.  He  was  commonplace  in 
complexion,  in  feature,  in  manners,  and  in  voice.  He  was  of  middle  size  and 
of  ordinary  build.  His  eyes,  of  the  usual  blue,  were  perhaps  remarkably 
cold,  and  he  certainly  could  make  his  glance  fall  on  one  as  trenchant  and 
heavy  as  an  ax.  But  even  at  these  times  the  rest  of  his  person  seemed  to 
disclaim  the  intention.  Otherwise  there  was  only  an  indefinable,  faint  expres- 
sion of  his  lips,  something  stealthy— a  smile— not  a  smile— I  remember  it,  but 
I  can't  explain.  It  was  unconscious,  this  smile  was,  though  just  after  he  had 
said  something  it  got  intensified  for  an  instant.  It  came  at  the  end  of  his 
speeches  like  a  seal  applied  on  the  words  to  make  the  meaning  of  the  com- 
monest phrase  appear  absolutely  inscrutable.  He  was  a  common  trader, 
from  his  youth  up  employed  in  these  parts— nothing  more.  He  was  obeyed, 
yet  he  inspired  neither  love  nor  fear,  nor  even  respect.  He  inspired  un- 
easiness. That  was  it!  Uneasiness.  Not  a  definite  mistrust— just  uneasiness 
—nothing  more.  You  have  no  idea  how  effective  such  a  ...  a  ... 
faculty  can  be.  He  had  no  genius  for  organizing,  for  initiative,  or  for  order 
even.  That  was  evident  in  such  things  as  the  deplorable  state  of  the  station. 
He  had  no  learning,  and  no  intelligence.  His  position  had  come  to  him— 
why?  Perhaps  because  he  was  never  ill.  .  .  .  He  had  served  three  terms  of 
three  years  out  there.  .  .  .  Because  triumphant  health  in  the  general  rout  of 
constitutions  is  a  kind  of  power  in  itself.  When  he  went  home  on  leave  he 
rioted  on  a  large  scale— pompously.  Jack  ashore— with  a  difference— in 
externals  only.  This  one  could  gather  from  his  casual  talk.  He  originated 
nothing,  he  could  keep  the  routine  going— that's  all.  But  he  was  great.  He 
was  great  by  this  little  thing  that  it  was  impossible  to  tell  what  could  con- 
trol such  a  man.  He  never  gave  that  secret  away.  Perhaps  there  was  nothing 
within  him.  Such  a  suspicion  made  one  pause— for  out  there  there  were  no 
external  checks.  Once  when  various  tropical  diseases  had  laid  low  almost 
every  'agent'  in  the  station,  he  was  heard  to  say,  'Men  who  come  out  here 

334        THE   SHOUT   STORY 


should  have  no  entrails.'  He  sealed  the  utterance  with  that  smile  of  his,  as 
though  it  had  been  a  door  opening  into  a  darkness  he  had  in  his  keeping. 
You  fancied  you  had  seen  things— but  the  seal  was  on.  When  annoyed  at 
meal-times  by  the  constant  quarrels  of  the  white  men  about  precedence,  he 
ordered  an  immense  round  table  to  be  made,  for  which  a  special  house  had 
to  be  built  This  was  the  station's  mess-room.  Where  he  sat  was  the  first 
place— the  rest  were  nowhere.  One  felt  this  to  be  his  unalterable  conviction. 
He  was  neither  civil  nor  uncivil.  He  was  quiet.  He  allowed  his  'boy'— an  over- 
fed young  Negro  from  the  coast—to  treat  the  white  men,  under  his  very  eyes, 
with  provoking  insolence. 

"He  began  to  speak  as  soon  as  he  saw  me.  I  had  been  very  long  on  the 
road.  He  could  not  wait.  Had  to  start  without  me.  The  up-river  stations  had 
to  be  relieved.  There  had  been  so  many  delays  already  that  he  did  not 
know  who  was  dead  and  who  was  alive,  and  how  they  got  on— and  so  on, 
and  so  on.  He  paid  no  attention  to  my  explanations,  and,  playing  with  a  stick 
of  sealing-wax,  repeated  several  times  that  the  situation  was  Very  grave, 
very  grave/  There  were  rumors  that  a  very  important  station  was  in  jeopardy, 
and  its  chief,  Mr.  Kurtz,  was  ill.  Hoped  it  was  not  true.  Mr.  Kurtz  was  .  .  . 
I  felt  weary  and  irritable.  Hang  Kurtz,  I  thought.  I  interrupted  him  by  say- 
ing I  had  heard  of  Mr.  Kurtz  on  the  coast.  'Ah!  So  they  talk  of  him  down 
there/  he  murmured  to  himself.  Then  he  began  again,  assuring  me  Mr.  Kurtz 
was  the  best  agent  he  had,  an  exceptional  man,  of  the  greatest  importance 
to  the  Company;  therefore  I  could  understand  his  anxiety.  He  was,  he  said, 
Very,  very  uneasy/  Certainly  he  fidgeted  on  his  chair  a  good  deal,  exclaimed, 
'Ah,  Mr.  Kurtz!'  broke  the  stick  of  sealing-wax  and  seemed  dumfounded  by 
the  accident.  Next  thing  he  wanted  to  know  'how  long  it  would  take  to/  .  .  . 
I  interrupted  him  again.  Being  hungry,  you  know,  and  kept  on  my  feet  too, 
I  was  getting  savage.  'How  can  I  tell?*  I  said.  1  haven't  even  seen  the  wreck 
yet— some  months,  no  doubt/  All  this  talk  seemed  to  me  so  futile.  'Some 
months/  he  said.  Well,  let  us  say  three  months  before  we  can  make  a  start. 
Yes.  That  ought  to  do  the  affair/  I  flung  out  of  his  hut  (he  lived  all  alone  in 
a  clay  hut  with  a  sort  of  veranda)  muttering  to  myself  my  opinion  of  him. 
He  was  a  chattering  idiot.  Afterwards  I  took  it  back  when  it  was  borne  in 
upon  me  startlingly  with  what  extreme  nicety  he  had  estimated  the  time 
requisite  for  the  'affair/ 

"I  went  to  work  the  next  day,  turning,  so  to  speak,  my  back  on  that  station. 
In  that  way  only  it  seemed  to  me  I  could  keep  my  hold  on  the  redeeming 
facts  of  life.  Still,  one  must  look  about  sometimes;  and  then  I  saw  this  sta- 
tion, these  men  strolling  aimlessly  about  in  the  sunshine  of  the  yard.  I  asked 
myself  sometimes  what  it  all  meant.  They  wandered  here  and  there  with 
their  absurd  long  staves  in  their  hands,  like  a  lot  of  faithless  pilgrims  be- 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        335 


witched  inside  a  rotten  fence.  The  word  'ivory'  rang  in  the  air,  was  whis- 
pered, was  sighed.  You  would  think  they  were  praying  to  it.  A  taint  of 
imbecile  rapacity  blew  through  it  all,  like  a  whiff  from  some  corpse.  By  Jove! 
I've  never  seen  anything  so  unreal  in  my  life.  And  outside,  the  silent  wilder- 
ness surrounding  this  cleared  speck  on  the  earth  struck  me  as  something 
great  and  invincible,  like  evil  or  truth,  waiting  patiently  for  the  passing 
away  of  this  fantastic  invasion. 

"Oh,  these  months!  Well,  never  mind.  Various  things  happened.  One  eve- 
ning a  grass  shed  full  of  calico,  cotton  prints,  beads,  and  I  don't  know  what 
else,  burst  into  a  blaze  so  suddenly  that  you  would  have  thought  the  earth 
had  opened  to  let  an  avenging  fire  consume  all  that  trash.  I  was  smoking 
my  pipe  quietly  by  my  dismantled  steamer,  and  saw  them  all  cutting  capers 
in  the  light,  with  their  arms  lifted  high,  when  the  stout  man  with  mustaches 
came  tearing  down  to  the  river,  a  tin  pail  in  his  hand,  assured  me  that  every- 
body was  'behaving  splendidly,  splendidly,'  dipped  about  a  quart  of  water 
and  tore  back  again.  I  noticed  there  was  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  his  pail. 

"I  strolled  up.  There  was  no  hurry.  You  see  the  thing  had  gone  off  like  a 
box  of  matches.  It  had  been  hopeless  from  the  very  first.  The  flame  had 
leaped  high,  driven  everybody  back,  lighted  up  everything— and  collapsed. 
The  shed  was  already  a  heap  of  embers  glowing  fiercely.  A  nigger  was  being 
beaten  near  by.  They  said  he  had  caused  the  fire  in  some  way;  be  that  as  it 
may,  he  was  screeching  most  horribly.  I  saw  him,  later,  for  several  days, 
sitting  in  a  bit  of  shade  looking  very  sick  and  trying  to  recover  himself: 
afterwards  he  arose  and  went  out—and  the  wilderness  without  a  sound  took 
him  into  its  bosom  again.  As  I  approached  the  glow  from  the  dark  I  found 
myself  at  the  back  of  two  men,  talking.  I  heard  the  name  of  Kurtz  pro- 
nounced, then  the  words,  'take  advantage  of  this  unfortunate  accident/  One 
of  the  men  was  the  manager.  I  wished  him  a  good  evening.  'Did  you  ever  see 
anything  like  it— eh?  it  is  incredible,'  he  said,  and  walked  off.  The  other  man 
remained.  He  was  a  first-class  agent,  young,  gentlemanly,  a  bit  reserved, 
with  a  forked  little  beard  and  a  hooked  nose.  He  was  stand-offish  with  the 
other  agents,  and  they  on  their  side  said  he  was  the  manager's  spy  upon 
them.  As  to  me,  I  had  hardly  ever  spoken  to  him  before.  We  got  into  talk,  and 
by  and  by  we  strolled  away  from  the  hissing  ruins.  Then  he  asked  me  to  his 
room,  which  was  in  the  main  building  of  the  station.  He  struck  a  match,  and 
I  perceived  that  this  young  aristocrat  had  not  only  a  silver-mounted  dressing- 
case  but  also  a  whole  candle  all  to  himself.  Just  at  that  time  the  manager  was 
the  only  man  supposed  to  have  any  right  to  candles.  Native  mats  covered  the 
clay  walls;  a  collection  of  spears,  assegais,  shields,  knives  was  hung  up  in 
trophies.  The  business  intrusted  to  this  fellow  was  the  making  of  bricks— so 
I  had  been  informed;  but  there  wasn't  a  fragment  of  a  brick  anywhere  in  the 
station,  and  he  had  been  there  more  than  a  year— waiting.  It  seems  he  could 

336        THE   SHORT   STORY 


not  make  bricks  without  something,  I  don't  know  what— straw,  maybe.  Any- 
way, it  could  not  be  found  there,  and  as  it  was  not  likely  to  be  sent  from 
Europe,  it  did  not  appear  clear  to  me  what  he  was  waiting  for.  An  act  of 
special  creation  perhaps.  However,  they  were  all  waiting—all  the  sixteen  or 
twenty  pilgrims  of  them— for  something;  and  upon  my  word  it  did  not  seem 
an  uncongenial  occupation,  from  the  way  they  took  it,  though  the  only  thing 
that  ever  came  to  them  was  disease— as  far  as  I  could  see.  They  beguiled  the 
time  by  backbiting  and  intriguing  against  each  other  in  a  foolish  kind  of 
way.  There  was  an  air  of  plotting  about  that  station,  but  nothing  came  of  it, 
of  course.  It  was  as  unreal  as  everything  else— as  the  philanthropic  pretense 
of  the  whole  concern,  as  their  talk,  as  their  government,  as  their  show  of 
work.  The  only  real  feeling  was  a  desire  to  get  appointed  to  a  trading-post 
where  ivory  was  to  be  had,  so  that  they  could  earn  percentages.  They  in- 
trigued and  slandered  and  hated  each  other  only  on  that  account,— but  as 
to  effectually  lifting  a  little  finger— oh,  no.  By  heavens!  there  is  something 
after  all  in  the  world  allowing  one  man  to  steal  a  horse  while  another  must 
not  look  at  a  halter.  Steal  a  horse  straight  out.  Very  well.  He  has  done  it. 
Perhaps  he  can  ride.  But  there  is  a  way  of  looking  at  a  halter  that  would 
provoke  the  most  charitable  of  saints  into  a  kick. 

"I  had  no  idea  why  he  wanted  to  be  sociable,  but  as  we  chatted  in  there 
it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  the  fellow  was  trying  to  get  at  something— in  fact, 
pumping  me.  He  alluded  constantly  to  Europe,  to  the  people  I  was  supposed 
to  know  there— putting  leading  questions  as  to  my  acquaintances  in  the 
sepulchral  city,  and  so  on.  His  little  eyes  glittered  like  mica  discs— with 
curiosity— though  he  tried  to  keep  up  a  bit  of  superciliousness.  At  first  I  was 
astonished,  but  very  soon  I  became  awfully  curious  to  see  what  he  would 
find  out  from  me.  I  couldn't  possibly  imagine  what  I  had  in  me  to  make  it 
worth  his  while.  It  was  very  pretty  to  see  how  he  baffled  himself,  for  in 
truth  my  body  was  full  only  of  chills,  and  my  head  had  nothing  in  it  but 
that  wretched  steamboat  business.  It  was  evident  he  took  me  for  a  perfectly 
shameless  prevaricator.  At  last  he  got  angry,  and,  to  conceal  a  movement  of 
furious  annoyance,  he  yawned.  I  rose.  Then  I  noticed  a  small  sketch  in  oils, 
on  a  panel,  representing  a  woman,  draped  and  blindfolded,  carrying  a 
lighted  torch.  The  background  was  somber— almost  black.  The  movement 
of  the  woman  was  stately,  and  the  effect  of  the  torch-light  on  the  face  was 
sinister. 

"It  arrested  me,  and  he  stood  by  civilly,  holding  an  empty  half -pint  cham- 
pagne bottle  (medical  comforts)  with  the  candle  stuck  in  it.  To  my  question 
he  said  Mr.  Kurtz  had  painted  this— in  this  very  station  more  than  a  year 
ago— while  waiting  for  means  to  go  to  his  trading-post.  'Tell  me,  pray/  said 
I,  'who  is  this  Mr.  Kurtz?' 

"The  chief  of  the  Inner  Station,'  he  answered  in  a  short  tone,  looking 

HEART   OF    DARKNESS         337 


away.  'Much  obliged/  I  said,  laughing.  'And  you  are  the  brickmaker  of  the 
Central  Station.  Every  one  knows  that/  He  was  silent  for  a  while.  'He  is  a 
prodigy/  he  said  at  last.  'He  is  an  emissary  of  pity,  and  science,  and  progress, 
and  devil  knows  what  else.  We  want/  he  began  to  declaim  suddenly,  'for 
the  guidance  of  the  cause  intrusted  to  us  by  Europe,  so  to  speak,  higher 
intelligence,  wide  sympathies,  a  singleness  of  purpose/  'Who  says  that?' 
I  asked,  'Lots  of  them/  he  replied.  'Some  even  write  that;  and  so  he  comes 
here,  a  special  being,  as  you  ought  to  know/  'Why  ought  I  to  know?'  I  inter- 
rupted, really  surprised.  He  paid  no  attention.  'Yes.  To-day  he  is  chief  of  the 
best  station,  next  year  he  will  be  assistant-manager,  two  years  more  and  .  .  . 
but  I  daresay  you  know  what  he  will  be  in  two  years'  time.  You  are  of  the 
new  gang— the  gang  of  virtue.  The  same  people  who  sent  him  specially  also 
recommended  you.  Oh,  don't  say  no.  I've  my  own  eyes  to  trust/  Light  dawned 
upon  me.  My  dear  aunt's  influential  acquaintances  were  producing  an  un- 
expected effect  upon  that  young  man.  I  nearly  burst  into  a  laugh.  'Do  you 
read  the  Company's  confidential  correspondence?'  I  asked.  He  hadn't  a  word 
to  say.  It  was  great  fun.  'When  Mr.  Kurtz/  I  continued,  severely,  'is  General 
Manager,  you  won't  have  the  opportunity/ 

"He  blew  the  candle  out  suddenly,  and  we  went  outside.  The  moon  had 
risen.  Black  figures  strolled  about  listlessly,  pouring  water  on  the  glow, 
whence  proceeded  a  sound  of  hissing;  steam  ascended  in  the  moonlight,  the 
beaten  nigger  groaned  somewhere.  'What  a  row  the  brute  makes!'  said  the 
indefatigable  man  with  the  mustaches,  appearing  near  us.  'Serves  him  right. 
Transgression— punishment— bang!  Pitiless,  pitiless.  That's  the  only  way.  This 
will  prevent  all  conflagrations  for  the  future.  I  was  just  telling  the  man- 
ager. .  .  /  He  noticed  my  companion,  and  became  crestfallen  all  at  once. 
'Not  in  bed  yet/  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  servile  heartiness;  'it's  so  natural.  Hal 
Danger— agitation/  He  vanished.  I  went  on  to  the  river-side,  and  the  other 
followed  me.  I  heard  a  scathing  murmur  at  my  ear,  'Heap  of  muffs— go  to/ 
The  pilgrims  could  be  seen  in  knots  gesticulating,  discussing.  Several  had 
still  their  staves  in  their  hands.  I  verily  believe  they  took  these  sticks  to  bed 
with  them.  Beyond  the  fence  the  forest  stood  up  spectrally  in  the  moonlight, 
and  through  the  dim  stir,  through  the  faint  sounds  of  that  lamentable  court- 
yard, the  silence  of  the  land  went  home  to  one's  very  heart— its  mystery,  its 
greatness,  the  amazing  reality  of  its  concealed  life.  The  hurt  nigger  moaned 
feebly  somewhere  near  by,  and  then  fetched  a  deep  sigh  that  made  me  mend 
my  pace  away  from  there.  I  felt  a  hand  introducing  itself  under  my  arm. 
'My  dear  sir/  said  the  fellow,  'I  don't  want  to  be  misunderstood,  and  espe- 
cially by  you,  who  will  see  Mr.  Kurtz  long  before  I  can  have  that  pleasure. 
I  wouldn't  like  him  to  get  a  false  idea  of  my  disposition.  .  .  / 

"I  let  him  run  on,  this  papier-m£ch6  Mephistopheles,  and  it  seemed  to  me 


338 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


that  if  I  tried  I  could  poke  my  forefinger  through  him,  and  would  find 
nothing  inside  but  a  little  loose  dirt,  maybe.  He,  don't  you  see,  had  been 
planning  to  be  assistant-manager  by  and  by  under  the  present  man,  and 
I  could  see  that  the  coming  of  that  Kurtz  had  upset  them  both  not  a  little. 
He  talked  precipitately,  and  I  did  not  try  to  stop  him.  I  had  my  shoulders 
against  the  wreck  of  my  steamer,  hauled  up  on  the  slope  like  a  carcass  of 
some  big  river  animal.  The  smell  of  mud,  of  primeval  mud,  by  Jove!  was  in 
my  nostrils,  the  high  stillness  of  primeval  forest  was  before  my  eyes;  there 
were  shiny  patches  on  the  black  creek.  The  moon  had  spread  over  every- 
thing a  thin  layer  of  silver— over  the  rank  grass,  over  the  mud,  upon  the  wall 
of  matted  vegetation  standing  higher  than  the  wall  of  a  temple,  over  the 
great  river  I  could  see  through  a  somber  gap  glittering,  glittering,  as  it 
flowed  broadly  by  without  a  murmur.  All  this  was  great,  expectant,  mute, 
while  the  man  jabbered  about  himself.  I  wondered  whether  the  stillness  on 
the  face  of  the  immensity  looking  at  us  two  were  meant  as  an  appeal  or  as 
a  menace.  What  were  we  who  had  strayed  in  here?  Could  we  handle  that 
dumb  thing,  or  would  it  handle  us?  I  felt  how  big,  how  confoundedly  big, 
was  that  thing  that  couldn't  talk,  and  perhaps  was  deaf  as  well.  What  was 
in  there?  I  could  see  a  little  ivory  coming  out  from  there,  and  I  had  heard 
Mr.  Kurtz  was  in  there.  I  had  heard  enough  about  it,  too—God  knowsl  Yet 
somehow  it  didn't  bring  any  image  with  it— no  more  than  if  I  had  been  told 
an  angel  or  a  fiend  was  in  there.  I  believed  it  in  the  same  way  one  of  you 
might  believe  there  are  inhabitants  in  the  planet  Mars.  I  knew  once  a  Scotch 
sailmaker  who  was  certain,  dead  sure,  there  were  people  in  Mars.  If  you 
asked  him  for  some  idea  how  they  looked  and  behaved,  he  would  get  shy 
and  mutter  something  about  'walking  on  all-fours/  If  you  as  much  as 
smiled,  he  would— though  a  man  of  sixty-four— offer  to  fight  you.  I  would  not 
have  gone  so  far  as  to  fight  for  Kurtz,  but  I  went  for  him  near  enough  to  a 
lie.  You  know  I  hate,  detest,  and  can't  bear  a  lie,  not  because  I  am  straighter 
than  the  rest  of  us,  but  simply  because  it  appalls  me.  There  is  a  taint  of  death, 
a  flavor  of  mortality  in  lies— which  is  exactly  what  I  hate  and  detest  in  the 
world— what  I  want  to  forget.  It  makes  me  miserable  and  sick,  like  biting 
something  rotten  would  do.  Temperament,  I  suppose.  Well,  I  went  near 
enough  to  it  by  letting  the  young  fool  there  believe  anything  he  liked  to 
imagine  as  to  my  influence  in  Europe.  I  became  in  an  instant  as  much  of  a 
pretense  as  the  rest  of  the  bewitched  pilgrims.  This  simply  because  I  had  a 
notion  it  somehow  would  be  of  help  to  that  Kurtz  whom  at  the  time  I  did 
not  see— you  understand.  He  was  just  a  word  for  me.  I  did  not  see  the  man 
in  the  name  any  more  than  you  do.  Do  you  see  him?  Do  you  see  the  story? 
Do  you  see  anything?  It  seems  to  me  I  am  trying  to  tell  you  a  dream— making 
a  vain  attempt,  because  no  relation  of  a  dream  can  convey  the  dream-sensa- 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        339 


tion,  that  commingling  of  absurdity,  surprise,  and  bewilderment  in  a  tremor 
of  struggling  revolt,  that  notion  of  being  captured  by  the  incredible  which 
is  of  the  very  essence  of  dreams.  .  .  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  while. 

".  .  .  No,  it  is  impossible;  it  is  impossible  to  convey  the  life-sensation  of 
any  given  epoch  of  one's  existence— that  which  makes  its  truth,  its  meaning 
—its  subtle  and  penetrating  essence.  It  is  impossible.  We  live,  as  we  dream 
—alone.  .  .  /' 

He  paused  again  as  if  reflecting,  then  added— 

"Of  course  in  this  you  fellows  see  more  than  I  could  then.  You  see  me, 
whom  you  know.  . . /' 

It  had  become  so  pitch  dark  that  we  listeners  could  hardly  see  one  another. 
For  a  long  time  already  he,  sitting  apart,  had  been  no  more  to  us  than  a 
voice.  There  was  not  a  word  from  anybody.  The  others  might  have  been 
asleep,  but  I  was  awake.  I  listened,  I  listened  on  the  watch  for  the  sentence, 
for  the  word,  that  would  give  me  the  clew  to  the  faint  uneasiness  inspired 
by  this  narrative  that  seemed  to  shape  itself  without  human  lips  in  the 
heavy  night-air  of  the  river. 

".  .  .  Yes—I  let  him  run  on,"  Marlow  began  again,  "and  think  what  he 
pleased  about  the  powers  that  were  behind  me.  I  did!  And  there  was  nothing 
behind  me!  There  was  nothing  but  that  wretched,  old,  mangled  steamboat 
I  was  leaning  against,  while  he  talked  fluently  about  'the  necessity  for  every 
man  to  get  on/  'And  when  one  comes  out  here,  you  conceive,  it  is  not  to  gaze 
at  the  moon.'  Mr.  Kurtz  was  a  'universal  genius/  but  even  a  genius  would 
find  it  easier  to  work  with  'adequate  tools— intelligent  men/  He  did  not  make 
bricks— why,  there  was  a  physical  impossibility  in  the  way— as  I  was  well 
aware;  and  if  he  did  secretarial  work  for  the  manager,  it  was  because  'no 
sensible  man  rejects  wantonly  the  confidence  of  his  superiors/  Did  I  see  it? 
I  saw  it.  What  more  did  I  want?  What  I  really  wanted  was  rivets,  by  heavenl 
Rivets.  To  get  on  with  the  work— to  stop  the  hole.  Rivets  I  wanted.  There 
were  cases  of  them  down  at  the  coast— cases— piled  up— burst— split!  You 
kicked  a  loose  rivet  at  every  second  step  in  that  station  yard  on  the  hillside. 
Rivets  had  rolled  into  the  grove  of  death.  You  could  fill  your  pockets  with 
rivets  for  the  trouble  of  stooping  down— and  there  wasn't  one  rivet  to  be 
found  where  it  was  wanted.  We  had  plates  that  would  do,  but  nothing  to 
fasten  them  with.  And  every  week  the  messenger,  a  lone  negro,  letter-bag 
on  shoulder  and  staff  in  hand,  left  our  station  for  the  coast.  And  several 
times  a  week  a  coast  caravan  came  in  with  trade  goods— ghastly  glazed  calico 
that  made  you  shudder  only  to  look  at  it;  glass  beads,  valued  about  a  penny 
a  quart,  confounded  spotted  cotton  handkerchiefs.  And  no  rivets.  Three 
carriers  could  have  brought  all  that  was  wanted  to  set  that  steamboat  afloat. 

340        THE   SHORT    STORY 


"He  was  becoming  confidential  now,  but  I  fancy  my  unresponsive  attitude 
must  have  exasperated  him  at  last,  for  he  judged  it  necessary  to  inform  me 
he  feared  neither  God  nor  devil,  let  alone  any  mere  man.  I  said  I  could  see 
that  very  well,  but  what  I  wanted  was  a  certain  quantity  of  rivets—and  rivets 
were  what  really  Mr.  Kurtz  wanted,  if  he  had  only  known  it.  Now  letters 
went  to  the  coast  every  week.  .  .  .  'My  dear  sir/  he  cried,  1  write  from  dicta- 
tion/ I  demanded  rivets.  There  was  a  way— for  an  intelligent  man.  He 
changed  his  manner;  became  very  cold,  and  suddenly  began  to  talk  about  a 
hippopotamus;  wondered  whether  sleeping  on  board  the  steamer  (I  stuck  to 
my  salvage  night  and  day)  I  wasn't  disturbed.  There  was  an  old  hippo  that 
had  the  bad  habit  of  getting  out  on  the  bank  and  roaming  at  night  over  the 
station  grounds.  The  pilgrims  used  to  turn  out  in  a  body  and  empty  every 
rifle  they  could  lay  hands  on  at  him.  Some  even  had  sat  up  o'  nights  for  him. 
All  this  energy  was  wasted,  though.  'That  animal  has  a  charmed  life/  he 
said;  'but  you  can  say  this  only  of  brutes  in  this  country.  No  man— you  appre- 
hend me?— no  man  here  bears  a  charmed  life/  He  stood  there  for  a  moment 
in  the  moonlight  with  his  delicate  hooked  nose  set  a  little  askew,  and  his 
mica  eyes  glittering  without  a  wink,  then,  with  a  curt  good  night,  he  strode 
off.  I  could  see  he  was  disturbed  and  considerably  puzzled,  which  made  me 
feel  more  hopeful  than  I  had  been  for  days.  It  was  a  great  comfort  to  turn 
from  that  chap  to  my  influential  friend,  the  battered,  twisted,  ruined,  tin-pot 
steamboat.  I  clambered  on  board.  She  rang  under  my  feet  like  an  empty 
Huntley  &  Palmer  biscuit- tin  kicked  along  a  gutter;  she  was  nothing  so  solid 
in  make,  and  rather  less  pretty  in  shape,  but  I  had  expended  enough  hard 
work  on  her  to  make  me  love  her.  No  influential  friend  would  have  served 
me  better.  She  had  given  me  a  chance  to  come  out  a  bit— to  find  out  what 
I  could  do.  No,  I  don't  like  work.  I  had  rather  laze  about  and  think  of  all 
the  fine  things  that  can  be  done.  I  don't  like  work— no  man  does— but  I  like 
what  is  in  the  work,— the  chance  to  find  yourself.  Your  own  reality— for  your- 
self, not  for  others— what  no  other  man  can  ever  know.  They  can  only  see  the 
mere  show,  and  never  can  tell  what  it  really  means. 

"I  was  not  surprised  to  see  somebody  sitting  aft,  on  the  deck,  with  his  legs 
dangling  over  the  mud.  You  see  I  rather  chummed  with  the  few  mechanics 
there  were  in  that  station,  whom  the  other  pilgrims  naturally  despised— on 
account  of  their  imperfect  manners,  I  suppose.  This  was  the  foreman— a 
boiler-maker  by  trade— a  good  worker.  He  was  a  lank,  bony,  yellow-faced 
man,  with  big  intense  eyes.  His  aspect  was  worried,  and  his  head  was  as 
bald  as  the  palm  of  my  hand;  but  his  hair  in  falling  seemed  to  have  stuck  to 
his  chin,  and  had  prospered  in  the  new  locality,  for  his  beard  hung  down  to 
his  waist.  He  was  a  widower  with  six  young  children  (he  had  left  them  in 
charge  of  a  sister  of  his  to  come  out  there),  and  the  passion  of  his  life  was 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        341 


pigeon-flying.  He  was  an  enthusiast  and  a  connoisseur.  He  would  rave  about 
pigeons.  After  work  hours  he  used  sometimes  to  come  over  from  his  hut  for 
a  talk  about  his  children  and  his  pigeons;  at  work,  when  he  had  to  crawl  in 
the  mud  under  the  bottom  of  the  steamboat,  he  would  tie  up  that  beard  of 
his  in  a  kind  of  white  serviette  he  brought  for  the  purpose.  It  had  loops  to 
go  over  his  ears.  In  the  evening  he  could  be  seen  squatted  on  the  bank 
rinsing  that  wrapper  in  the  creek  with  great  care,  then  spreading  it  solemnly 
on  a  bush  to  dry. 

"I  slapped  him  on  the  back  and  shouted,  *We  shall  have  rivets!'  He  scram- 
bled to  his  feet  exclaiming,  'No!  Rivets!'  as  though  he  couldn't  believe  his 
ears.  Then  in  a  low  voice,  'You  .  .  .  eh?'  I  don't  know  why  we  behaved  like 
lunatics.  I  put  my  finger  to  the  side  of  my  nose  and  nodded  mysteriously. 
'Good  for  you!'  he  cried,  snapped  his  fingers  above  his  head,  lifting  one  foot. 
I  tried  a  jig.  We  capered  on  the  iron  deck.  A  frightful  clatter  came  out  of 
that  hulk,  and  the  virgin  forest  on  the  other  bank  of  the  creek  sent  it  back 
in  a  thundering  roll  upon  the  sleeping  station.  It  must  have  made  some  of 
the  pilgrims  sit  up  in  their  hovels.  A  dark  figure  obscured  the  lighted  door- 
way of  the  manager's  hut,  vanished,  then,  a  second  or  so  after,  the  doorway 
itself  vanished,  too.  We  stopped,  and  the  silence  driven  away  by  the  stamp- 
ing of  our  feet  flowed  back  again  from  the  recesses  of  the  land.  The  great 
wall  of  vegetation,  an  exuberant  and  entangled  mass  of  trunks,  branches, 
leaves,  boughs,  festoons,  motionless  in  the  moonlight,  was  like  a  rioting 
invasion  of  soundless  life,  a  rolling  wave  of  plants,  piled  up,  crested,  ready 
to  topple  over  the  creek,  to  sweep  every  little  man  of  us  out  of  his  little 
existence.  And  it  moved  not.  A  deadened  burst  of  mighty  splashes  and 
snorts  reached  us  from  afar,  as  though  an  ichthyosaurus  had  been  taking 
a  bath  of  glitter  in  the  great  river.  'After  all/  said  the  boiler-maker  in  a  rea- 
sonable tone,  'why  shouldn't  we  get  the  rivets?'  Why  not,  indeed?  I  did  not 
know  of  any  reason  why  we  shouldn't.  'They'll  come  in  three  weeks,'  I  said, 
confidently. 

"But  they  didn't.  Instead  of  rivets  there  came  an  invasion,  an  infliction,  a 
visitation.  It  came  in  sections  during  the  next  three  weeks,  each  section 
headed  by  a  donkey  carrying  a  white  man  in  new  clothes  and  tan  shoes, 
bowing  from  that  elevation  right  and  left  to  the  impressed  pilgrims.  A  quar- 
relsome band  of  footsore  sulky  niggers  trod  on  the  heels  of  the  donkeys;  a  lot 
of  tents,  campstools,  tin  boxes,  white  cases,  brown  bales  would  be  shot  down 
in  the  courtyard,  and  the  air  of  mystery  would  deepen  a  little  over  the 
muddle  of  the  station.  Five  such  installments  came,  with  their  absurd  air 
of  disorderly  flight  with  the  loot  of  innumerable  outfit  shops  and  provision 
stores,  that,  one  would  think,  they  were  lugging,  after  a  raid,  into  the  wilder- 
ness for  equitable  division.  It  was  an  inextricable  mess  of  things  decent  in 
themselves  but  that  human  folly  made  look  like  the  spoils  of  thieving. 


342 


THE  SHORT  3TORT 


This  devoted  band  called  itself  the  Eldorado  Exploring  Expedition,  and 
I  believe  they  were  sworn  to  secrecy.  Their  talk,  however,  was  the  talk  of 
sordid  buccaneers:  it  was  reckless  without  hardihood,  greedy  without 
audacity,  and  cruel  without  courage;  there  was  not  an  atom  of  foresight  or 
of  serious  intention  in  the  whole  batch  of  them,  and  they  did  not  seem  aware 
these  things  are  wanted  for  the  work  of  the  world.  To  tear  treasure  out  of  the 
bowels  of  the  land  was  their  desire,  with  no  more  moral  purpose  at  the  back 
of  it  than  there  is  in  burglars  breaking  into  a  safe.  Who  paid  the  expenses  of 
the  noble  enterprise  I  don't  know;  but  the  uncle  of  our  manager  was  leader 
of  that  lot. 

"In  exterior  he  resembled  a  butcher  in  a  poor  neighborhood,  and  his  eyes 
had  a  look  of  sleepy  cunning.  ..He  carried  his  fat  paunch  with  ostentation  on 
his  short  legs,  and  during  the  time  his  gang  infested  the  station  spoke  to  no 
one  but  his  nephew.  You  could  see  these  two  roaming  about  all  day  long 
with  their  heads  close  together  in  an  everlasting  confab. 

"I  had  given  up  worrying  myself  about  the  rivets.  One's  capacity  for  that 
kind  of  folly  is  more  limited  than  you  would  suppose.  I  said  Hang!— and  let 
things  slide.  I  had  plenty  of  time  for  meditation,  and  now  and  then  I  would 
give  some  thought  to  Kurtz.  I  wasn't  very  interested  in  him.  No.  Still,  I  was 
curious  to  see  whether  this  man,  who  had  come  out  equipped  with  moral 
ideas  of  some  sort,  would  climb  to  the  top  after  all  and  how  he  would  set 
about  his  work  when  there." 

n 

ONE  EVENING  as  I  was  lying  flat  on  the  deck  of  my  steamboat,  I  heard 
voices  approaching— and  there  were  the  nephew  and  the  uncle  stroll- 
ing along  the  bank.  I  laid  my  head  on  my  arm  again,  and  had  nearly  lost 
myself  in  a  doze,  when  somebody  said  in  my  ear,  as  it  were:  1  am  as  harmless 
as  a  little  child,  but  I  don't  like  to  be  dictated  to.  Am  I  the  manager— or  am  I 
not?  I  was  ordered  to  send  him  there.  It's  incredible/  ...  I  became  aware  that 
the  two  were  standing  on  the  shore  alongside  the  forepart  of  the  steamboat, 
just  below  my  head.  I  did  not  move;  it  did  not  occur  to  me  to  move:  I  was 
sleepy.  'It  is  unpleasant/  grunted  the  uncle.  'He  has  asked  the  Administration 
to  be  sent  there/  said  the  other,  'with  the  idea  of  showing  what  he  could  do; 
and  I  was  instructed  accordingly.  Look  at  the  influence  that  man  must  have. 
Is  it  not  frightful?'  They  both  agreed  it  was  frightful,  then  made  several  bi- 
zarre remarks:  'Make  rain  and  fine  weather— one  man— the  Council— by  the 
nose'— bits  of  absurd  sentences  that  got  the  better  of  my  drowsiness,  so  that  I 
had  pretty  near  the  whole  of  my  wits  about  me  when  the  uncle  said,  The  cli- 
mate may  do  away  with  this  difficulty  for  you.  Is  he  alone  there?*  'Yes/  an- 
swered the  manager;  Tie  sent  his  assistant  down  the  river  with  a  note  to  me 
in  these  terms:  "Clear  this  poor  devil  out  of  the  country,  and  don't  bother 
sending  more  of  that  sort.  I  had  rather  be  alone  than  have  the  kind  of  men 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        343 


you  can  dispose  of  with  me."  It  was  more  than  a  year  ago.  Can  you  imagine 
such  impudence!'  'Anything  since  then?'  asked  the  other,  hoarsely.  Ivory/ 
jerked  the  nephew;  'lots  of  it— prime  sort— lots— most  annoying,  from  him/ 
'And  with  that?'  questioned  the  heavy  rumble.  Invoice/  was  the  reply  fired 
out,  so  to  speak.  Then  silence.  They  had  been  talking  about  Kurtz. 

"I  was  broad  awake  by  this  time,  but,  lying  perfectly  at  ease,  remained 
still,  having  no  inducement  to  change  my  position.  'How  did  that  ivory  come 
all  this  way?'  growled  the  elder  man,  who  seemed  very  vexed.  The  other 
explained  that  it  had  come  with  a  fleet  of  canoes  in  charge  of  an  English 
half-caste  clerk  Kurtz  had  with  him;  that  Kurtz  had  apparently  intended  to 
return  himself,  the  station  being  by  that  time  bare  of  goods  and  stores,  but 
after  coming  three  hundred  miles,  had  suddenly  decided  to  go  back,  which 
he  started  to  do  alone  in  a  small  dugout  with  four  paddlers,  leaving  the  half- 
caste  to  continue  down  the  river  with  the  ivory.  The  two  fellows  there 
seemed  astounded  at  anybody  attempting  such  a  thing.  They  were  at  a  loss 
for  an  adequate  motive.  As  to  me,  I  seemed  to  see  Kurtz  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  a  distinct  glimpse:  the  dugout,  four  paddling  savages,  and  the  lone 
white  man  turning  his  back  suddenly  on  the  headquarters,  on  relief,  on 
thoughts  of  home— perhaps;  setting  his  face  towards  the  depths  of  the 
wilderness,  towards  his  empty  and  desolate  station.  I  did  not  know  the 
motive.  Perhaps  he  was  just  simply  a  fine  fellow  who  stuck  to  his  work  for 
its  own  sake.  His  name,  you  understand,  had  not  been  pronounced  once.  He 
was  'that  man/  The  half-caste,  who,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  had  conducted  a 
difficult  trip  with  great  prudence  and  pluck,  was  invariably  alluded  to  as 
'that  scoundrel/  The  'scoundrel'  had  reported  that  the  'man'  had  been  very 
ill— had  recovered  imperfectly.  .  .  .  The  two  below  me  moved  away  then  a 
few  paces,  and  strolled  back  and  forth  at  some  little  distance.  I  heard:  'Mili- 
tary post— doctor— two  hundred  miles— quite  alone  now— unavoidable  delays 
—nine  months— no  news— strange  rumors/  They  approached  again,  just  as  the 
manager  was  saying,  'No  one,  as  far  as  I  know,  unless  a  species  of  wandering 
trader— a  pestilential  fellow,  snapping  ivory  from  the  natives/  Who  was  it 
they  were  talking  about  now?  I  gathered  in  snatches  that  this  was  some  man 
supposed  to  be  in  Kurtz's  district,  and  of  whom  the  manager  did  not  ap- 
prove. 'We  will  not  be  free  from  unfair  competition  till  one  of  these  fellows 
is  hanged  for  an  example/  he  said.  'Certainly/  grunted  the  other;  'get  him 
hanged!  Why  not?  Anything— anything  can  be  done  in  this  country.  That's 
what  I  say;  nobody  here,  you  understand,  here,  can  endanger  your  position. 
And  why?  You  stand  the  climate— you  outlast  them  all.  The  danger  is  in 
Europe;  but  there  before  I  left  I  took  care  to— '  They  moved  off  and  whis* 
pered,  then  their  voices  rose  again.  'The  extraordinary  series  of  delays  is  not 
my  fault.  I  did  my  best/  The  fat  man  sighed.  'Very  sad/  'And  the  pestiferous 

344        THE  SHORT   STORY 


absurdity  of  his  talk/  continued  the  other;  Tie  bothered  me  enough  when  he 
was  here.  "Each  station  should  be  like  a  beacon  on  the  road  towards  better 
things,  a  center  for  trade,  of  course,  but  also  for  humanizing,  improving, 
instructing."  Conceive  you—that  ass!  And  he  wants  to  be  manager!  No,  it's—' 
Here  he  got  choked  by  excessive  indignation,  and  I  lifted  my  head  the  least 
bit.  I  was  surprised  to  see  how  near  they  were— right  under  me.  I  could  have 
spat  upon  their  hats.  They  were  looking  on  the  ground,  absorbed  in  thought. 
The  manager  was  switching  his  leg  with  a  slender  twig:  his  sagacious  relative 
lifted  his  head.  'You  have  been  well  since  you  came  out  this  time?'  he  asked. 
The  other  gave  a  start.  'Who?  I?  Oh!  Like  a  charm— like  a  charm.  But  the  rest 
—oh,  my  goodness!  All  sick.  They  die  so  quick,  too,  that  I  haven't  the  time 
to  send  them  out  of  the  country— it's  incredible!'  'H'm.  Just  so,'  grunted  the 
uncle.  'Ah!  my  boy,  trust  to  this— I  say,  trust  to  this.'  I  saw  him  extend  his 
short  flipper  of  an  arm  for  a  gesture  that  took  in  the  forest,  the  creek,  the 
mud,  the  river,— seemed  to  beckon  with  a  dishonoring  flourish  before  the 
sunlit  face  of  the  land  a  treacherous  appeal  to  the  lurking  death,  to  the  hid- 
den evil,  to  the  profound  darkness  of  its  heart.  It  was  so  startling  that  I 
leaped  to  my  feet  and  looked  back  at  the  edge  of  the  forest,  as  though  I  had 
expected  an  answer  of  some  sort  to  that  black  display  of  confidence.  You 
know  the  foolish  notions  that  come  to  one  sometimes.  The  high  stillness 
confronted  these  two  figures  with  its  ominous  patience,  waiting  for  the 
passing  away  of  a  fantastic  invasion. 

"They  swore  aloud  together— out  of  sheer  fright,  I  believe— then  pretend- 
ing not  to  know  anything  of  my  existence,  turned  back  to  the  station.  The 
sun  was  low;  and  leaning  forward  side  by  side,  they  seemed  to  be  tugging 
painfully  uphill  their  two  ridiculous  shadows  of  unequal  length,  that  trailed 
behind  them  slowly  over  the  tall  grass  without  bending  a  single  blade. 

"In  a  few  days  the  Eldorado  Expedition  went  into  the  patient  wilderness, 
that  closed  upon  it  as  the  sea  closes  over  a  diver.  Long  afterwards  the  news 
came  that  all  the  donkeys  were  dead.  I  know  nothing  as  to  the  fate  of  the 
less  valuable  animals.  They,  no  doubt,  like  the  rest  of  us,  found  what  they 
deserved.  I  did  not  inquire.  I  was  then  rather  excited  at  the  prospect  of 
meeting  Kurtz  very  soon.  When  I  say  very  soon  I  mean  it  comparatively. 
It  was  just  two  months  from  the  day  we  left  the  creek  when  we  came  to  the 
bank  below  Kurtz's  station. 

"Going  up  that  river  was  like  traveling  back  to  the  earliest  beginnings  of 
the  world,  when  vegetation  rioted  on  the  earth  and  the  big  trees  were  kings. 
An  empty  stream,  a  great  silence,  an  impenetrable  forest.  The  air  was  warm, 
thick,  heavy,  sluggish.  There  was  no  joy  in  the  brilliance  of  sunshine.  The  long 
stretches  of  the  waterway  ran  on,  deserted,  into  the  gloom  of  overshadowed 
distances.  On  silvery  sandbanks  hippos  and  alligators  summed  themselves  side 

HEART   OF    DARKNESS         345 


by  side.  The  broadening  waters  flowed  through  a  mob  of  wooded  islands; 
you  lost  your  way  on  that  river  as  you  Would  in  a  desert,  and  butted  all  day 
long  against  shoals,  trying  to  find  the  channel,  till  you  thought  yourself 
bewitched  and  cut  off  forever  from  everything  you  had  known  once— some- 
where—far  away— in  another  existence  perhaps.  There  were  moments  when 
one's  past  came  back  to  one,  as  it  will  sometimes  when  you  have  not  a  mo- 
ment to  spare  to  yourself;  but  it  came  in  the  shape  of  an  unrestful  and  noisy 
dream,  remembered  with  wonder  amongst  the  overwhelming  realities  of  this 
strange  world  of  plants,  and  water,  and  silence.  And  this  stillness  of  life  did 
not  in  the  least  resemble  a  peace.  It  was  the  stillness  of  an  implacable  force 
brooding  over  an  inscrutable  intention.  It  looked  at  you  with  a  vengeful 
aspect.  I  got  used  to  it  afterwards;  I  did  not  see  it  any  more;  I  had  no  time. 
I  had  to  keep  guessing  at  the  channel;  I  had  to  discern,  mostly  by  inspira- 
tion, the  signs  of  hidden  banks;  I  watched  for  sunken  stones;  I  was  learning 
to  clap  my  teeth  smartly  before  my  heart  flew  out,  when  I  shaved  by  a 
fluke  some  infernal  sly  old  snag  that  would  have  ripped  the  life  out  of  the 
tin-pot  steamboat  and  drowned  all  the  pilgrims;  I  had  to  keep  a  look-out  for 
the  signs  of  dead  wood  we  could  cut  up  in  the  night  for  next  day's 
steaming.  When  you  have  to  attend  to  things  of  that  sort,  to  the  mere  in- 
cidents of  the  surface,  the  reality— the  reality,  I  tell  you— fades.  The  inner 
truth  is  hidden— luckily,  luckily.  But  I  felt  it  all  the  same;  I  felt  often  its  mys- 
terious stillness  watching  me  at  my  monkey  tricks,  just  as  it  watches  you 
fellows  performing  on  your  respective  tight-ropes  for— what  is  it?  half-a- 
crown  a  tumble—" 

"  Try  to  be  civil,  Marlow,'  growled  a  voice,  and  I  knew  there  was  at  least 
one  listener  awake  besides  myself. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  forgot  the  heartache  which  makes  up  the  rest  of  the 
price.  And  indeed  what  does  the  price  matter,  if  the  trick  be  well  done? 
You  do  your  tricks  very  well.  And  I  didn't  do  badly  either,  since  I  managed 
not  to  sink  that  steamboat  on  my  first  trip.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  yet.  Imagine 
a  blindfolded  man  set  to  drive  a  van  over  a  bad  road.  I  sweated  and  shivered 
over  that  business  considerably,  I  can  tell  you.  After  all,  for  a  seaman,  to 
scrape  the  bottom  of  the  thing  that's  supposed  to  float  all  the  time  under 
his  care  is  the  unpardonable  sin.  No  one  may  know  of  it,  but  you  never  for- 
get the  thump—eh?  A  blow  on  the  very  heart.  You  remember  it,  you  dream 
of  it,  you  wake  up  at  night  and  think  of  it— years  after— and  go  hot  and  cold 
all  over.  I  don't  pretend  to  say  that  steamboat  floated  all  the  time.  More  than 
once  she  had  to  wade  for  a  bit,  with  twenty  cannibals  splashing  around  and 
pushing.  We  had  enlisted  some  of  these  chaps  on  the  way  for  a  crew.  Fine 
fellows— cannibals— in  their  place.  They  were  men  one  could  work  with,  and 
I  am  grateful  to  them.  And,  after  all,  they  did  not  eat  each  other  before  my 

346        THE   SHORT  STORY 


face:  they  had  brought  along  a  provision  of  hippo-meat  which  went  rotten, 
and  made  the  mystery  of  the  wilderness  stink  in  my  nostrils.  Phool  I  can 
sniff  it  now.  I  had  the  manager  on  board  and  three  or  four  pilgrims  with  their 
staves—all  complete.  Sometimes  we  came  upon  a  station  close  by  the  bank, 
clinging  to  the  skirts  of  the  unknown,  and  the  white  men  rushing  out  of  a 
tumble-down  hovel,  with  great  gestures  of  joy  and  surprise  and  welcome, 
seemed  very  strange— had  the  appearance  of  being  held  there  captive  by  a 
spell.  The  word  ivory  would  ring  in  the  air  for  a  while— and  on  we  went 
again  into  the  silence,  along  empty  reaches,  round  the  still  bends,  between 
the  high  walls  of  our  winding  way,  reverberating  in  hollow  claps  the  pon- 
derous beat  of  the  stern-wheel.  Trees,  trees,  millions  of  trees,  massive,  im- 
mense, running  up  high;  and  at  their  foot,  hugging  the  bank  against  the 
stream,  crept  the  little  begrimed  steamboat,  like  a  sluggish  beetle  crawling 
on  the  floor  of  a  lofty  portico.  It  made  you  feel  very  small,  very  lost,  and  yet 
it  was  not  altogether  depressing,  that  feeling.  After  all,  if  you  were  small, 
the  grimy  beetle  crawled  on— which  was  just  what  you  wanted  it  to  do. 
Where  the  pilgrims  imagined  it  crawled  to  I  don't  know.  To  some  place 
where  they  expected  to  get  something,  I  bet!  For  me  it  crawled  towards 
Kurtz— exclusively;  but  when  the  steam-pipes  started  leaking  we  crawled 
very  slow.  The  reaches  opened  before  us  and  closed  behind,  as  if  the  forest 
had  stepped  leisurely  across  the  water  to  bar  the  way  for  our  return.  We 
penetrated  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  heart  of  darkness.  It  was  very  quiet 
there.  At  night  sometimes  the  roll  of  drums  behind  the  curtain  of  trees 
would  run  up  the  river  and  remain  sustained  faintly,  as  if  hovering  in  the  air 
high  over  our  heads,  till  the  first  break  of  day.  Whether  it  meant  war,  peace, 
or  prayer  we  could  not  tell.  The  dawns  were  heralded  by  the  descent  of  a 
chill  stillness;  the  wood-cutters  slept,  their  fires  burned  low;  the  snapping  of 
a  twig  would  make  you  start.  We  were  wanderers  on  a  prehistoric  earth,  on 
an  earth  that  wore  the  aspect  of  an  unknown  planet.  We  could  have  fancied 
ourselves  the  first  of  men  taking  possession  of  an  accursed  inheritance,  to  be 
subdued  at  the  cost  of  profound  anguish  and  of  excessive  toil.  But  suddenly, 
as  we  struggled  round  a  bend,  there  would  be  a  glimpse  of  rush  walls,  of 
peaked  grass -roofs,  a  burst  of  yells,  a  whirl  of  black  limbs,  a  mass  of  hands 
clapping,  of  feet  stamping,  of  bodies  swaying,  of  eyes  rolling,  under  the 
droop  of  heavy  and  motionless  foliage.  The  steamer  toiled  along  slowly  on 
the  edge  of  a  black  and  incomprehensible  frenzy.  The  prehistoric  man  was 
cursing  us,  praying  to  us,  welcoming  us— who  could  tell?  We  were  cut  off 
from  the  comprehension  of  our  surroundings;  we  glided  past  like  phantoms, 
wondering  and  secretly  appalled,  as  sane  men  would  be  before  an  enthusi- 
astic outbreak  in  a  madhouse.  We  could  not  understand  because  we  were  too 
far  and  could  not  remember,  because  we  were  traveling  in  the  night  of  first 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        347 


ages,  of  those  ages  that  are  gone,  leaving  hardly  a  sign— and  no  memories. 
"The  earth  seemed  unearthly.  We  are  accustomed  to  look  upon  the 
shackled  form  of  a  conquered  monster,  but  there— there  you  could  look  at 
a  tiling  monstrous  and  free.  It  was  unearthly,  and  the  men  were—  No,  they 
were  not  inhuman.  Well,  you  know,  that  was  the  worst  of  it— this  suspicion 
of  their  not  being  inhuman.  It  would  come  slowly  to  one.  They  howled  and 
leaped,  and  spun,  and  made  horrid  faces;  but  what  thrilled  you  was  just  the 
thought  of  their  humanity— like  yours— the  thought  of  your  remote  kinship 
with  this  wild  and  passionate  uproar.  Ugly.  Yes,  it  was  ugly  enough;  but  if 
you  were  man  enough  you  would  admit  to  yourself  that  there  was  in  you 
just  the  faintest  trace  of  a  response  to  the  terrible  frankness  of  that  noise,  a 
dim  suspicion  of  there  being  a  meaning  in  it  which  you— you  so  remote  from 
the  night  of  first  ages— could  comprehend.  And  why  not?  The  mind  of  man 
is  capable  of  anything— because  everything  is  in  it,  all  the  past  as  well  as  all 
the  future.  What  was  there  after  all?  Joy,  fear,  sorrow,  devotion,  valor,  rage— 
who  can  tell?— but  truth— truth  stripped  of  its  cloak  of  time.  Let  the  fool 
gape  and  shudder— the  man  knows,  and  can  look  on  without  a  wink.  But  he 
must  at  least  be  as  much  of  a  man  as  these  on  the  shore.  He  must  meet  that 
truth  with  his  own  true  stuff— with  his  own  inborn  strength.  Principles  won't 
do.  Acquisitions,  clothes,  pretty  rags— rags  that  would  fly  off  at  the  first  good 
shake.  No;  you  want  a  deliberate  belief.  An  appeal  to  me  in  this  fiendish  row 
—is  there?  Very  well;  I  hear;  I  admit,  but  I  have  a  voice,  too,  and  for  good 
or  evil  mine  is  the  speech  that  cannot  be  silenced.  Of  course,  a  fool,  what 
with  sheer  fright  and  fine  sentiments,  is  always  safe.  Who's  that  grunting? 
You  wonder  I  didn't  go  ashore  for  a  howl  and  a  dance?  Well,  no— I  didn't. 
Fine  sentiments,  you  say?  Fine  sentiments,  be  hanged!  I  had  no  time.  I  had 
to  mess  about  with  whitelead  and  strips  of  woolen  blanket  helping  to  put 
bandages  on  those  leaky  steam-pipes— I  tell  you.  I  had  to  watch  the  steering, 
and  circumvent  those  snags,  and  get  the  tinpot  along  by  hook  or  by  crook. 
There  was  surface-truth  enough  in  these  things  to  save  a  wiser  man.  And  be- 
tween whiles  I  had  to  look  after  the  savage  who  was  fireman.  He  was  an 
improved  specimen;  he  could  fire  up  a  vertical  boiler.  He  was  there  below 
me,  and,  upon  my  word,  to  look  at  him  was  as  edifying  as  seeing  a  dog  in 
a  parody  of  breeches  and  a  feather  hat,  walking  on  his  hind-legs.  A  few 
months  of  training  had  done  for  that  really  fine  chap.  He  squinted  at  the 
steam-gauge  and  at  the  water-gauge  with  an  evident  effort  of  intrepidity— 
and  he  had  filed  teeth,  too,  the  poor  devil,  and  the  wool  of  his  pate  shaved 
into  queer  patterns,  and  three  ornamental  scars  on  each  of  his  cheeks.  He 
ought  to  have  been  clapping  his  hands  and  stamping  his  feet  on  the  bank, 
instead  of  which  he  was  hard  at  work,  a  thrall  to  strange  witchcraft,  full  of 
improving  knowledge.  He  was  useful  because  he  had  been  instructed;  and 

348        THE   SHORT   STORY 


what  he  knew  was  this— that  should  the  water  in  that  transparent  thing 
disappear,  the  evil  spirit  inside  the  boiler  would  get  angry  through  the  great- 
ness of  his  thirst,  and  take  a  terrible  vengeance.  So  he  sweated  and  fired  up 
and  watched  the  glass  fearfully  (with  an  impromptu  charm,  made  of  rags, 
tied  to  his  arm,  and  a  piece  of  polished  bone,  as  big  as  a  watch,  stuck  flat- 
ways through  his  lower  lip),  while  the  wooden  banks  slipped  past  us  slowly, 
the  short  noise  was  left  behind,  the  interminable  miles  of  silence— and  we 
crept  on,  towards  Kurtz.  But  the  snags  were  thick,  the  water  was  treacherous 
and  shallow,  the  boiler  seemed  indeed  to  have  a  sulky  devil  in  it,  and  thus 
neither  that  fireman  nor  I  had  any  time  to  peer  into  our  creepy  thoughts. 

"Some  fifty  miles  below  the  Inner  Station  we  came  upon  a  hut  of  reeds, 
an  inclined  and  melancholy  pole,  with  the  unrecognizable  tatters  of  what 
had  been  a  flag  of  some  sort  flying  from  it,  and  a  neatly  stacked  woodpile. 
This  was  unexpected.  We  came  to  the  bank,  and  on  the  stack  of  firewood 
found  a  flat  piece  of  board  with  some  faded  pencil-writing  on  it.  When 
deciphered  it  said:  Wood  for  you.  Hurry  up.  Approach  cautiously/  There 
was  a  signature,  but  it  was  illegible—not  Kurtz— a  much  longer  word.  'Hurry 
up/  Where?  Up  the  river?  'Approach  cautiously/  We  had  not  done  so.  But 
the  warning  could  not  have  been  meant  for  the  place  where  it  could  be  only 
found  after  approach.  Something  was  wrong  above.  But  what— and  how 
much?  That  was  the  question.  We  commented  adversely  upon  the  imbecility 
of  that  telegraphic  style.  The  bush  around  said  nothing,  and  would  not  let 
us  look  very  far,  either.  A  torn  curtain  of  red  twill  hung  in  the  doorway  of 
the  hut,  and  flapped  sadly  in  our  faces.  The  dwelling  was  dismantled;  but 
we  could  see  a  white  man  had  lived  there  not  very  long  ago.  There  remained 
a  rude  table— a  plank  on  two  posts;  a  heap  of  rubbish  reposed  in  a  dark 
corner,  and  by  the  door  I  picked  up  a  book.  It  had  lost  its  covers,  and  the 
pages  had  been  thumbed  into  a  state  of  extremely  dirty  softness;  but  the 
back  had  been  lovingly  stitched  afresh  with  white  cotton  thread,  which 
looked  clean  yet.  It  was  an  extraordinary  find.  Its  title  was,  An  Inquiry  into 
some  Points  of  Seamanship,  by  a  man  Towser,  Towson— some  such  name- 
Master  in  his  Majesty's  Navy.  The  matter  looked  dreary  reading  enough, 
with  illustrative  diagrams  and  repulsive  tables  of  figures,  and  the  copy  was 
sixty  years  old.  I  handled  this  amazing  antiquity  with  the  greatest  possible 
tenderness,  lest  it  should  dissolve  in  my  hands.  Within,  Towson  or  Towser 
was  inquiring  earnestly  into  the  breaking  strain  of  ships'  chains  and  tackle, 
and  other  such  matters.  Not  a  very  enthralling  book;  but  at  the  first  glance 
you  could  see  there  a  singleness  of  intention,  an  honest  concern  for  the 
right  way  of  going  to  work,  which  made  these  humble  pages,  thought  out 
so  many  years  ago,  luminous  with  another  than  a  professional  light.  The 
simple  old  sailor,  with  his  talk  of  chains  and  purchases,  made  me  forget  the 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        349 


jungle  and  the  pilgrims  in  a  delicious  sensation  of  having  come  upon  some- 
thing unmistakably  real.  Such  a  book  being  there  was  wonderful  enough;  but 
still  more  astounding  were  the  notes  penciled  in  the  margin,  and  plainly 
referring  to  the  text.  I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes!  They  were  in  cipher!  Yes, 
it  looked  like  cipher.  Fancy  a  man  lugging  with  him  a  book  of  that  descrip- 
tion into  this  nowhere  and  studying  it—and  making  notes— in  cipher  at  that! 
It  was  an  extravagant  mystery. 

"I  had  been  dimly  aware  for  some  time  of  a  worrying  noise,  and  when 
I  lifted  my  eyes  I  saw  the  wood  pile  was  gone,  and  the  manager,  aided  by 
all  the  pilgrims,  was  shouting  at  me  from  the  river-side.  I  slipped  the  book 
into  my  pocket.  I  assure  you  to  leave  off  reading  was  like  tearing  myself  away 
from  the  shelter  of  an  old  and  solid  friendship. 

"I  started  the  lame  engine  ahead.  It  must  be  this  miserable  trader— this 
intruder/  exclaimed  the  manager,  looking  back  malevolently  at  the  place 
we  had  left.  'He  must  be  English,'  I  said.  'It  will  not  save  him  from  getting 
into  trouble  if  he  is  not  careful/  muttered  the  manager  darkly.  I  observed 
with  assumed  innocence  that  no  man  was  safe  from  trouble  in  this  world. 

'The  current  was  more  rapid  now,  the  steamer  seemed  at  her  last  gasp, 
the  stern-wheel  flopped  languidly,  and  I  caught  myself  listening  on  tiptoe 
for  the  next  beat  of  the  boat,  for  in  sober  truth  I  expected  the  wretched  thing 
to  give  up  every  moment.  It  was  like  watching  the  last  flickers  of  a  life.  But 
still  we  crawled.  Sometimes  I  would  pick  out  a  tree  a  little  way  ahead  to 
measure  our  progress  towards  Kurtz  by,  but  I  lost  it  invariably  before  we 
got  abreast.  To  keep  the  eyes  so  long  on  one  thing  was  too  much  for  human 
patience.  The  manager  displayed  a  beautiful  resignation.  I  fretted  and 
fumed  and  took  to  arguing  with  myself  whether  or  no  I  would  talk  openly 
with  Kurtz;  but  before  I  could  come  to  any  conclusion  it  occurred  to  me 
that  my  speech  or  my  silence,  indeed  any  action  of  mine,  would  be  a  mere 
futility.  What  did  it  matter  what  any  one  knew  or  ignored?  What  did  it 
matter  who  was  manager?  One  gets  sometimes  such  a  flash  of  insight.  The 
essentials  of  this  affair  lay  deep  under  the  surface,  beyond  my  reach,  and 
beyond  my  power  of  meddling. 

"Towards  the  evening  of  the  second  day  we  judged  ourselves  about  eight 
miles  from  Kurtz's  station.  I  wanted  to  push  on;  but  the  manager  looked 
grave,  and  told  me  the  navigation  up  there  was  so  dangerous  that  it  would 
be  advisable,  the  sun  being  very  low  already,  to  wait  where  we  were  till 
next  morning.  Moreover,  he  pointed  out  that  if  the  warning  to  approach 
cautiously  were  to  be  followed,  we  must  approach  in  daylight— not  at  dusk, 
or  in  the  dark.  This  was  sensible  enough.  Eight  miles  meant  nearly  three 
hours'  steaming  for  us,  and  I  could  also  see  suspicious  ripples  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  reach.  Nevertheless,  I  was  annoyed  beyond  expression  at  the  de- 

350        THE  SHORT  STORY 


lay,  and  most  unreasonably,  too,  since  one  night  more  could  not  matter 
much  after  so  many  months.  As  we  had  plenty  of  wood,  and  caution  was 
the  word,  I  brought  up  in  the  middle  of  the  stream.  The  reach  was  narrow, 
straight,  with  high  sides  like  a  railway  cutting.  The  dusk  came  gliding  into 
it  long  before  the  sun  had  set.  The  current  ran  smooth  and  swift,  but  a  dumb 
immobility  sat  on  the  banks.  The  living  trees,  lashed  together  by  the  creepers 
and  every  living  bush  of  the  undergrowth,  might  have  been  changed  into 
stone,  even  to  the  slenderest  twig,  to  the  lightest  leaf.  It  was  not  sleep— it 
seemed  unnatural,  like  a  state  of  trance.  Not  the  faintest  sound  of  any  kind 
could  be  heard.  You  looked  on  amazed,  and  began  to  suspect  yourself  of 
being  deaf— then  the  night  came  suddenly,  and  struck  you  blind  as  well. 
About  three  in  the  morning  some  large  fish  leaped,  and  the  loud  splash  made 
me  jump  as  though  a  gun  had  been  fired.  When  the  sun  rose  there  was  a 
white  fog,  very  warm  and  clammy,  and  more  blinding  than  the  night.  It  did 
not  shift  or  drive;  it  was  just  there,  standing  all  round  you  like  something 
solid.  At  eight  or  nine,  perhaps,  it  lifted  as  a  shutter  lifts.  We  had  a  glimpse 
of  the  towering  multitude  of  trees,  of  the  immense  matted  jungle,  with  the 
blazing  little  ball  of  the  sun  hanging  over  it— all  perfectly  still— and  then 
the  white  shutter  came  down  again,  smoothly,  as  if  sliding  in  greased 
grooves.  I  ordered  the  chain,  which  we  had  begun  to  heave  in,  to  be  paid 
out  again.  Before  it  stopped  running  with  a  muffled  rattle,  a  cry,  a  very 
loud  cry,  as  of  infinite  desolation,  soared  slowly  in  the  opaque  air.  It  ceased. 
A  complaining  clamor,  modulated  in  savage  discords,  filled  our  ears.  The 
sheer  unexpectedness  of  it  made  my  hair  stir  under  my  cap.  I  don't  know 
how  it  struck  the  others:  to  me  it  seemed  as  though  the  mist  itself  had 
screamed,  so  suddenly,  and  apparently  from  all  sides  at  once,  did  this 
tumultuous  and  mournful  uproar  arise.  It  culminated  in  a  hurried  outbreak 
of  almost  intolerably  excessive  shrieking,  which  stopped  short,  leaving  us 
stiffened  in  a  variety  of  silly  attitudes,  and  obstinately  listening  to  the  nearly 
as  appalling  and  excessive  silence.  'Good  GodI  What  is  the  meaning—' 
stammered  at  my  elbow  one  of  the  pilgrims,— a  little  fat  man,  with  sandy 
hair  and  red  whiskers,  who  wore  side-spring  boots,  and  pink  pajamas 
tucked  into  his  socks.  Two  others  remained  open-mouthed  a  whole  minute, 
then  dashed  into  the  little  cabin,  to  rush  out  incontinently  and  stand  darting 
scared  glances,  with  Winchesters  at  'ready'  in  their  hands.  What  we  could 
see  was  just  the  steamer  we  were  on,  her  outlines  blurred  as  though  she 
had  been  on  the  point  of  dissolving,  and  a  misty  strip  of  water,  perhaps  two 
feet  broad,  around  her— and  that  was  all.  The  rest  of  the  world  was  nowhere, 
as  far  as  our  eyes  and  ears  were  concerned.  Just  nowhere.  Gone,  disappeared; 
swept  off  without  leaving  a  whisper  or  a  shadow  behind. 
"I  went  forward,  and  ordered  the  chain  to  be  hauled  in  short,  so  as  to  be 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        351 


ready  to  trip  the  anchor  and  move  the  steamboat  at  once  if  necessary.  Will 
they  attack?'  whispered  an  awed  voice  'We  will  be  all  butchered  in  this  fog/ 
murmured  another.  The  faces  twitched  with  the  strain,  the  hands  trembled 
slightly,  the  eyes  forgot  to  wink.  It  was  very  curious  to  see  the  contrast  of 
expressions  of  the  white  men  and  of  the  black  fellows  of  our  crew,  who 
were  as  much  strangers  to  that  part  of  the  river  as  we,  though  their  homes 
were  only  eight  hundred  miles  away.  The  whites,  of  course,  greatly  dis- 
composed, had  besides  a  curious  look  of  being  painfully  shocked  by  such  an 
outrageous  row.  The  others  had  an  alert,  naturally  interested  expression;  but 
their  faces  were  essentially  quiet,  even  those  of  the  one  or  two  who  grinned 
as  they  hauled  at  the  chain.  Several  exchanged  short,  grunting  phrases, 
which  seemed  to  settle  the  matter  to  their  satisfaction.  Their  headman,  a 
young,  broad-chested  black,  severely  draped  in  dark-blue  fringed  cloths, 
with  fierce  nostrils  and  his  hair  all  done  up  artfully  in  oily  ringlets,  stood 
near  me.  'Aha!'  I  said,  just  for  good  fellowship's  sake.  'Catch  'em,'  he  snapped, 
with  a  bloodshot  widening  of  his  eyes  and  a  flash  of  sharp  teeth— 'catch 
'im.  Give  'im  to  us.'  'To  you,  eh?'  I  asked;  'what  would  you  do  with  them?' 
'Eat  'im!'  he  said,  curtly,  and,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  rail,  looked  out  into 
the  fog  in  a  dignified  and  profoundly  pensive  attitude.  I  would  no  doubt  have 
been  properly  horrified,  had  it  not  occurred  to  me  that  he  and  his  chaps 
must  be  very  hungry:  that  they  must  have  been  growing  increasingly  hungry 
for  at  least  this  month  past.  They  had  been  engaged  for  six  months  ( I  don't 
think  a  single  one  of  them  had  any  clear  idea  of  time,  as  we  at  the  end  of 
countless  ages  have.  They  still  belonged  to  the  beginnings  of  time— had  no 
inherited  experience  to  teach  them  as  it  were),  and  of  course,  as  long  as 
there  was  a  piece  of  paper  written  over  in  accordance  with  some  farcical 
law  or  other  made  down  the  river,  it  didn't  enter  anybody's  head  to  trouble 
how  they  would  live.  Certainly  they  had  brought  with  them  some  rotten 
hippo-meat,  which  couldn't  have  lasted  very  long,  anyway,  even  if  the 
pilgrims  hadn't,  in  the  midst  of  a  shocking  hullabaloo,  thrown  a  considerable 
quantity  of  it  overboard.  It  looked  like  a  high-handed  proceeding;  but  it  was 
really  a  case  of  legitimate  self-defense.  You  can't  breathe  dead  hippo  waking, 
sleeping,  and  eating,  and  at  the  same  time  keep  your  precarious  grip  on 
existence.  Besides  that,  they  had  given  them  every  week  three  pieces  of 
brass  wire,  each  about  nine  inches  long;  and  the  theory  was  they  were  to  buy 
their  provisions  with  that  currency  in  river-side  villages.  You  can  see  how  that 
worked.  There  were  either  no  villages,  or  the  people  were  hostile,  or  the 
director,  who  like  the  rest  of  us  fed  out  of  tins,  with  an  occasional  old  he- 
goat  thrown  in,  didn't  want  to  stop  the  steamer  for  some  more  or  less  rec- 
ondite reason.  So,  unless  they  swallowed  the  wire  itself,  or  made  loops  of  it 
to  snare  the  fishes  with,  I  don't  see  what  good  their  extravagant  salary  could 

352        THE   SHORT   STORY 


be  to  them.  I  must  say  it  was  paid  with  a  regularity  worthy  of  a  large  and 
honorable  trading  company.  For  the  rest,  the  only  thing  to  eat— though  it 
didn't  look  eatable  in  the  least—I  saw  in  their  possession  was  a  few  lumps 
of  some  stuff  like  half-cooked  dough,  of  a  dirty  lavender  color,  they  kept 
wrapped  in  leaves,  and  now  and  then  swallowed  a  piece  of,  but  so  small  that 
it  seemed  done  more  for  the  looks  of  the  thing  than  for  any  serious  purpose 
of  sustenance.  Why  in  the  name  of  all  the  gnawing  devils  of  hunger  they 
didn't  go  for  us— they  were  thirty  to  five— and  have  a  good  tuck-in  for  once, 
amazes  me  now  when  I  think  of  it.  They  were  big  powerful  men,  with  not 
much  capacity  to  weigh  the  consequences,  with  courage,  with  strength, 
even  yet,  though  their  skins  were  no  longer  glossy  and  their  muscles  no 
longer  hard.  And  I  saw  that  something  restraining,  one  of  tho^e  human 
secrets  that  baffle  probability,  had  come  into  play  there.  I  looked  at  them 
with  a  swift  quickening  of  interest— not  because  it  occurred  to  me  I  might  be 
eaten  by  them  before  very  long,  though  I  own  to  you  that  just  then  I  per- 
ceived—in a  new  light,  as  it  were— how  unwholesome  the  pilgrims  looked, 
and  I  hoped,  yes,  I  positively  hoped,  that  my  aspect  was  not  so— what  shall 
I  say?— so— unappetizing:  a  touch  of  fantastic  vanity  which  fitted  well  with 
the  dream-sensation  that  pervaded  all  my  days  at  that  time.  Perhaps  I  had 
a  little  fever,  too.  One  can't  live  with  one's  finger  everlastingly  on  one's 
pulse.  I  had  often  'a  little  fever,'  or  a  little  touch  of  other  things— the  playful 
paw-strokes  of  the  wilderness,  the  preliminary  trifling  before  the  more 
serious  onslaught  which  came  in  due  course.  Yes;  I  looked  at  them  as  you 
would  on  any  human  being,  with  a  curiosity  of  their  impulses,  motives, 
capacities,  weaknesses,  when  brought  to  the  test  of  an  inexorable  physical 
necessity.  Restraint!  What  possible  restraint?  Was  it  superstition,  disgust, 
patience,  fear— or  some  kind  of  primitive  honor?  No  fear  can  stand  up  to 
hunger,  no  patience  can  wear  it  out,  disgust  simply  does  not  exist  where 
hunger  is;  and  as  to  superstition,  beliefs,  and  what  you  may  call  principles, 
they  are  less  than  chaff  in  a  breeze.  Don't  you  know  the  devilry  of  linger- 
ing starvation,  its  exasperating  torment,  its  black  thoughts,  its  somber  and 
brooding  ferocity?  Well,  I  do.  It  takes  a  man  all  his  inborn  strength  to  fight 
hunger  properly.  It's  really  easier  to  face  bereavement,  dishonor,  and  the 
perdition  of  one's  soul— than  this  kind  of  prolonged  hunger.  Sad,  but  true. 
And  these  chaps,  too,  had  no  earthly  reason  for  any  kind  of  scruple.  Restraint! 
I  would  just  as  soon  have  expected  restraint  from  a  hyena  prowling  amongst 
the  corpses  of  a  battlefield.  But  there  was  the  fact  facing  me— the  fact 
dazzling,  to  be  seen,  like  the  foam  on  the  depths  of  the  sea,  like  a  ripple  on 
an  unfathomable  enigma,  a  mystery  greater— when  I  thought  of  it— than 
the  curious,  inexplicable  note  of  desperate  grief  in  this  savage  clamor  that 
had  swept  by  us  on  the  river-bank,  behind  the  blind  whiteness  of  the  fog. 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        353 


"Two  pilgrims  were  quarreling  in  hurried  whispers  as  to  which  bank, 
'Left/  'No,  no;  how  can  you?  Right,  right,  of  course/  It  is  very  serious/ 
said  the  manager's  voice  behind  me;  1  would  be  desolated  if  anything 
should  happen  to  Mr.  Kurtz  before  we  came  up/  I  looked  at  him,  and  had 
not  the  slightest  doubt  he  was  sincere.  He  was  just  the  kind  of  man  who 
would  wish  to  preserve  appearances.  That  was  his  restraint.  But  when  he 
muttered  something  about  going  on  at  once,  I  did  not  even  take  the  trouble 
to  answer  him.  I  knew,  and  he  knew,  that  it  was  impossible.  Were  we  to  let 
go  our  hold  of  the  bottom,  we  would  be  absolutely  in  the  air—in  space.  We 
wouldn't  be  able  to  tell  where  we  were  going  to— whether  up  or  down 
stream,  or  across— till  we  fetched  against  one  bank  or  the  other,— and  then 
we  wouldn't  know  at  first  which  it  was.  Of  course  I  made  no  move.  I  had 
no  mind  for  a  smash-up.  You  couldn't  imagine  a  more  deadly  place  for  a  ship- 
wreck. Whether  drowned  at  once  or  not,  we  were  sure  to  perish  speedily 
in  one  way  or  another.  1  authorize  you  to  take  all  the  risks/  he  said,  after 
a  short  silence.  1  refuse  to  take  any/  I  said,  shortly;  which  was  just  the 
answer  he  expected,  though  its  tone  might  have  surprised  him.  Well,  I 
must  defer  to  your  judgment.  You  are  captain/  he  said,  with  marked  civility. 
I  turned  my  shoulder  to  him  in  sign  of  my  appreciation,  and  looked  into 
the  fog.  How  long  would  it  last?  It  was  the  most  hopeless  look-out.  The 
approach  to  this  Kurtz  grubbing  for  ivory  in  the  wretched  bush  was  beset  by 
as  many  dangers  as  though  he  had  been  an  enchanted  princess  sleeping 
in  a  fabulous  castle.  'Will  they  attack,  do  you  think?'  asked  the  manager,  in 
a  confidential  tone. 

"I  did  not  think  they  would  attack,  for  several  obvious  reasons.  The 
thick  fog  was  one.  If  they  left  the  bank  in  their  canoes  they  would  get 
lost  in  it,  as  we  would  be  if  we  attempted  to  move.  Still,  I  had  also  judged 
the  jungle  of  both  banks  quite  impenetrable— and  yet  eyes  were  in  it,  eyes 
that  had  seen  us.  The  river-side  bushes  were  certainly  very  thick;  but  the 
undergrowth  behind  was  evidently  penetrable.  However,  during  the  short 
lift  I  had  seen  no  canoes  anywhere  in  the  reach— certainly  not  abreast  of 
the  steamer.  But  what  made  the  idea  of  attack  inconceivable  to  me  was 
the  nature  of  the  noise— of  the  cries  we  had  heard.  They  had  not  the  fierce 
character  boding  immediate  hostile  intention.  Unexpected,  wild,  and  violent 
as  they  had  been,  they  had  given  me  an  irresistible  impression  of  sorrow. 
The  glimpse  of  the  steamboat  had  for  some  reason  filled  those  savages  with 
unrestrained  grief.  The  danger,  if  any,  I  expounded,  was  from  our  proximity 
to  a  great  human  passion  let  loose.  Even  extreme  grief  may  ultimately  vent 
itself  in  violence— but  more  generally  takes  the  form  of  apathy.  .  .  . 

"You  should  have  seen  the  pilgrims  starel  They  had  no  heart  to  grin,  or 
even  to  revile  me:  but  I  believe  they  thought  me  gone  mad— with  fright, 

354        THE   SHORT   STORY 


maybe.  I  delivered  a  regular  lecture.  My  dear  boys,  it  was  no  good  bother- 
ing. Keep  a  look-out?  Well,  you  may  guess  I  watched  the  fog  for  the  signs  of 
lifting  as  a  cat  watches  a  mouse;  but  for  anything  else  our  eyes  were  of  no 
more  use  to  us  than  if  we  had  been  buried  miles  deep  in  a  heap  of  cotton- 
wool. It  felt  like  it,  too— choking,  warm,  stifling.  Besides,  all  I  said,  though 
it  sounded  extravagant,  was  absolutely  true  to  fact.  What  we  afterwards 
alluded  to  as  an  attack  was  really  an  attempt  at  repulse.  The  action  was  very 
far  from  being  aggressive— it  was  not  even  defensive,  in  the  usual  sense: 
it  was  undertaken  under  the  stress  of  desperation,  and  in  its  essence  was 
purely  protective. 

"It  developed  itself,  I  should  say,  two  hours  after  the  fog  lifted,  and  its 
commencement  was  at  a  spot,  roughly  speaking,  about  a  mile  and  a  half 
below  Kurtz's  station.  We  had  just  floundered  and  flopped  round  a  bend, 
when  I  saw  an  islet,  a  mere  grassy  hummock  of  bright  green,  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream.  It  was  the  only  thing  of  the  kind;  but  as  we  opened  the  reach 
more,  I  perceived  it  was  the  head  of  a  long  sandbank,  or  rather  of  a  chain 
of  shallow  patches  stretching  down  the  middle  of  the  river.  They  were 
discolored,  just  awash,  and  the  whole  lot  was  seen  just  under  the  water,  ex- 
actly as  a  man's  backbone  is  seen  running  down  the  middle  of  his  back  under 
the  skin.  Now,  as  far  as  I  did  see,  I  could  go  to  the  right  or  to  the  left  of  this. 
I  didn't  know  either  channel,  of  course.  The  banks  looked  pretty  well  alike, 
the  depth  appeared  the  same;  but  as  I  had  been  informed  the  station  was 
on  the  west  side,  I  naturally  headed  for  the  western  passage. 

"No  sooner  had  we  fairly  entered  it  than  I  became  aware  it  was  much 
narrower  than  I  had  supposed.  To  the  left  of  us  there  was  the  long  uninter- 
rupted shoal,  and  to  the  right  a  high,  steep  bank  heavily  overgrown  with 
bushes.  Above  the  bush  the  trees  stood  in  serried  ranks.  The  twigs  over- 
hung the  current  thickly,  and  from  distance  to  distance  a  large  limb  of  some 
tree  projected  rigidly  over  the  stream.  It  was  then  well  on  in  the  afternoon, 
the  face  of  the  forest  was  gloomy,  and  a  broad  strip  of  shadow  had  already 
fallen  on  the  water.  In  this  shadow  we  steamed  up— very  slowly,  as  you  may 
imagine.  I  sheered  her  well  inshore— the  water  being  deepest  near  the 
bank,  as  the  sounding-pole  informed  me. 

"One  of  my  hungry  and  forbearing  friends  was  sounding  in  the  bows  just 
below  me.  This  steamboat  was  exactly  like  a  decked  scow.  On  the  deck, 
there  were  two  little  teak- wood  houses,  with  doors  and  windows.  The  boiler 
was  in  the  fore-end,  and  the  machinery  right  astern.  Over  the  whole  there 
was  a  light  roof,  supported  on  stanchions.  The  funnel  projected  through 
that  roof,  and  in  front  of  the  funnel  a  small  cabin  built  of  light  pknks 
served  for  a  pilot-house.  It  contained  a  couch,  two  camp-stools,  a  loaded 
Martini-Henry  leaning  in  one  corner,  a  tiny  table,  and  the  steering-wheel. 

HEART  OF  DABKNKS8        355 


It  had  a  wide  door  in  front  and  a  broad  shutter  at  each  side.  All  these  were 
always  thrown  open,  of  course.  I  spent  my  days  perched  up  there  on  the 
extreme  fore-end  of  that  roof,  before  the  door.  At  night  I  slept,  or  tried  to, 
on  the  couch.  An  athletic  black  belonging  to  some  coast  tribe,  and  educated 
by  my  poor  predecessor,  was  the  helmsman.  He  sported  a  pair  of  brass  ear- 
rings, wore  a  blue  cloth  wrapper  from  the  waist  to  the  ankles,  and  thought 
all  the  world  of  himself.  He  was  the  most  unstable  kind  of  fool  I  had  ever 
seen.  He  steered  with  no  end  of  a  swagger  while  you  were  by;  but  if  he  lost 
sight  of  you,  he  became  instantly  the  prey  of  an  abject  funk,  and  would  let 
that  cripple  of  a  steamboat  get  the  upper  hand  of  him  in  a  minute. 

"I  was  looking  down  at  the  sounding-pole,  and  feeling  much  annoyed  to 
see  at  each  try  a  little  more  of  it  stick  out  of  that  river,  when  I  saw  my 
poleman  give  up  the  business  suddenly,  and  stretch  himself  flat  on  the  deck, 
without  even  taking  the  trouble  to  haul  his  pole  in.  He  kept  hold  on  it 
though,  and  it  trailed  in  the  water.  At  the  same  time  the  fireman,  whom 
I  could  also  see  below  me,  sat  down  abruptly  before  his  furnace  and  ducked 
his  head.  I  was  amazed.  Then  I  had  to  look  at  the  river  mighty  quick,  be- 
cause there  was  a  snag  in  the  fairway.  Sticks,  little  sticks,  were  flying  about 
—thick:  they  were  whizzing  before  my  nose,  dropping  below  me,  striking 
behind  me  against  my  pilot-house.  All  this  time  the  river,  the  shore,  the 
woods,  were  very  quiet—perfectly  quiet.  I  could  only  hear  the  heavy  splash- 
ing thump  of  the  stern-wheel  and  the  patter  of  these  things.  We  cleared  the 
snag  clumsily.  Arrows,  by  Jove!  We  were  being  shot  at!  I  stepped  in  quickly 
to  close  the  shutter  on  the  land-side.  That  fool-helmsman,  his  hands  on  the 
spokes,  was  lifting  his  knees  high,  stamping  his  feet,  champing  his  mouth, 
like  a  reined-in  horse.  Confound  him!  And  we  were  staggering  within  ten 
feet  of  the  bank.  I  had  to  lean  right  out  to  swing  the  heavy  shutter,  and  I 
saw  a  face  amongst  the  leaves  on  the  level  with  my  own,  looking  at  me  very 
fierce  and  steady;  and  then  suddenly,  as  though  a  veil  had  been  removed 
from  my  eyes,  I  made  out,  deep  in  the  tangled  gloom,  naked  breasts,  arms, 
legs,  glaring  eyes,— the  bush  was  swarming  with  human  limbs  in  movement, 
glistening,  of  bronze  color.  The  twigs  shook,  swayed,  and  rustled,  the  arrows 
flew  out  of  them,  and  then  the  shutter  came  to.  'Steer  her  straight/  I  said  to 
the  helmsman.  He  held  his  head  rigid,  face  forward;  but  his  eyes  rolled,  he 
kept  on  lifting  and  setting  down  his  feet  gently,  his  mouth  foamed  a  little. 
'Keep  quiet!'  I  said  in  a  fury.  I  might  just  as  well  have  ordered  a  tree  not  to 
sway  in  the  wind.  I  darted  out.  Below  me  there  was  a  great  scuffle  of  feet 
on  the  iron  deck;  confused  exclamations;  a  voice  screamed,  'Can  you  turn 
back?*  I  caught  sight  of  a  V-shaped  ripple  on  the  water  ahead.  What?  An- 
other snag!  A  fusillade  burst  out  under  my  feet.  The  pilgrims  had  opened 
with  their  Winchesters,  and  were  simply  squirting  lead  into  that  bush.  A 

356       THE  SHORT  STORY 


deuce  of  a  lot  of  smoke  came  up  and  drove  slowly  forward.  I  swore  at  it. 
Now  I  couldn't  see  the  ripple  or  the  snag  either.  I  stood  in  the  doorway, 
peering,  and  the  arrows  came  in  swarms.  They  might  have  been  poisoned, 
but  they  looked  as  though  they  wouldn't  kill  a  cat.  The  bush  began  to  howl. 
Our  wood-cutters  raised  a  warlike  whoop;  the  report  of  a  rifle  just  at  my 
back  deafened  me.  I  glanced  over  my  shoulder,  and  the  pilothouse  was  yet 
full  of  noise  and  smoke  when  I  made  a  dash  at  the  wheel.  The  fool-nigger 
had  dropped  everything,  to  throw  the  shutter  open  and  let  off  that  Martini- 
Henry.  He  stood  before  the  wide  opening,  glaring,  and  I  yelled  at  him  to 
come  back,  while  I  straightened  the  sudden  twist  out  of  that  steamboat. 
There  was  no  room  to  turn  even  if  I  had  wanted  to,  the  snag  was  some- 
where very  near  ahead  in  that  confounded  smoke,  there  was  no  time  to  lose, 
so  I  just  crowded  her  into  the  bank— right  into  the  bank,  where  I  knew  the 
water  was  deep. 

"We  tore  slowly  along  the  overhanging  bushes  in  a  whirl  of  broken  twigs 
and  flying  leaves,  The  fusillade  below  stopped  short,  as  I  had  foreseen  it 
would  when  the  squirts  got  empty.  I  threw  my  head  back  to  a  glinting  whizz 
that  traversed  the  pilot-house,  in  at  one  shutter-hole  and  out  at  the  other. 
Looking  past  that  mad  helmsman,  who  was  shaking  the  empty  rifle  and  yell- 
ing at  the  shore,  I  saw  vague  forms  of  men  running  bent  double,  leaping, 
gliding,  distinct,  incomplete,  evanescent.  Something  big  appeared  in  the 
air  before  the  shutter,  the  rifle  went  overboard,  and  the  man  stepped  back 
swiftly,  looked  at  me  over  his  shoulder  in  an  extraordinary,  profound, 
familiar  manner,  and  fell  upon  my  feet.  The  side  of  his  head  hit  the  wheel 
twice,  and  the  end  of  what  appeared  a  long  cane  clattered  round  and 
knocked  over  a  little  camp-stool.  It  looked  as  though  after  wrenching  that 
thing  from  somebody  ashore  he  had  lost  his  balance  in  the  effort.  The  thin 
smoke  had  blown  away,  we  were  clear  of  the  snag,  and  looking  ahead  I 
could  see  that  in  another  hundred  yards  or  so  I  would  be  free  to  sheer  off, 
away  from  the  bank;  but  my  feet  felt  so  very  warm  and  wet  that  I  had  to 
look  down.  The  man  had  rolled  on  his  back  and  stared  straight  up  at  me; 
both  his  hands  clutched  that  cane.  It  was  the  shaft  of  a  spear  that,  either 
thrown  or  lunged  through  the  opening,  had  caught  him  in  the  side  just 
below  the  ribs;  the  blade  had  gone  in  out  of  sight,  after  making  a  frightful 
gash;  my  shoes  were  full;  a  pool  of  blood  lay  very  still,  gleaming  dark-red 
under  the  wheel;  his  eyes  shone  with  an  amazing  luster.  The  fusillade  burst 
out  again.  He  looked  at  me  anxiously,  gripping  the  spear  like  something 
precious,  with  an  air  of  being  afraid  I  would  try  to  take  it  away  from  him. 
I  had  to  make  an  effort  to  free  my  eyes  from  his  gaze  and  attend  to  steering. 
With  one  hand  I  felt  above  my  head  for  the  line  of  the  steam  whistle,  and 
jerked  out  screech  after  screech  hurriedly.  The  tumult  of  angry  and  war- 

HEART   OF    DARKNESS         357 


like  yells  was  checked  instantly,  and  then  from  the  depths  of  the  woods 
went  out  such  a  tremulous  and  prolonged  wail  of  mournful  fear  and  utter 
despair  as  may  be  imagined  to  follow  the  flight  of  the  last  hope  from  the 
earth.  There  was  a  great  commotion  in  the  bush;  the  shower  of  arrows 
stopped,  a  few  dropping  shots  rang  out  sharply— then  silence,  in  which  the 
languid  beat  of  the  stern-wheel  came  plainly  to  my  ears.  I  put  the  helm 
hard  a-starboard  at  the  moment  when  the  pilgrim  in  pink  pajamas,  very  hot 
and  agitated,  appeared  in  the  doorway.  'The  manager  sends  me—'  he  began 
in  an  official  tone,  and  stopped  short.  'Good  God!'  he  said,  glaring  at  the 
wounded  man. 

"We  two  whites  stood  over  him,  and  his  lustrous  and  inquiring  glance 
enveloped  us  both.  I  declare  it  looked  as  though  he  would  presently  put  to 
us  some  question  in  an  understandable  language;  but  he  died  without  utter- 
ing a  sound,  without  moving  a  limb,  without  twitching  a  muscle.  Only  in  the 
very  last  moment,  as  though  in  response  to  some  sign  we  could  not  see,  to 
some  whisper  we  could  not  hear,  he  frowned  heavily,  and  that  frown  gave 
to  his  black  death-mask  an  inconceivably  somber,  brooding,  and  menacing 
expression.  The  luster  of  inquiring  glance  faded  swiftly  into  vacant  glassi- 
ness.  'Can  you  steer?'  I  asked  the  agent  eagerly.  He  looked  very  dubious; 
but  I  made  a  grab  at  his  arm,  and  he  understood  at  once  I  meant  him  to  steer 
whether  or  no.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  morbidly  anxious  to  change  my 
shoes  and  socks.  'He  is  dead,'  murmured  the  fellow,  immensely  impressed. 
*No  doubt  about  it,'  said  I,  tugging  like  mad  at  the  shoe-laces.  'And  by  the 
way,  I  suppose  Mr.  Kurtz  is  dead  as  well  by  this  time.' 

"For  the  moment  that  was  the  dominant  thought.  There  was  a  sense  of 
extreme  disappointment,  as  though  I  had  found  out  I  had  been  striving 
after  something  altogether  without  a  substance.  I  couldn't  have  been  more 
disgusted  if  I  had  traveled  all  this  way  for  the  sole  purpose  of  talking  with 
Mr.  Kurtz.  Talking  with  ...  I  flung  one  shoe  overboard,  and  became  aware 
that  that  was  exactly  what  I  had  been  looking  forward  to— a  talk  with  Kurtz. 
I  made  the  strange  discovery  that  I  had  never  imagined  him  as  doing,  you 
know,  but  as  discoursing.  I  didn't  say  to  myself,  'Now  I  will  never  see  him/ 
or  'Now  I  will  never  shake  him  by  the  hand,'  but,  'Now  I  will  never  hear 
him/  The  man  presented  himself  as  a  voice.  Not  of  course  that  I  did  not 
connect  him  with  some  sort  of  action.  Hadn't  I  been  told  in  all  the  tones  of 
jealousy  and  admiration  that  he  had  collected,  bartered,  swindled,  or  stolen 
more  ivory  than  all  the  other  agents  together?  That  was  not  the  point.  The 
point  was  in  his  being  a  gifted  creature,  and  that  of  all  his  gifts  the  one 
that  stood  out  preeminently,  that  carried  with  it  a  sense  of  real  presence, 
was  his  ability  to  talk,  his  words— the  gift  of  expression,  the  bewildering, 
the  illuminating,  the  most  exalted  and  the  most  contemptible,  the  pulsating 

358        THE   SHORT   STORY 


stream  of  light,  or  the  deceitful  flow  from  the  heart  of  an  impenetrable  dark- 
ness. 

"The  other  shoe  went  flying  unto  the  devil-god  of  that  river.  I  thought, 
by  Jove!  it's  all  over.  We  are  too  late;  he  has  vanished—the  gift  has  vanished, 
by  means  of  some  spear,  arrow,  or  club.  I  will  never  hear  that  chap  speak 
after  all,— and  my  sorrow  had  a  startling  extravagance  of  emotion,  even 
such  as  I  had  noticed  in  the  howling  sorrow  of  these  savages  in  the  bush.  I 
couldn't  have  felt  more  lonely  desolation  somehow,  had  I  been  robbed  of 
a  belief  or  had  missed  my  destiny  in  life.  . .  .  Why  do  you  sigh  in  this  beastly 
way,  somebody?  Absurd?  Well,  absurd.  Good  LordI  mustn't  a  man  ever— 
Here,  give  me  some  tobacco."  .  .  . 

There  was  a  pause  of  profound  stillness,  then  a  match  flared,  and  Marlow's 
lean  face  appeared,  worn,  hollow,  with  downward  folds  and  drooped  eyelids, 
with  an  aspect  of  concentrated  attention;  and  as  he  took  vigorous  draws 
at  his  pipe,  it  seemed  to  retreat  and  advance  out  of  the  night  in  the  regukr 
flicker  of  the  tiny  flame.  The  match  went  out. 

"Absurd!"  he  cried.  "This  is  the  worst  of  trying  to  tell.  .  .  .  Here  you  all 
are,  each  moored  with  two  good  addresses,  like  a  hulk  with  two  anchors,  a 
butcher  round  one  corner,  a  policeman  round  another,  excellent  appetites, 
and  temperature  normal— you  hear— normal  from  year's  end  to  year's  end. 
And  you  say,  Absurd!  Absurd  be— exploded!  Absurd!  My  dear  boys,  what  can 
you  expect  from  a  man  who  out  of  sheer  nervousness  had  just  flung  over- 
board a  pair  of  new  shoes!  Now  I  think  of  it,  it  is  amazing  I  did  not  shed 
tears.  I  am,  upon  the  whole,  proud  of  my  fortitude.  I  was  cut  to  the  quick 
at  the  idea  of  having  lost  the  inestimable  privilege  of  listening  to  the  gifted 
Kurtz.  Of  course  I  was  wrong.  The  privilege  was  waiting  for  me.  Oh,  yes, 
I  heard  more  than  enough.  And  I  was  right,  too.  A  voice.  He  was  very  little 
more  than  a  voice.  And  I  heard— him— it— this  voice— other  voices— all  of  them 
were  so  little  more  than  voices— and  the  memory  of  that  time  itself  lingers 
around  me,  impalpable,  like  a  dying  vibration  of  one  immense  jabber,  silly, 
atrocious,  sordid,  savage,  or  simply  mean,  without  any  kind  of  sense.  Voices, 
voices— even  the  girl  herself— now— " 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"I  laid  the  ghost  of  his  gifts  at  last  with  a  lie,"  he  began,  suddenly.  "Girl! 
What?  Did  I  mention  a  girl?  Oh,  she  is  out  of  it— completely.  They— the  wom- 
en I  mean— are  out  of  it— should  be  out  of  it.  We  must  help  them  to  stay  in 
that  beautiful  world  of  their  own,  lest  ours  gets  worse.  Oh,  she  had  to  be 
out  of  it.  You  should  have  heard  the  disinterred  body  of  Mr.  Kurtz  saying, 
'My  Intended.'  You  would  have  perceived  directly  then  how  completely  she 
was  out  of  it.  And  the  lofty  frontal  bone  of  Mr.  Kurtz!  They  say  the  hair 
goes  on  growing  sometimes,  but  this— ah— specimen,  was  impressively  bald. 

HEART   OF   DARKNESS        359 


The  wilderness  had  patted  him  on  the  head,  and,  behold,  it  was  like  a  ball 
—an  ivory  ball;  it  had  caressed  him,  and— lo!— he  had  withered;  it  had  taken 
him,  loved  him,  embraced  him,  got  into  his  veins,  consumed  his  flesh,  and 
sealed  his  soul  to  its  own  by  the  inconceivable  ceremonies  of  some  devil- 
ish initiation.  He  was  its  spoiled  and  pampered  favorite.  Ivory?  I  should  think 
so.  Heaps  of  it,  stacks  of  it.  The  old  mud  shanty  was  bursting  with  it.  You 
would  think  there  was  not  a  single  tusk  left  either  above  or  below  the  ground 
in  the  whole  country.  'Mostly  fossil/  the  manager  had  remarked,  disparag- 
ingly. It  was  no  more  fossil  than  I  am;  but  they  call  it  fossil  when  it  is  dug 
up.  It  appears  these  niggers  do  bury  the  tusks  sometimes— but  evidently 
they  couldn't  bury  this  parcel  deep  enough  to  save  the  gifted  Mr.  Kurtz 
from  his  fate.  We  filled  the  steamboat  with  it,  and  had  to  pile  a  lot  on  the 
deck.  Thus  he  could  see  and  enjoy  as  long  as  he  could  see,  because  the  ap- 
preciation of  this  favor  had  remained  with  him  to  the  last.  You  should  have 
heard  him  say,  'My  ivory.'  Oh,  yes,  I  heard  him.  'My  Intended,  my  ivory, 
my  station,  my  river,  my—'  everything  belonged  to  him.  It  made  me  hold  my 
breath  in  expectation  of  hearing  the  wilderness  burst  into  a  prodigious  peal 
of  laughter  that  would  shake  the  fixed  stars  in  their  places.  Everything  be- 
longed to  him— but  that  was  a  trifle.  The  thing  was  to  know  what  he  belonged 
to,  how  many  powers  of  darkness  claimed  him  for  their  own.  That  was  the 
reflection  that  made  you  creepy  all  over.  It  was  impossible— it  was  not  good 
for  one  either— trying  to  imagine.  He  had  taken  a  high  seat  amongst  the 
devils  of  the  land— I  mean  literally.  You  can't  understand.  How  could  you? 
—with  solid  pavement  under  your  feet,  surrounded  by  kind  neighbors  ready 
to  cheer  you  or  to  fall  on  you,  stepping  delicately  between  the  butcher 
and  the  policeman,  in  the  holy  terror  of  scandal  and  gallows  and  lunatic 
asylums— how  can  you  imagine  what  particular  region  of  the  first  ages  a 
man's  untrammeled  feet  may  take  him  into  by  the  way  of  solitude— utter 
solitude  without  a  policeman— by  the  way  of  silence— utter  silence,  where 
no  warning  voice  of  a  kind  neighbor  can  be  heard  whispering  of  public 
opinion?  These  little  things  make  all  the  great  difference.  When  they  are 
gone  you  must  fall  back  upon  your  own  innate  strength,  upon  your  own 
capacity  for  faithfulness.  Of  course  you  may  be  too  much  of  a  fool  to  go 
wrong— too  dull  even  to  know  you  are  being  assaulted  by  the  powers  of 
darkness.  I  take  it,  no  fool  ever  made  a  bargain  for  his  soul  with  the  devil: 
the  fool  is  too  much  of  a  fool,  or  the  devil  too  much  of  a  devil— I  don't  know 
which.  Or  you  may  be  such  a  thunderingly  exalted  creature  as  to  be  alto- 
gether deaf  and  blind  to  anything  but  heavenly  sights  and  sounds.  Then 
the  earth  for  you  is  only  a  standing  place— and  whether  to  be  like  this  is 
your  loss  or  your  gain  I  won't  pretend  to  say.  But  most  of  us  are  neither 
one  nor  the  other.  The  earth  for  us  is  a  place  to  live  in,  where  we  must  put 


360 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


up  with  sights,  with  sounds,  with  smells,  too,  by  Jove!— breathe  dead  hippo, 
so  to  speak,  and  not  be  contaminated.  And  there,  don't  you  see?  your 
strength  comes  in,  the  faith  in  your  ability  for  the  digging  of  unostentatious 
holes  to  bury  the  stuff  in— your  power  of  devotion,  not  to  yourself,  but  to 
an  obscure,  back-breaking  business.  And  that's  difficult  enough.  Mind,  I  am 
not  trying  to  excuse  or  even  explain— I  am  trying  to  account  to  myself 
for— for— Mr.  Kurtz— for  the  shade  of  Mr.  Kurtz.  This  initiated  wraith 
from  the  back  of  Nowhere  honored  me  with  its  amazing  confidence  before 
it  vanished  altogether.  This  was  because  it  could  speak  English  to  me. 
The  original  Kurtz  had  been  educated  partly  in  England,  and— as  he  was 
good  enough  to  say  himself—his  sympathies  were  in  the  right  place.  His 
mother  was  half-English,  his  father  was  half-French.  All  Europe  contrib- 
uted to  the  making  of  Kurtz;  and  by  and  by  I  learned  that,  most  appro- 
priately, the  International  Society  for  the  Suppression  of  Savage  Customs 
had  intrusted  him  with  the  making  of  a  report,  for  its  future  guidance. 
And  he  had  written  it,  too.  I've  seen  it.  I've  read  it.  It  was  eloquent,  vibrat- 
ing with  eloquence,  but  too  high-strung,  I  think.  Seventeen  pages  of  close 
writing  he  had  found  time  for!  But  this  must  have  been  before  his— let 
us  say— nerves,  went  wrong,  and  caused  him  to  preside  at  certain  mid- 
night dances  ending  with  unspeakable  rites,  which— as  far  as  I  reluctantly 
gathered  from  what  I  heard  at  various  times— were  offered  up  to  him— do 
you  understand?— to  Mr.  Kurtz  himself.  But  it  was  a  beautiful  piece  of 
writing.  The  opening  paragraph,  however,  in  the  light  of  later  information, 
strikes  me  now  as  ominous.  He  began  with  the  argument  that  we  whites, 
from  the  point  of  development  we  had  arrived  at,  'must  necessarily  appear 
to  them  [savages]  in  the  nature  of  supernatural  beings— we  approach  them 
with  the  might  as  of  a  deity,'  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  'By  the  simple  exercise 
of  our  will  we  can  exert  a  power  for  good  practically  unbounded/  etc.  etc. 
From  that  point  he  soared  and  took  me  with  him.  The  peroration  was 
magnificent,  though  difficult  to  remember,  you  know.  It  gave  me  the  notion 
of  an  exotic  Immensity  ruled  by  an  august  Benevolence.  It  made  me  tingle 
with  enthusiasm.  This  was  the  unbounded  power  of  eloquence— of  words— 
of  burning  noble  words.  There  were  no  practical  hints  to  interrupt  the  magic 
current  of  phrases,  unless  a  kind  of  note  at  the  foot  of  the  last  page,  scrawled 
evidently  much  later,  in  an  unsteady  hand,  may  be  regarded  as  the  exposition 
of  a  method.  It  was  very  simple,  and  at  the  end  of  that  moving  appeal  to 
every  altruistic  sentiment  it  blazed  at  you,  luminous  and  terrifying,  like 
a  flash  of  lightning  in  a  serene  sky:  'Exterminate  all  the  brutes!'  The  curious 
part  was  that  he  had  apparently  forgotten  all  about  the  valuable  post- 
scriptum,  because,  later  on,  when  he  in  a  sense  came  to  himself,  he  re- 
peatedly entreated  me  to  take  good  care  of  'my  pamphlet'  (he  called  it), 

HEART   OF    DARKNESS        361 


as  it  was  sure  to  have  in  the  future  a  good  influence  upon  his  career,  I  had 
full  information  about  all  these  things,  and,  besides,  as  it  turned  out,  I  was 
to  have  the  care  of  his  memory.  I've  done  enough  for  it  to  give  me  the 
indisputable  right  to  lay  it,  if  I  choose,  for  an  everlasting  rest  in  the  dustbin 
of  progress,  amongst  all  the  sweepings  and,  figuratively  speaking,  all  the 
dead  cats  of  civilization.  But  then,  you  see,  I  can't  choose.  He  won't  be 
forgotten.  Whatever  he  was,  he  was  not  common.  He  had  the  power  to 
charm  or  frighten  rudimentary  souls  into  an  aggravated  witch-dance  in 
his  honor;  he  could  also  fill  the  small  souls  of  the  pilgrims  with  bitter  mis- 
givings: he  had  one  devoted  friend  at  least,  and  he  had  conquered  one  soul 
in  the  world  that  was  neither  rudimentary  nor  tainted  with  self-seeking.  No; 
I  can't  forget  him,  though  I  am  not  prepared  to  affirm  the  fellow  was  exactly 
worth  the  life  we  lost  in  getting  to  him.  I  missed  my  late  helmsman  awfully, 
—I  missed  him  even  while  his  body  was  still  lying  in  the  pilot-house.  Per- 
haps you  will  think  it  passing  strange  this  regret  for  a  savage  who  was  no 
more  account  than  a  grain  of  sand  in  a  black  Sahara.  Well,  don't  you  see, 
he  had  done  something,  he  had  steered;  for  months  I  had  him  at  my  back— 
a  help— an  instrument.  It  was  a  kind  of  partnership.  He  steered  for  me— I 
had  to  look  after  him,  I  worried  about  his  deficiencies,  and  thus  a  subtle 
bond  had  been  created,  of  which  I  only  became  aware  when  it  was  sud- 
denly broken.  And  the  intimate  profundity  of  that  look  he  gave  me  when  he 
received  his  hurt  remains  to  this  day  in  my  memory— like  a  claim  of  dis- 
tant kinship  affirmed  in  a  supreme  moment. 

"Poor  fooll  If  he  had  only  left  that  shutter  alone.  He  had  no  restraint,  no 
restraint— just  like  Kurtz— a  tree  swayed  by  the  wind.  As  soon  as  I  had  put  on 
a  dry  pair  of  slippers,  I  dragged  him  out,  after  first  jerking  the  spear  out 
of  his  side,  which  operation  I  confess  I  performed  with  my  eyes  shut  tight. 
His  heels  leaped  together  over  the  little  door-step;  his  shoulders  were 
pressed  to  my  breast;  I  hugged  him  from  behind  desperately.  Ohl  he  was 
heavy,  heavy;  heavier  than  any  man  on  earth,  I  should  imagine.  Then 
without  more  ado  I  tipped  him  overboard.  The  current  snatched  him  as 
though  he  had  been  a  wisp  of  grass,  and  I  saw  the  body  roll  over  twice 
before  I  lost  sight  of  it  forever.  All  the  pilgrims  and  the  manager  were 
then  congregated  on  the  awning-deck  about  the  pilot-house,  chattering  at 
each  other  like  a  flock  of  excited  magpies,  and  there  was  a  scandalized 
murmur  at  my  heartless  promptitude.  What  they  wanted  to  keep  that  body 
hanging  about  for  I  can't  guess.  Embalm  it,  maybe.  But  I  had  also  heard 
another,  and  a  very  ominous,  murmur  on  the  deck  below.  My  friends  the 
wood-cutters  were  likewise  scandalized,  and  with  a  better  show  of  reason- 
though  I  admit  that  the  reason  itself  was  quite  inadmissible.  Oh,  quite  I  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  that  if  my  late  helmsman  was  to  be  eaten,  the  fishes 
alone  should  have  him.  He  had  been  a  very  second-rate  helmsman  while 

362        THE  SHORT  STORY 


alive,  but  now  he  was  dead  he  might  have  become  a  first-class  temptation, 
and  possibly  cause  some  startling  trouble.  Besides,  I  was  anxious  to  take 
the  wheel,  the  man  in  pink  pajamas  showing  himself  a  hopeless  duffer  at 
the  business. 

"This  I  did  directly  the  simple  funeral  was  over.  We  were  going  half- 
speed,  keeping  right  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and  I  listened  to  the  talk 
about  me.  They  had  given  up  Kurtz,  they  had  given  up  the  station;  Kurtz 
was  dead,  and  the  station  had  been  burnt— and  so  on— and  so  on.  The  red- 
haired  pilgrim  was  beside  himself  with  the  thought  that  at  least  this  poor 
Kurtz  had  been  properly  avenged.  'Say!  We  must  have  made  a  glorious 
slaughter  of  them  in  the  bush.  Eh?  What  do  you  think?  Say?'  He  positively 
danced,  the  bloodthirsty  little  gingery  beggar.  And  he  had  nearly  fainted 
when  he  saw  the  wounded  man!  I  could  not  help  saying,  'You  made  a  glori- 
ous  lot  of  smoke,  anyhow/  I  had  seen,  from  the  way  the  tops  of  the  bushes 
rustled  and  flew,  that  almost  all  the  shots  had  gone  too  high.  You  can't  hit 
anything  unless  you  take  aim  and  fire  from  the  shoulder;  but  these  chaps 
fired  from  the  hip  with  their  eyes  shut.  The  retreat,  I  maintained— and  I  was 
right— was  caused  by  the  screeching  of  the  steam- whistle.  Upon  this  they 
forgot  Kurtz,  and  began  to  howl  at  me  with  indignant  protests. 

"The  manager  stood  by  the  wheel  murmuring  confidentially  about  the 
necessity  of  getting  well  away  down  the  river  before  dark  at  all  events, 
when  I  saw  in  the  distance  a  clearing  on  the  river-side  and  the  outlines  of 
some  sort  of  building.  'What's  this?'  I  asked.  He  clapped  his  hands  in  wonder. 
'The  station!'  he  cried.  I  edged  in  at  once,  still  going  half-speed. 

"Through  my  glasses  I  saw  the  slope  of  a  hill  interspersed  with  rare  trees 
and  perfectly  free  from  undergrowth.  A  long  decaying  building  on  the 
summit  was  half  buried  in  the  high  grass;  the  large  holes  in  the  peaked 
roof  gaped  black  from  afar;  the  jungle  and  the  woods  made  a  background. 
There  was  no  enclosure  or  fence  of  any  kind;  but  there  had  been  one 
apparently,  for  near  the  house  half-a-dozen  slim  posts  remained  in  a 
row,  roughly  trimmed,  and  with  their  upper  ends  ornamented  with  round 
carved  balls.  The  rails,  or  whatever  there  had  been  between,  had  disap- 
peared. Of  course  the  forest  surrounded  all  that.  The  river-bank  was  clear, 
and  on  the  water-side  I  saw  a  white  man  under  a  hat  like  a  cartwheel  beckon- 
ing persistently  with  his  whole  arm.  Examining  the  edge  of  the  forest  above 
and  below,  I  was  almost  certain  I  could  see  movements— human  forms  gliding 
here  and  there.  I  steamed  past  prudently,  then  stopped  the  engines  and  let 
her  drift  down.  The  man  on  the  shore  began  to  shout,  urging  us  to  land. 
'We  have  been  attacked,'  screamed  the  manager.  1  know— I  know.  It's 
all  right,'  yelled  back  the  other,  as  cheerful  as  you  please.  'Come  along. 
It's  all  right.  I  am  glad/ 

"His  aspect  reminded  me  of  something  I  had  seen— something  funny  I 

HEART   OF    DARKNESS        363 


had  seen  somewhere.  As  i  maneuvered  to  get  alongside,  I  was  asking  myself, 
'What  does  this  fellow  look  like?*  Suddenly  I  got  it.  He  looked  like  a  harle- 
quin. His  clothes  had  been  made  of  some  stuff  that  was  brown  holland 
probably,  but  it  was  covered  with  patches  all  over,  with  bright  patches, 
blue,  red  and  yellow,— patches  on  the  back,  patches  on  the  front,  patches 
on  elbows,  on  knees;  colored  binding  around  his  jacket,  scarlet  edging  at 
the  bottom  of  his  trousers;  and  the  sunshine  made  him  look  extremely  gay 
and  wonderfully  neat  withal,  because  you  could  see  how  beautifully  all  this 
patching  had  been  done.  A  beardless,  boyish  face,  very  fair,  no  features 
to  speak  of,  nose  peeling,  little  blue  eyes,  smiles  and  frowns  chasing  each 
other  over  that  open  countenance  like  sunshine  and  shadow  on  a  wind- 
swept plain.  'Look  out,  captain!'  he  cried;  'there's  a  snag  lodged  in  her  last 
night.*  What!  Another  snag?'  I  confess  I  swore  shamefully.  I  had  nearly 
holed  my  cripple,  to  finish  off  that  charming  trip.  The  harlequin  on  the  bank 
turned  his  little  pug-nose  up  to  me.  'You  English?'  he  asked,  all  smiles. 
'Are  you?'  I  shouted  from  the  wheel.  The  smiles  vanished,  and  he  shook  his 
head  as  if  sorry  for  my  disappointment.  Then  he  brightened  up.  'Never 
mindl*  he  cried,  encouragingly.  'Are  we  in  time?'  I  asked.  'He  is  up  there/ 
he  replied,  with  a  toss  of  the  head  up  the  hill,  and  becoming  gloomy  all  of  a 
sudden.  His  face  was  like  the  autumn  sky,  overcast  one  moment  and  bright 
the  next. 

"When  the  manager,  escorted  by  the  pilgrims,  all  of  them  armed  to  the 
teeth,  had  gone  to  the  house  this  chap  came  on  board.  1  say,  I  don't  like 
this.  These  natives  are  in  the  bush,'  I  said.  He  assured  me  earnestly  it  was 
all  right.  'They  are  simple  people/  he  added;  'well,  I  am  glad  you  came.  It 
took  me  all  my  time  to  keep  them  off/  'But  you  said  it  was  all  right/  I  cried. 
'Oh,  they  meant  no  harm/  he  said;  and  as  I  stared  he  corrected  himself,  'Not 
exactly.'  Then  vivaciously,  'My  faith,  your  pilot-house  wants  a  clean-up!'  In 
the  next  breath  he  advised  me  to  keep  enough  steam  on  the  boiler  to  blow 
the  whistle  in  case  of  any  trouble.  'One  good  screech  will  do  more  for  you 
than  all  your  rifles.  They  are  simple  people/  he  repeated.  He  rattled  away  at 
such  a  rate  he  quite  overwhelmed  me.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  make  up 
for  lots  of  silence,  and  actually  hinted,  laughing,  that  such  was  the  case. 
'Don't  you  talk  with  Mr.  Kurtz?*  I  said.  'You  don't  talk  with  that  man— you 
listen  to  him/  he  exclaimed  with  severe  exaltation.  'But  now—'  He  waved 
his  arm,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  was  in  the  uttermost  depths  of 
despondency.  In  a  moment  he  came  up  again  with  a  jump,  possessed  him- 
self of  both  my  hands,  shook  them  continuously,  while  he  gabbled:  'Brother 
sailor  .  .  .  honor  .  .  .  pleasure  .  .  .  delight  .  ,  .  introduce  myself  .  .  .  Russian 
.  .  .  son  of  an  arch-priest  .  .  .  Government  of  Tambov.  .  .  .  What?  Tobacco! 
English  tobacco;  the  excellent  English  tobaccol  Now,  that's  brotherly. 
Smoke?  Where's  a  sailor  that  does  not  smoke?* 

364        THE   SHORT   STORY 


"The  pipe  soothed  him,  and  gradually  I  made  out  he  had  run  away  from 
school,  had  gone  to  sea  in  a  Russian  ship;  ran  away  again;  served  some  time 
in  English  ships;  was  now  reconciled  with  the  arch-priest.  He  made  a  point 
of  that.  'But  when  one  is  young  one  must  see  things,  gather  experience, 
ideas;  enlarge  the  mind/  'Here!'  I  interrupted.  'You  can  never  tell!  Here  I 
met  Mr.  Kurtz/  he  said,  youthfully  solemn  and  reproachful.  I  held  my 
tongue  after  that.  It  appears  he  had  persuaded  a  Dutch  trading  house  on 
the  coast  to  fit  him  out  with  stores  and  goods,  and  had  started  for  the  interior 
with  a  light  heart,  and  no  more  idea  of  what  would  happen  to  him  than  a 
baby.  He  had  been  wandering  about  that  river  for  nearly  two  years  alone, 
cut  off  from  everybody  and  everything.  1  am  not  so  young  as  I  look.  I  am 
twenty-five/  he  said.  'At  first  old  Van  Shuyten  would  tell  me  to  go  to  the 
devil/  he  narrated  with  keen  enjoyment;  'but  I  stuck  to  him,  and  talked 
and  talked,  till  at  last  he  got  afraid  I  would  talk  the  hind-leg  off  his  favor- 
ite dog,  so  he  gave  me  some  cheap  things  and  a  few  guns,  and  told  me  he 
hoped  he  would  never  see  my  face  again.  Good  old  Dutchman,  Van  Shuyten. 
I've  sent  him  one  small  lot  of  ivory  a  year  ago,  so  that  he  can't  call  me  a 
little  thief  when  1  get  back.  I  hope  he  got  it.  And  for  the  rest  I  don't  care. 
I  had  some  wood  stacked  for  you.  That  was  my  old  house.  Did  you  see?' 

"I  gave  him  Towson's  book.  He  made  as  though  he  would  kiss  me,  but 
restrained  himself.  'The  only  book  I  had  left,  and  I  thought  I  had  lost  it/ 
he  said,  looking  at  it  ecstatically.  'So  many  accidents  happen  to  a  man  going 
about  alone,  you  know.  Canoes  get  upset  sometimes— and  sometimes  you've 
got  to  clear  out  so  quick  when  the  people  get  angry/  He  thumbed  the 
pages.  'You  made  notes  in  Russian?'  I  asked.  He  nodded.  'I  thought  they 
were  written  in  cipher/  I  said.  He  laughed,  then  became  serious.  'I  had  lots 
of  trouble  to  keep  these  people  off/  he  said.  'Did  they  want  to  kill  you?'  I 
asked.  'Oh,  no!'  he  cried,  and  checked  himself.  'Why  did  they  attack  us?' 
I  pursued.  He  hesitated,  then  said  shamefacedly,  'They  don't  want  him  to 
go/  'Don't  they?'  I  said  curiously.  He  nodded  a  nod  full  of  mystery  and  wis- 
dom. 1  tell  you/  he  cried,  'this  man  has  enlarged  my  mind/  He  opened  his 
arms  wide,  staring  at  me  with  his  little  blue  eyes  that  were  perfectly  round/' 

in 

I  LOOKED  at  him,  lost  in  astonishment.  There  he  was  before  me,  in  motley, 
as  though  he  had  absconded  from  a  troupe  of  mimes,  enthusiastic, 
fabulous.  His  very  existence  was  improbable,  inexplicable,  and  altogether  be- 
wildering. He  was  an  insoluble  problem.  It  was  inconceivable  how  he  had 
existed,  how  he  had  succeeded  in  getting  so  far,  how  he  had  managed  to 
remain— why  he  did  not  instantly  disappear.  'I  went  a  little  farther/  he  said, 
'then  still  a  little  farther—till  I  had  gone  so  far  that  I  don't  know  how  I'll 
ever  get  back.  Never  mind.  Plenty  time.  I  can  manage.  You  take  Kurtz  away 
quick— quick— I  tell  you/  The  glamour  of  youth  enveloped  his  parti-colored 


riEAHT   OF    DARKNESS 


365 


rags,  his  destitution,  his  loneliness,  the  essential  desolation  of  his  futile 
wanderings.  For  months— for  years— his  life  hadn't  been  worth  a  day's  pur- 
chase; and  there  he  was  gallantly,  thoughtlessly  alive,  to  all  appearance 
indestructible  solely  by  the  virtue  of  his  few  years  and  of  his  unreflecting 
audacity.  I  was  seduced  into  something  like  admiration— like  envy.  Glamour 
urged  him  on,  glamour  kept  him  unscathed.  He  surely  wanted  nothing 
from  the  wilderness  but  space  to  breathe  in  and  to  push  on  through.  His 
need  was  to  exist,  and  to  move  onwards  at  the  greatest  possible  risk,  and 
with  a  maximum  of  privation.  If  the  absolutely  pure,  uncalculating,  un- 
practical spirit  of  adventure  had  ever  ruled  a  human  being,  it  ruled  this 
be-patched  youth.  I  almost  envied  him  the  possession  of  this  modest  and 
clear  flame.  It  seemed  to  have  consumed  all  thought  of  self  so  completely, 
that  even  while  he  was  talking  to  you,  you  forgot  that  it  was  he— the  man 
before  your  eyes— who  had  gone  through  these  things.  I  did  not  envy  him 
his  devotion  to  Kurtz,  though.  He  had  not  meditated  over  it.  It  came  to  him 
and  he  accepted  it  with  a  sort  of  eager  fatalism.  I  must  say  that  to  me  it 
appeared  about  the  most  dangerous  thing  in  every  way  he  had  come  upon 
so  far. 

"They  had  come  together  unavoidably,  like  two  ships  becalmed  near 
each  other,  and  lay  rubbing  sides  at  last.  I  suppose  Kurtz  wanted  an 
audience,  because  on  a  certain  occasion,  when  encamped  in  the  forest,  they 
had  talked  all  night,  or  more  probably  Kurtz  had  talked.  'We  talked  of  every- 
thing,' he  said,  quite  transported  at  the  recollection.  1  forgot  there  was  such 
a  thing  as  sleep.  The  night  did  not  seem  to  last  an  hour.  Everything!  Every- 
thing! ...  Of  love,  too.'  'Ah,  he  talked  to  you  of  love!'  I  said,  much  amused. 
It  isn't  what  you  think,'  he  cried,  almost  passionately.  It  was  in  general. 
He  made  me  see  things— things.' 

"He  threw  his  arms  up.  We  were  on  deck  at  the  time,  and  the  headman 
of  my  wood-cutters,  lounging  near  by,  turned  upon  him  his  heavy  and  glit- 
tering eyes.  I  looked  around,  and  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  assure  you  that 
never,  never  before,  did  this  land,  this  river,  this  jungle,  the  very  arch  of 
this  blazing  sky,  appear  to  me  so  hopeless  and  so  dark,  so  impenetrable  to 
human  thought,  so  pitiless  to  human  weakness.  'And,  ever  since,  you  have 
been  with  him,  of  course?'  I  said. 

"On  the  contrary.  It  appears  their  intercourse  had  been  very  much  broken 
by  various  causes.  He  had,  as  he  informed  me  proudly,  managed  to  nurse 
Kurtz  through  two  illnesses  (he  alluded  to  it  as  you  would  to  some  risky 
feat),  but  as  a  rule  Kurtz  wandered  alone  far  in  the  depths  of  the  forest. 
'Very  often  coming  to  this  station,  I  had  to  wait  days  and  days  before  he 
would  turn  up,'  he  said.  'Ah,  it  was  worth  waiting  for!— sometimes/  'What 
was  he  doing?  exploring  or  what?'  I  asked.  'Oh,  yes,  of  course';  he  had 


366 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


discovered  lots  of  villages,  a  lake,  too— he  did  not  know  exactly  in  what 
direction;  it  was  dangerous  to  inquire  too  much—but  mostly  his  expedi- 
tions had  been  for  ivory.  'But  he  had  no  goods  to  trade  with  by  that  time/ 
I  objected.  'There's  a  good  lot  of  cartridges  left  even  yet/  he  answered, 
looking  away.  'To  speak  plainly,  he  raided  the  country/  I  said.  He  nodded. 
'Not  alone,  surely!'  He  muttered  something  about  the  villages  round  that 
lake.  'Kurtz  got  the  tribe  to  follow  him,  did  he?'  I  suggested.  He  fidgeted  a 
little.  'They  adored  him/  he  said.  The  tone  of  these  words  was  so  extraor- 
dinary that  I  looked  at  him  searchingly.  It  was  curious  to  see  his  mingled 
eagerness  and  reluctance  to  speak  of  Kurtz.  The  man  filled  his  life,  occupied 
his  thoughts,  swayed  his  emotions.  'What  can  you  expect?'  he  burst  out; 
'he  came  to  them  with  thunder  and  lightning,  you  know— and  they  had  never 
seen  anything  like  it— and  very  terrible.  He  could  be  very  terrible.  You 
can't  judge  Mr.  Kurtz  as  you  would  an  ordinary  man.  No,  no,  nol  Now— just 
to  give  you  an  idea— I  don't  mind  telling  you  he  wanted  to  shoot  me,  too, 
one  day— but  I  don't  judge  him.'  'Shoot  you!'  I  cried.  'What  for?'  'Well,  I  had 
a  small  lot  of  ivory  the  chief  of  that  village  near  my  house  gave  me.  You  see 
I  used  to  shoot  game  for  them.  Well,  he  wanted  it,  and  wouldn't  hear 
reason.  He  declared  he  would  shoot  me  unless  I  gave  him  the  ivory  and  then 
cleared  out  of  the  country,  because  he  could  do  so,  and  had  a  fancy  for  it, 
and  there  was  nothing  on  earth  to  prevent  him  killing  whom  he  jolly  well 
pleased.  And  it  was  true,  too.  I  gave  him  the  ivory.  What  did  I  care!  But 
I  didn't  clear  out.  No,  no,  I  couldn't  leave  him.  I  had  to  be  careful,  of  course, 
till  we  got  friendly  again  for  a  time.  He  had  his  second  illness  then.  After- 
wards I  had  to  keep  out  of  the  way;  but  I  didn't  mind.  He  was  living  for  the 
most  part  in  those  villages  on  the  lake.  When  he  came  down  to  the  river, 
sometimes  he  would  take  to  me,  and  sometimes  it  was  better  for  me  to  be 
careful.  This  man  suffered  too  much.  He  hated  all  this,  and  somehow  he 
couldn't  get  away.  When  I  had  a  chance  I  begged  him  to  try  and  leave 
while  there  was  time;  I  offered  to  go  back  with  him.  And  he  would  say 
yes,  and  then  he  would  remain;  go  off  on  another  ivory  hunt;  disappear 
for  weeks;  forget  himself  amongst  these  people— forget  himself— you  know/ 
'Why!  he's  mad/  I  said.  He  protested  indignantly.  Mr.  Kurtz  couldn't  be 
mad.  If  I  had  heard  him  talk,  only  two  days  ago,  I  wouldn't  dare  hint  at 
such  a  thing.  ...  I  had  taken  up  my  binoculars  while  we  talked,  and  was 
looking  at  the  shore,  sweeping  the  limit  of  the  forest  at  each  side  and  at 
the  back  of  the  house.  The  consciousness  of  there  being  people  in  that 
bush,  so  silent,  so  quiet— as  silent  and  quiet  as  the  ruined  house  on  the 
hill— made  me  uneasy.  There  was  no  sign  on  the  face  of  nature  of  this 
amazing  tale  that  was  not  so  much  told  as  suggested  to  me  in  desolate  ex- 
clamations, completed  by  shrugs,  in  interrupted  phrases,  in  hints  ending  in 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        367 


deep  sighs.  The  woods  were  unmoved,  like  a  mask— heavy,  like  the  closed 
door  of  a  prison— they  looked  with  their  air  of  hidden  knowledge,  of  patient 
expectation,  of  unapproachable  silence.  The  Russian  was  explaining  to  me 
that  it  was  only  lately  that  Mr.  Kurtz  had  come  down  to  the  river,  bringing 
along  with  him  all  the  fighting  men  of  that  lake  tribe.  He  had  been  absent  for 
several  months— getting  himself  adored,  I  suppose— and  had  come  down  un- 
expectedly, with  the  intention  to  all  appearance  of  making  a  raid  either  across 
the  river  or  down  stream.  Evidently  the  appetite  for  more  ivory  had  got  the 
better  of  the— what  shall  I  say?— less  material  aspirations.  However  he  had  got 
much  worse  suddenly.  1  heard  he  was  lying  helpless,  and  so  I  came  up— took 
my  chance/  said  the  Russian.  'Oh,  he  is  bad,  very  bad/  I  directed  my  glass 
to  the  house.  There  were  no  signs  of  life,  but  there  was  the  ruined  roof,  the 
long  mud  wall  peeping  above  the  grass,  with  three  little  square  window- 
holes,  no  two  of  the  same  size;  all  this  brought  within  reach  of  my  hand,  as  it 
were.  And  then  I  made  a  brusque  movement,  and  one  of  the  remaining  posts 
of  that  vanished  fence  leaped  up  in  the  field  of  my  glass.  You  remember 
I  told  you  I  had  been  struck  at  the  distance  by  certain  attempts  at  ornamen- 
tation, rather  remarkable  in  the  ruinous  aspect  of  the  place.  Now  I  had  sud- 
denly a  nearer  view,  and  its  first  result  was  to  make  me  throw  my  head 
back  as  if  before  a  blow.  Then  I  went  carefully  from  post  to  post  with  my 
glass,  and  I  saw  my  mistake.  These  round  knobs  were  not  ornamental  but 
symbolic;  they  were  expressive  and  puzzling,  striking  and  disturbing— food 
for  thought  and  also  for  vultures  if  there  had  been  any  looking  down  from 
the  sky;  but  at  all  events  for  such  ants  as  were  industrious  enough  to  ascend 
the  pole.  They  would  have  been  even  more  impressive,  those  heads  on  the 
stakes,  if  their  faces  had  not  been  turned  to  the  house.  Only  one,  the  first  I 
had  made  out,  was  facing  my  way.  I  was  not  so  shocked  as  you  may  think. 
The  start  back  I  had  given  was  really  nothing  but  a  movement  of  surprise. 
I  had  expected  to  see  a  knob  of  wood  there,  you  know.  I  returned  deliber- 
ately to  the  first  I  had  seen-and  there  it  was,  black,  dried,  sunken,  with 
closed  eyelids,— a  head  that  seemed  to  sleep  at  the  top  of  that  pole,  and  with 
the  shrunken  dry  lips  showing  a  narrow  white  line  of  the  teeth,  was  smiling, 
too,  smiling  continuously  at  some  endless  and  jocose  dream  of  that  eternal 
slumber. 

"I  am  not  disclosing  any  trade  secrets.  In  fact,  the  manager  said  afterwards 
that  Mr.  Kurtz's  methods  had  ruined  the  district.  I  have  no  opinion  on  that 
point,  but  I  want  you  clearly  10  understand  that  there  was  nothing  exactly 
profitable  in  these  heads  being  there.  They  only  showed  that  Mr.  Kurtz 
lacked  restraint  in  the  gratification  of  his  various  lusts,  that  there  was  some- 
thing wanting  in  him— some  small  matter  which,  when  the  pressing  need 
arose,  could  not  be  found  under  his  magnificent  eloquence.  Whether  he 


368 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


knew  of  this  deficiency  himself  I  can't  say.  I  think  the  knowledge  came  to 
him  at  last— only  at  the  very  last.  But  the  wilderness  had  found  him  out 
early,  and  had  taken  on  him  a  terrible  vengeance  for  the  fantastic  invasion. 
I  think  it  had  whispered  to  him  things  about  himself  which  he  did  not 
know,  things  of  which  he  had  no  conception  till  he  took  counsel  with  this 
great  solitude— and  the  whisper  had  proved  irresistibly  fascinating.  It  echoed 
loudly  within  him  because  he  was  hollow  at  the  core.  ...  I  put  down  the 
glass,  and  the  head  that  had  appeared  near  enough  to  be  spoken  to  seemed 
at  once  to  have  leaped  away  from  me  into  inaccessible  distance. 

"The  admirer  of  Mr.  Kurtz  was  a  bit  crestfallen.  In  a  hurried  indistinct 
voice  he  began  to  assure  me  he  had  not  dared  to  take  these— say,  symbols- 
down.  He  was  not  afraid  of  the  natives;  they  would  not  stir  till  Mr.  Kurtz 
gave  the  word.  His  ascendancy  was  extraordinary.  The  camps  of  these 
people  surrounded  the  place,  and  the  chiefs  came  every  day  to  see  him.  They 
would  crawl.  ...  'I  don't  want  to  know  anything  of  the  ceremonies  used 
when  approaching  Mr.  Kurtz/  I  shouted.  Curious,  this  feeling  that  came 
over  me  that  such  details  would  be  more  intolerable  than  those  heads  drying 
on  the  stakes  under  Mr.  Kurtz's  windows.  After  all,  that  was  only  a  savage 
sight,  while  I  seemed  at  one  bound  to  have  been  transported  into  some 
lightless  region  of  subtle  horrors,  where  pure,  uncomplicated  savagery  was 
a  positive  relief,  being  something  that  had  a  right  to  exist— obviously— in 
the  sunshine.  The  young  man  looked  at  me  with  surprise.  I  suppose  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  Mr.  Kurtz  was  no  idol  of  mine.  He  forgot  I  hadn't 
heard  of  any  of  these  splendid  monologues  on,  what  was  it?  on  love,  jus- 
tice, conduct  of  life— or  what  not.  If  it  had  come  to  crawling  before  Mr. 
Kurtz,  he  crawled  as  much  as  the  veriest  savage  of  them  all.  I  had  no  idea 
of  the  conditions,  he  said:  these  heads  were  the  heads  of  rebels.  I  shocked 
him  excessively  by  laughing.  Rebels!  What  would  be  the  next  definition  I 
was  to  hear?  There  had  been  enemies,  criminals,  workers— and  these  were 
rebels.  Those  rebellious  heads  looked  very  subdued  to  me  on  their  sticks. 
Tou  don't  know  how  such  a  life  tries  a  man  like  Kurtz/  cried  Kurtz's  last 
disciple.  'Well,  and  you?'  I  said.  1!  II  I  am  a  simple  man.  I  have  no  great 
thoughts.  I  want  nothing  from  anybody.  How  can  you  compare  me  to  .  .  .  ?' 
His  feelings  were  too  much  for  speech,  and  suddenly  he  broke  down.  1 
don't  understand/  he  groaned,  I've  been  doing  my  best  to  keep  him  alive 
and  that's  enough.  I  had  no  hand  in  all  this.  I  have  no  abilities.  There  hasn't 
been  a  drop  of  medicine  or  a  mouthful  of  invalid  food  for  months  here. 
He  was  shamefully  abandoned.  A  man  like  this,  with  such  ideas.  Shamefully! 
Shamefully!  I— I— haven't  slept  for  the  last  ten  nights.  .  .  / 

"His  voice  lost  itself  in  the  calm  of  the  evening.  The  long  shadows  of  the 
forest  had  slipped  downhill  while  we  talked,  had  gone  far  beyond  the 

HEART    OF    DARKNESS         369 


ruined  hovel,  beyond  the  symbolic  row  of  stakes.  All  this  was  in  the  gloom, 
while  we  down  there  were  yet  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  stretch  of  the  river 
abreast  of  the  clearing  glittered  in  a  still  and  dazzling  splendor,  with  a 
murky  and  overshadowed  bend  above  and  below.  Not  a  living  soul  was 
seen  on  the  shore.  The  bushes  did  not  rustle. 

"Suddenly  round  the  corner  of  the  house  a  group  of  men  appeared,  as 
though  they  had  come  up  from  the  ground.  They  waded  waist-deep  in  the 
grass,  in  a  compact  body,  bearing  an  improvised  stretcher  in  their  midst. 
Instantly,  in  the  emptiness  of  the  landscape,  a  cry  arose  whose  shrillness 
pierced  the  still  air  like  a  sharp  arrow  flying  straight  to  the  very  heart  of 
the  land;  and,  as  if  by  enchantment,  streams  of  human  beings— of  naked 
human  beings— with  spears  in  their  hands,  with  bows,  with  shields,  with 
wild  glances  and  savage  movements,  were  poured  into  the  clearing  by  the 
dark-faced  and  pensive  forest.  The  bushes  shook,  the  grass  swayed  for  a 
time,  and  then  everything  stood  still  in  attentive  immobility. 

"  'Now,  if  he  does  not  say  the  right  thing  to  them  we  are  all  done  for,' 
said  the  Russian  at  my  elbow.  The  knot  of  men  with  the  stretcher  had 
stopped,  too,  halfway  to  the  steamer,  as  if  petrified.  I  saw  the  man  on  the 
stretcher  sit  up,  lank  and  with  an  uplifted  arm,  above  the  shoulders  of  the 
bearers.  'Let  us  hope  that  the  man  who  can  talk  so  well  of  love  in  general  will 
find  some  particular  reason  to  spare  us  this  time/  I  said.  I  resented  bitterly 
the  absurd  danger  of  our  situation,  as  if  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  that  atrocious 
phantom  had  been  a  dishonoring  necessity.  I  could  not  hear  a  sound,  but 
through  my  glasses  I  saw  the  thin  arm  extended  commandingly,  the  lower 
jaw  moving,  the  eyes  of  that  apparition  shining  darkly  far  in  its  bony 
head  that  nodded  with  grotesque  jerks.  Kurtz— Kurtz— that  means  short  in 
German— don't  it?  Well,  the  name  was  as  true  as  everything  else  in  his 
life— and  death.  He  looked  at  least  seven  feet  long.  His  covering  had  fallen 
off,  and  his  body  emerged  from  it  pitiful  and  appalling  as  from  a  winding- 
sheet.  I  could  see  the  cage  of  his  ribs  all  astir,  the  bones  of  his  arm  waving. 
It  was  as  though  an  animated  image  of  death  carved  out  of  old  ivory  had 
been  shaking  its  hand  with  menaces  at  a  motionless  crowd  of  men  made  of 
dark  and  glittering  bronze.  I  saw  him  open  his  mouth  wide— it  gave  him  a 
weirdly  voracious  aspect,  as  though  he  had  wanted  to  swallow  all  the  air, 
all  the  earth,  all  the  men  before  him.  A  deep  voice  reached  me  faintly.  He 
must  have  been  shouting.  He  fell  back  suddenly.  The  stretcher  shook  as  the 
bearers  staggered  forward  again,  and  almost  at  the  same  time  I  noticed 
that  the  crowd  of  savages  was  vanishing  without  any  perceptible  movement 
of  retreat,  as  if  the  forest  that  had  ejected  these  beings  so  suddenly  had 
drawn  them  in  again  as  the  breath  is  drawn  in  a  long  aspiration. 

"Some  of  the  pilgrims  behind  the  stretcher  carried  his  arms— two  shot- 


370 


THE   SHORT    STORY 


guns,  a  heavy  rifle,  and  a  light  revolver-carbine— the  thunderbolts  of  that 
pitiful  Jupiter.  The  manager  bent  over  him  murmuring  as  he  walked  beside 
his  head.  They  laid  him  down  in  one  of  the  little  cabins— just  a  room  for  a 
bedplace  and  a  camp-stool  or  two,  you  know.  We  had  brought  his  belated 
correspondence,  and  a  lot  of  torn  envelopes  and  open  letters  littered  his  bed. 
His  hand  roamed  feebly  amongst  these  papers.  I  was  struck  by  the  fire  of 
his  eyes  and  the  composed  languor  of  his  expression.  It  was  not  so  much 
the  exhaustion  of  disease.  He  did  not  seem  in  pain.  This  shadow  looked 
satiated  and  calm,  as  though  for  the  moment  it  had  had  its  fill  of  all  the 
emotions. 

"He  rustled  one  of  the  letters,  and  looking  straight  in  my  face  said,  1  am 
glad/  Somebody  had  been  writing  to  him  about  me.  These  special  recom- 
mendations were  turning  up  again.  The  volume  of  tone  he  emitted  without 
effort,  almost  without  the  trouble  of  moving  his  lips,  amazed  me.  A  voice!  a 
voice!  It  was  grave,  profound,  vibrating,  while  the  man  did  not  seem  capable 
of  a  whisper.  However,  he  had  enough  strength  in  him— factitious  no  doubt 
—to  very  nearly  make  an  end  of  us,  as  you  shall  hear  directly. 

"The  manager  appeared  silently  in  the  doorway;  I  stepped  out  at  once 
and  he  drew  the  curtain  after  me.  The  Russian,  eyed  curiously  by  the  pil- 
grims, was  staring  at  the  shore.  I  followed  the  direction  of  his  glance. 

"Dark  human  shapes  could  be  made  out  in  the  distance,  flitting  indis- 
tinctly against  the  gloomy  border  of  the  forest,  and  near  the  river  two 
bronze  figures,  leaning  on  tall  spears,  stood  in  the  sunlight  under  fantastic 
head-dresses  of  spotted  skins,  warlike  and  still  in  statuesque  repose.  And 
from  right  to  left  along  the  lighted  shore  moved  a  wild  and  gorgeous  appari- 
tion of  a  woman. 

"She  walked  with  measured  steps,  draped  in  striped  and  fringed  cloths, 
treading  the  earth  proudly,  with  a  slight  jingle  and  flash  of  barbarous  orna- 
ments. She  carried  her  head  high;  her  hair  was  done  in  the  shape  of  a  helmet; 
she  had  brass  leggings  to  the  knee,  brass  wire  gauntlets  to  the  elbow,  a 
crimson  spot  on  her  tawny  cheek,  innumerable  necklaces  of  glass  beads  on 
her  neck;  bizarre  things,  charms,  gifts  of  witch-men,  that  hung  about  her, 
glittered  and  trembled  at  every  step.  She  must  have  had  the  value  of  sev- 
eral elephant  tusks  upon  her.  She  was  savage  and  superb,  wild-eyed  and 
magnificent;  there  was  something  ominous  and  stately  in  her  deliberate 
progress.  And  in  the  hush  that  had  fallen  suddenly  upon  the  whole  sorrow- 
ful land,  the  immense  wilderness,  the  colossal  body  of  the  fecund  and  mys- 
terious life  seemed  to  look  at  her,  pensive,  as  though  it  had  been  looking 
at  the  image  of  its  own  tenebrous  and  passionate  soul. 

"She  came  abreast  of  the  steamer,  stood  still,  and  faced  us.  Her  long 
shadow  fell  to  the  water's  edge.  Her  face  had  a  tragic  and  fierce  aspect  of 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        371 


wild  sorrow  and  of  dumb  pain  mingled  with  the  tear  of  some  struggling, 
half-shaped  resolve.  She  stood  looking  at  us  without  a  stir,  and  like  the 
wilderness  itself,  with  an  air  of  brooding  over  an  inscrutable  purpose.  A 
whole  minute  passed,  and  then  she  made  a  step  forward.  There  was  a  low 
jingle,  a  glint  of  yellow  metal,  a  sway  of  fringed  draperies,  and  she  stopped 
as  if  her  heart  had  failed  her.  The  young  fellow  by  my  side  growled.  The 
pilgrims  murmured  at  my  back.  She  looked  at  us  all  as  if  her  life  had  de- 
pended upon  the  unswerving  steadiness  of  her  glance.  Suddenly  she  opened 
her  bared  arms  and  threw  them  up  rigid  above  her  head,  as  though  in  an 
uncontrollable  desire  to  touch  the  sky,  and  at  the  same  time  the  swift  shad- 
ows darted  out  on  the  earth,  swept  around  on  the  river,  gathering  the 
steamer  into  a  shadowy  embrace.  A  formidable  silence  hung  over  the  scene. 

"She  turned  away  slowly,  walked  on,  following  the  bank,  and  passed  into 
the  bushes  to  the  left.  Once  only  her  eyes  gleamed  back  at  us  in  the  dusk 
of  the  thickets  before  she  disappeared. 

"  If  she  had  offered  to  come  aboard  I  really  think  I  would  have  tried  to 
shoot  her/  said  the  man  of  patches,  nervously.  1  have  been  risking  my  life 
every  day  for  the  last  fortnight  to  keep  her  out  of  the  house.  She  got  in  one 
day  and  kicked  up  a  row  about  those  miserable  rags  I  picked  up  in  the 
storeroom  to  mend  my  clothes  with.  I  wasn't  decent.  At  least  it  must  have 
been  that,  for  she  talked  like  a  fury  to  Kurtz  for  an  hour,  pointing  at  me 
now  and  then.  I  don't  understand  the  dialect  of  this  tribe.  Luckily  for  me, 
I  fancy  Kurtz  felt  too  ill  that  day  to  care,  or  there  would  have  been  mischief. 
I  don't  understand.  .  .  .  No— it's  too  much  for  me.  Ah,  well,  it's  all  over  now/ 

"At  this  moment  I  heard  Kurtz's  deep  voice  behind  the  curtain:  'Save  me! 
—save  the  ivory,  you  mean.  Don't  tell  me.  Save  me!  Why,  I've  had  to  save 
you.  You  are  interrupting  my  plans  now.  Sick!  Sick!  Not  so  sick  as  you 
would  like  to  believe.  Never  mind.  I'll  carry  my  ideas  out  yet— I  will  return. 
I'll  show  you  what  can  be  done.  You  with  your  little  peddling  notions—you 
are  interfering  with  me.  I  will  return.  I  .  .  / 

"The  manager  came  out.  He  did  me  the  honor  to  take  me  under  the  arm 
and  lead  me  aside.  'He  is  very  low,  very  low/  he  said.  He  considered  it 
necessary  to  sigh,  but  neglected  to  be  consistently  sorrowful.  'We  have  done 
all  we  could  for  him— haven't  we?  But  there  is  no  disguising  the  fact,  Mr. 
Kurtz  has  done  more  harm  than  good  to  the  Company.  He  did  not  see  the 
time  was  not  ripe  for  vigorous  action.  Cautiously,  cautiously— that's  my 
principle.  We  must  be  cautious  yet.  The  district  is  closed  to  us  for  a  time. 
Deplorable!  Upon  the  whole,  the  trade  will  suffer.  I  don't  deny  there  is  a 
remarkable  quantity  of  ivory— mostly  fossil.  We  must  save  it,  at  all  events— 
but  look  how  precarious  the  position  is— and  why?  Because  the  method  is 
unsound/  'Do  you/  said  I,  looking  at  the  shore,  'call  it  "unsound  method"?' 


372        THE   SHORT   STORY 


Without  doubt/  he  exclaimed  hotly.  'Don't  you?*  .  .  .  'No  method  at  all," 
I  murmured  after  a  while.  'Exactly/  he  exulted.  'I  anticipated  this.  Shows  a 
complete  want  of  judgment.  It  is  my  duty  to  point  it  out  in  the  proper 
quarter/  'Oh/  said  I,  'that  fellow— what's  his  name?— the  brickmaker,  will 
make  a  readable  report  for  you/  He  appeared  confounded  for  a  moment. 
It  seemed  to  me  I  had  never  breathed  an  atmosphere  so  vile,  and  I  turned 
mentally  to  Kurtz  for  relief— positively  for  relief.  'Nevertheless  I  think  Mr. 
Kurtz  is  a  remarkable  man/  I  said  with  emphasis.  He  started,  dropped  on 
me  a  cold  heavy  glance,  said  very  quietly,  'he  was,'  and  turned  his  back  on 
me.  My  hour  of  favor  was  over;  I  found  myself  lumped  along  with  Kurtz  as 
a  partisan  of  methods  for  which  the  time  was  not  ripe:  I  was  unsound!  Ahl 
but  it  was  something  to  have  at  least  a  choice  of  nightmares. 

"I  had  turned  to  the  wilderness  really,  not  to  Mr.  Kurtz,  who,  I  was  ready 
to  admit,  was  as  good  as  buried.  And  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
I  also  were  buried  in  a  vast  grave  full  of  unspeakable  secrets.  I  felt  an 
intolerable  weight  oppressing  my  breast,  the  smell  of  the  damp  earth,  the 
unseen  presence  of  victorious  corruption,  the  darkness  of  an  impenetrable 
night.  .  .  .  The  Russian  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  I  heard  him  mumbling 
and  stammering  something  about  'brother  seaman— couldn't  conceal— knowl- 
edge of  matters  that  would  affect  Mr.  Kurtz's  reputation/  I  waited.  For  him 
evidently  Mr.  Kurtz  was  not  in  his  grave;  I  suspect  that  for  him  Mr.  Kurtz 
was  one  of  the  immortals.  Welll'  said  I  at  last,  'speak  out.  As  it  happens, 
I  am  Mr.  Kurtz's  friend— in  a  way/ 

"He  stated  with  a  good  deal  of  formality  that  had  we  not  been  'of  the 
same  profession/  he  would  have  kept  the  matter  to  himself  without  regard 
to  consequences.  'He  suspected  there  was  an  active  ill  will  towards  him  on 
the  part  of  these  white  men  that—'  'You  are  right/  I  said,  remembering  a  cer- 
tain conversation  I  had  overheard.  'The  manager  thinks  you  ought  to  be 
hanged/  He  showed  a  concern  at  this  intelligence  which  amused  me  at 
first.  'I  had  better  get  out  of  the  way  quietly/  he  said,  earnestly.  'I  can  do  no 
more  for  Kurtz  now,  and  they  would  soon  find  some  excuse.  What's  to  stop 
them?  There's  a  military  post  three  hundred  miles  from  here/  Well,  upon 
my  word/  said  I,  'perhaps  you  had  better  go  if  you  have  any  friends  amongst 
the  savages  near  by/  'Plenty/  he  said.  'They  are  simple  people— and  I  want 
nothing,  you  know/  He  stood  biting  his  lip,  then:  'I  don't  want  any  harm  to 
happen  to  these  whites  here,  but  of  course  I  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Kurtz's 
reputation— but  you  are  a  brother  seaman  and—'  'All  right/  said  I,  after  a 
time.  'Mr.  Kurtz's  reputation  is  safe  with  me/  I  did  not  know  how  truly 
I  spoke. 

"He  informed  me,  lowering  his  voice,  that  it  was  Kurtz  who  had  ordered 
the  attack  to  be  made  on  the  steamer.  'He  hated  sometimes  the  idea  of  being 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        373 


soothing  silence.  I  glanced  casually  into  the  little  cabin.  A  light  was  burn- 
ing within,  but  Mr.  Kurtz  was  not  there. 

"I  think  I  would  have  raised  an  outcry  if  I  had  believed  my  eyes.  But 
I  didn't  believe  them  at  first— the  thing  seemed  so  impossible.  The  fact  is 
I  was  completely  unnerved  by  a  sheer  blank  fright,  pure  abstract  terror, 
unconnected  with  any  distinct  shape  of  physical  danger.  What  made  this 
emotion  so  overpowering  was— how  shall  I  define  it?— the  moral  shock  I 
received,  as  if  something  altogether  monstrous,  intolerable  to  thought  and 
odious  to  the  soul,  had  been  thrust  upon  me  unexpectedly.  This  lasted  of 
course  the  merest  fraction  of  a  second,  and  then  the  usual  sense  of  common- 
place, deadly  danger,  the  possibility  of  a  sudden  onslaught  and  massacre,  or 
something  of  the  kind,  which  I  saw  impending,  was  positively  welcome  and 
composing.  It  pacified  me,  in  fact,  so  much,  that  I  did  not  raise  an  alarm. 

"There  was  an  agent  buttoned  up  inside  an  ulster  and  sleeping  on  a  chair 
on  deck  within  three  feet  of  me.  The  yells  had  not  awakened  him;  he  snored 
very  slightly;  I  left  him  to  his  slumbers  and  leaped  ashore.  I  did  not  betray 
Mr.  Kurtz— it  was  ordered  I  should  never  betray  him— it  was  written  I  should 
be  loyal  to  the  nightmare  of  my  choice.  I  was  anxious  to  deal  with  this 
shadow  by  myself  alone,— and  to  this  day  I  don't  know  why  I  was  so  jealous 
of  sharing  with  any  one  the  peculiar  blackness  of  that  experience. 

"As  soon  as  I  got  on  the  bank  I  saw  a  trail— a  broad  trail  through  the 
grass.  I  remember  the  exultation  with  which  I  said  to  myself,  'He  can't  walk 
—he  is  crawling  on  all-fours— I've  got  him/  The  grass  was  wet  with  dew. 
I  strode  rapidly  with  clenched  fists.  I  fancy  I  had  some  vague  notion  of 
falling  upon  him  and  giving  him  a  drubbing.  I  don't  know.  I  had  some 
imbecile  thoughts.  The  knitting  old  woman  with  the  cat  obtruded  herself 
upon  my  memory  as  a  most  improper  person  to  be  sitting  at  the  other  end 
of  such  an  affair.  I  saw  a  row  of  pilgrims  squirting  lead  in  the  air  out  of 
Winchesters  held  to  the  hip.  I  thought  I  would  never  get  back  to  the 
steamer,  and  imagined  myself  living  alone  and  unarmed  in  the  woods  to 
an  advanced  age.  Such  silly  things— you  know.  And  I  remember  I  con- 
founded the  beat  of  the  drum  with  the  beating  of  my  heart,  and  was 
pleased  at  its  calm  regularity. 

"I  kept  to  the  track  though— then  stopped  to  listen.  The  night  was  very 
clear;  a  dark  blue  space,  sparkling  with  dew  and  starlight,  in  which  black 
things  stood  very  still.  I  thought  I  could  see  a  kind  of  motion  ahead  of  me. 
I  was  strangely  cocksure  of  everything  that  night.  I  actually  left  the  track 
and  ran  in  a  wide  semicircle  (I  verily  believe  chuckling  to  myself)  so  as  to 
get  in  front  of  that  stir,  of  that  motion  I  had  seen— if  indeed  I  had  seen  any- 
thing. I  was  circumventing  Kurtz  as  though  it  had  been  a  boyish  game. 

"I  came  upon  him,  and,  if  he  had  not  heard  me  coming,  I  would  have 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        375 


WHY  LOVE? 

RITA  GREY 

Love  is  such  a  funny  thing. 
It  breaks  a  heart  or  gives  a  ring; 
Sometimes  it  is  returned  with  care; 
Sometimes  it  isn't  even  there; 
You  find  it  in  the  oddest  places 
And  always  on  the  strangest  faces; 
It  never  acts  just  the  same; 
I  wonder  at  its  name. 

Love  acts  in  the  queerest  way. 
Sometimes  it  only  lasts  a  day; 
Again  it  may  a  lifetime  last; 
Some  see  it  as  it  goes  past; 
Some  find  it  not  at  all; 
Others  somehow   always  fall; 
Why  doesn't  it  stay  the  same? 
It  only  has  one  name. 

A  dozen   meanings   for   one  word; 
The  oddest  thing  I  ever  heard. 
Feelings,  thrills,  hugs,  kisses, 
Comely  lads,  and  dainty  misses; 
Each  has  a  different  thought 
And  yet — only   love   is   sought. 
Why  can't  it  behave  the  same 
When  it  only  has  one  name? 


NIGHT  BEAUTY 

IMOGENE  GRIFFIN 


Lovely  flowers  dream 
Where  south  breezes  gay 
Garden  ferns  caress 
By  the  placid  bay. 

[204] 


fallen  over  him,  too,  but  he  got  up  in  time.  He  rose,  unsteady,  long,  pale, 
indistinct,  like  a  vapor  exhaled  by  the  earth,  and  swayed  slightly,  misty  and 
silent  before  me;  while  at  my  back  the  fires  loomed  between  the  trees,  and 
the  murmur  of  many  voices  issued  from  the  forest.  I  had  cut  him  off  cleverly; 
but  when  actually  confronting  him  I  seemed  to  come  to  my  senses,  I  saw 
the  danger  in  its  right  proportion.  It  was  by  no  means  over  yet.  Suppose  he 
began  to  shout?  Though  he  could  hardly  stand,  there  was  still  plenty  of 
vigor  in  his  voice.  'Go  away— hide  yourself/  he  said,  in  that  profound  tone. 
It  was  very  awful.  I  glanced  back.  We  were  within  thirty  yards  from  the 
nearest  fire.  A  black  figure  stood  up,  strode  on  long  black  legs,  waving  long 
black  arms,  across  the  glow.  It  had  horns— antelope  horns,  I  think— on  its 
head.  Some  sorcerer,  some  witch-man,  no  doubt:  it  looked  fiend-like  enough. 
'Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing?'  I  whispered.  'Perfectly,'  he  answered, 
raising  his  voice  for  that  single  word:  it  sounded  to  me  far  off  and  yet  loud, 
like  a  hail  through  a  speaking-trumpet.  If  he  makes  a  row  we  are  lost,  I 
thought  to  myself.  This  clearly  was  not  a  case  for  fisticuffs,  even  apart  from 
the  very  natural  aversion  I  had  to  beat  that  Shadow— this  wandering  and 
tormented  thing.  'You  will  be  lost/  I  said— 'utterly  lost/  One  gets  sometimes 
such  a  flash  of  inspiration,  you  know.  I  did  say  the  right  thing,  though  indeed 
he  could  not  have  been  more  irretrievably  lost  than  he  was  at  this  very 
moment,  when  the  foundations  of  our  intimacy  were  being  laid— to  endure 
—to  endure— even  to  the  end— even  beyond. 

"1  had  immense  plans/  he  muttered  irresolutely.  'Yes/  said  I;  'but  if  you 
try  to  shout  I'll  smash  your  head  with—'  There  was  not  a  stick  or  a  stone 
near.  1  will  throttle  you  for  good/  I  corrected  myself.  'I  was  on  the  threshold 
of  great  things/  he  pleaded,  in  a  voice  of  longing,  with  a  wistfulness  of  tone 
that  made  my  blood  run  cold.  'And  now  for  this  stupid  scoundrel—'  'Your 
success  in  Europe  is  assured  in  any  case/  I  affirmed,  steadily.  I  did  not  want 
to  have  the  throttling  of  him,  you  understand— and  indeed  it  would  have 
been  very  little  use  for  any  practical  purpose.  I  tried  to  break  the  spell— the 
heavy,  mute  spell  of  the  wilderness— that  seemed  to  draw  him  to  its  pitiless 
breast  by  the  awakening  of  forgotten  and  brutal  instincts,  by  the  memory 
of  gratified  and  monstrous  passions.  This  alone,  I  was  convinced,  had  driven 
him  out  to  the  edge  of  the  forest,  to  the  bush,  towards  the  gleam  of  fires, 
the  throb  of  drums,  the  drone  of  weird  incantations;  this  alone  had  beguiled 
his  unlawful  soul  beyond  the  bounds  of  permitted  aspirations.  And,  don't 
you  see,  the  terror  of  the  position  was  not  in  being  knocked  on  the  head- 
though  I  had  a  very  lively  sense  of  that  danger,  too—but  in  this,  that  I  had  to 
deal  with  a  being  to  whom  I  could  not  appeal  in  the  name  of  anything  high 
or  low.  I  had,  even  like  the  niggers,  to  invoke  him— himself— his  own  exalted 
and  incredible  degradation.  There  was  nothing  either  above  or  below  him, 


376 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


and  I  knew  it.  He  had  kicked  himself  loose  of  the  earth.  Confound  the  man! 
he  had  kicked  the  very  earth  to  pieces.  He  was  alone,  and  I  before  him  did 
not  know  whether  I  stood  on  the  ground  or  floated  in  the  air.  I've  been 
telling  you  what  we  said— repeating  the  phrases  we  pronounced— but  what's 
the  good?  They  were  common  everyday  words— the  familiar,  vague  sounds 
exchanged  on  every  waking  day  of  life.  But  what  of  that?  They  had  behind 
them,  to  my  mind,  the  terrific  suggestiveness  of  words  heard  in  dreams,  of 
phrases  spoken  in  nightmares.  Soul!  If  anybody  had  ever  struggled  with  a 
soul,  I  am  the  man.  And  I  wasn't  arguing  with  a  lunatic  either.  Believe  me 
or  not,  his  intelligence  was  perfectly  clear— concentrated,  it  is  true,  upon 
himself  with  horrible  intensity,  yet  clear;  and  therein  was  my  only  chance 
—barring,  of  course,  the  killing  him  there  and  then,  which  wasn't  so  good, 
on  account  of  unavoidable  noise.  But  his  soul  was  mad.  Being  alone  in  the 
wilderness,  it  had  looked  within  itself,  and,  by  heavens!  I  tell  you,  it  had 
gone  mad.  I  had— for  my  sins,  I  suppose— to  go  through  the  ordeal  of  looking 
into  it  myself.  No  eloquence  could  have  been  so  withering  to  one's  belief  in 
mankind  as  his  final  burst  of  sincerity.  He  struggled  with  himself,  too.  I  saw 
it,— I  heard  it.  I  saw  the  inconceivable  mystery  of  a  soul  that  knew  no  re- 
straint, no  faith,  and  no  fear,  yet  struggling  blindly  with  itself.  I  kept  my 
head  pretty  well;  but  when  I  had  him  at  last  stretched  on  the  couch,  I 
wiped  my  forehead,  while  my  legs  shook  under  me  as  though  I  had  carried 
half  a  ton  on  my  back  down  that  hill.  And  yet  I  had  only  supported  him, 
his  bony  arm  clasped  round  my  neck— and  he  was  not  much  heavier  than 
a  child. 

"When  next  day  we  left  at  noon,  the  crowd,  of  whose  presence  behind  the 
curtain  of  trees  I  had  been  acutely  conscious  all  the  time,  flowed  out  of  the 
woods  again,  filled  the  clearing,  covered  the  slope  with  a  mass  of  naked, 
breathing,  quivering,  bronze  bodies.  I  steamed  up  a  bit,  then  swung  down- 
stream, and  two  thousand  eyes  followed  the  evolutions  of  the  splashing, 
thumping,  fierce  river-demon  beating  the  water  with  its  terrible  tail  and 
breathing  black  smoke  into  the  air.  In  front  of  the  first  rank,  along  the  river, 
three  men,  plastered  with  bright  red  earth  from  head  to  foot,  strutted  to  and 
fro  restlessly.  When  we  came  abreast  again,  they  faced  the  river,  stamped 
their  feet,  nodded  their  horned  heads,  swayed  their  scarlet  bodies;  they 
shook  towards  the  fierce  river-demon  a  bunch  of  black  feathers,  a  mangy 
skin  with  a  pendent  tail— something  that  looked  like  a  dried  gourd;  they 
shouted  periodically  together  strings  of  amazing  words  that  resembled  no 
sounds  of  human  language;  and  the  deep  murmurs  of  the  crowd,  interrupted 
suddenly,  were  like  the  responses  of  some  satanic  litany. 

"We  had  carried  Kurtz  into  the  pilot-house:  there  was  more  air  there. 
Lying  on  the  couch,  he  stared  through  the  open  shutter.  There  was  an  eddy 

HEART  OF  DARKNESS        377 


in  the  mass  of  human  bodies,  and  the  woman  with  helmeted  head  and  tawny 
cheeks  rushed  out  to  the  very  brink  of  the  stream.  She  put  out  her  hands, 
shouted  something,  and  all  that  wild  mob  took  up  the  shout  in  a  roaring 
chorus  of  articulated,  rapid,  breathless  utterance. 

"  'Do  you  understand  this?'  I  asked. 

"He  kept  on  looking  out  past  me  with  fiery,  longing  eyes,  with  a  mingled 
expression  of  wistfulness  and  hate.  He  made  no  answer,  but  I  saw  a  smile, 
a  smile  of  indefinable  meaning,  appear  on  his  colorless  lips  that  a  moment 
after  twitched  convulsively.  'Do  I  not?'  he  said  slowly,  gasping,  as  if  the 
words  had  been  torn  out  of  him  by  a  supernatural  power. 

"I  pulled  the  string  of  the  whistle,  and  I  did  this  because  I  saw  the  pil- 
grims on  deck  getting  out  their  rifles  with  an  air  of  anticipating  a  jolly  lark. 
At  the  sudden  screech  there  was  a  movement  of  abject  terror  through  that 
wedged  mass  of  bodies.  'Don't!  don't  you  frighten  them  away,'  cried  some 
one  on  deck  disconsolately.  I  pulled  the  string  time  after  time.  They  broke 
and  ran,  they  leaped,  they  crouched,  they  swerved,  they  dodged  the  flying 
terror  of  the  sound.  The  three  red  chaps  had  fallen  flat,  face  down  on  the 
shore,  as  though  they  had  been  shot  dead.  Only  the  barbarous  and  superb 
woman  did  not  so  much  as  flinch,  and  stretched  tragically  her  bare  arms  after 
us  over  the  somber  and  glittering  river. 

"And  then  that  imbecile  crowd  down  on  the  deck  started  their  little  fun, 
and  I  could  see  nothing  more  for  smoke. 

"The  brown  current  ran  swiftly  out  of  the  heart  of  darkness,  bearing  us 
down  towards  the  sea  with  twice  the  speed  of  our  upward  progress;  and 
Kurtz's  life  was  running  swiftly,  too,  ebbing,  ebbing  out  of  his  heart  into 
the  sea  of  inexorable  time.  The  manager  was  very  placid,  he  had  no  vital 
anxieties  now,  he  took  us  both  in  with  a  comprehensive  and  satisfied  glance: 
the  'affair'  had  come  off  as  well  as  could  be  wished.  I  saw  the  time  approach- 
ing when  I  would  be  left  alone  of  the  party  of  'unsound  method/  The  pil- 
grims looked  upon  me  with  disfavor.  I  was,  so  to  speak,  numbered  with  the 
dead.  It  is  strange  how  I  accepted  this  unforeseen  partnership,  this  choice  of 
nightmares  forced  upon  me  in  the  tenebrous  land  invaded  by  these  mean 
and  greedy  phantoms. 

"Kurtz  discoursed.  A  voicel  a  voicel  It  rang  deep  to  the  very  last.  It  sur- 
vived his  strength  to  hide  in  the  magnificent  folds  of  eloquence  the  barren 
darkness  of  his  heart.  Oh,  he  struggled!  he  struggled!  The  wastes  of  his 
weary  brain  were  haunted  by  shadowy  images  now— images  of  wealth  and 
fame  revolving  obsequiously  round  his  unextinguishable  gift  of  noble  and 
lofty  expression.  My  Intended,  my  station,  my  career,  my  ideas— these  were 
the  subjects  for  the  occasional  utterances  of  elevated  sentiments.  The  shade 

378         THK   SHORT   STORY 


of  the  original  Kurtz  frequented  the  bedside  of  the  hollow  sham,  whose 
fate  it  was  to  be  buried  presently  in  the  mold  of  primeval  earth.  But  both 
the  diabolic  love  and  the  unearthly  hate  of  the  mysteries  it  had  penetrated 
fought  for  the  possession  of  that  soul  satiated  with  primitive  emotions,  avid 
of  lying  fame,  of  sham  distinction,  of  all  the  appearances  of  success  and 
power. 

"Sometimes  he  was  contemptibly  childish.  He  desired  to  have  kings  meet 
him  at  railway  stations  on  his  return  from  some  ghastly  Nowhere,  where  he 
intended  to  accomplish  great  things.  'You  show  them  you  have  in  you  some- 
thing that  is  really  profitable,  and  then  there  will  be  no  limits  to  the  recogni- 
tion of  your  ability/  he  would  say.  'Of  course  you  must  take  care  of  the 
motives— right  motives— always/  The  long  reaches  that  were  like  one  and 
the  same  reach,  monotonous  bends  that  were  exactly  alike,  slipped  past  the 
steamer,  with  their  multitude  of  secular  trees  looking  patiently  after  this 
grimy  fragment  of  another  world,  the  forerunner  of  change,  of  conquest,  of 
trade,  of  massacres,  of  blessings.  I  looked  ahead— piloting.  'Close  the  shut- 
ter/ said  Kurtz  suddenly  one  day;  *I  can't  bear  to  look  at  this/  I  did  so. 
There  was  a  silence.  'Oh,  but  I  will  wring  your  heart  yet!'  he  cried  at  the 
invisible  wilderness. 

"We  broke  down— as  I  had  expected— and  had  to  lie  up  for  repairs  at  the 
head  of  an  island.  This  delay  was  the  first  thing  that  shook  Kurtz's  con- 
fidence. One  morning  he  gave  me  a  packet  of  papers  and  a  photograph— the 
lot  tied  together  with  a  shoestring.  'Keep  this  for  me/  he  said.  'This  noxious 
fool'  (meaning  the  manager)  'is  capable  of  prying  into  my  boxes  when  I  am 
not  looking/  In  the  afternoon  I  saw  him.  He  was  lying  on  his  back  with 
closed  eyes,  and  I  withdrew  quietly,  but  I  heard  him  mutter,  'Live  rightly, 
die,  die.  .  .  /  I  listened.  There  was  nothing  more.  Was  he  rehearsing  some 
speech  in  his  sleep,  or  was  it  a  fragment  of  a  phrase  from  some  newspaper 
article?  He  had  been  writing  for  the  papers  and  meant  to  do  so  again, 
'for  the  furthering  of  my  ideas.  It's  a  duty/ 

"His  was  an  impenetrable  darkness.  I  looked  at  him  as  you  peer  down 
at  a  man  who  is  lying  at  the  bottom  of  a  precipice  where  the  sun  never 
shines.  But  I  had  not  much  time  to  give  him,  because  I  was  helping  the 
engine-driver  to  take  to  pieces  the  leaky  cylinders,  to  straighten  a  bent 
connecting-rod,  and  in  other  such  matters.  I  lived  in  an  infernal  mess  of  rust, 
filings,  nuts,  bolts,  spanners,  hammers,  ratchet-drills—things  I  abominate, 
because  I  don't  get  on  with  them.  I  tended  the  little  forge  we  fortunately 
had  aboard;  I  toiled  wearily  in  a  wretched  scrap-heap— unless  I  had  the 
shakes  too  bad  to  stand. 

"One  evening  coming  in  with  a  candle  I  was  startled  to  hear  him  say  a 
little  tremulously,  1  am  lying  here  in  the  dark  waiting  for  death/  The  light 

HEART  OF  DARKNESS       379 


was  within  a  foot  of  his  eyes.  I  forced  myself  to  murmur,  'Oh,  nonsense!' 
and  stood  over  him  as  if  transfixed. 

"Anything  approaching  the  change  that  came  over  his  features  I  have 
never  seen  before,  and  hope  never  to  see  again.  Oh,  I  wasn't  touched.  I 
was  fascinated.  It  was  as  though  a  veil  had  been  rent.  I  saw  on  that  ivory 
face  the  expression  of  somber  pride,  of  ruthless  power,  of  craven  terror— of 
an  intense  and  hopeless  despair.  Did  he  live  his  life  again  in  every  detail  of 
desire,  temptation,  and  surrender  during  that  supreme  moment  of  com- 
plete knowledge?  He  cried  in  a  whisper  at  some  image,  at  some  vision— he 
cried  out  twice,  a  cry  that  was  no  more  than  a  breath— 

"  'The  horror!  The  horror!' 

"I  blew  the  candle  out  and  left  the  cabin.  The  pilgrims  were  dining  in 
the  mess-room,  and  I  took  my  place  opposite  the  manager,  who  lifted  his 
eyes  to  give  me  a  questioning  glance,  which  I  successfully  ignored.  He 
leaned  back,  serene,  with  that  peculiar  smile  of  his  sealing  the  unexpressed 
depths  of  his  meanness.  A  continuous  shower  of  small  flies  streamed  upon  the 
lamp,  upon  the  cloth,  upon  our  hands  and  faces.  Suddenly  the  manager's 
boy  put  his  insolent  black  head  in  the  doorway,  and  said  in  a  tone  of 
scathing  contempt— 

"  'Mistah  Kurtz— he  dead/ 

"All  the  pilgrims  rushed  out  to  see.  I  remained,  and  went  on  with  my 
dinner.  I  believe  I  was  considered  brutally  callous.  However,  I  did  not  eat 
much.  There  was  a  lamp  in  there— light,  don't  you  know— and  outside  it  was 
so  beastly,  beastly  dark.  I  went  no  more  near  the  remarkable  man  who  had 
pronounced  a  judgment  upon  the  adventures  of  his  soul  on  this  earth.  The 
voice  was  gone.  What  else  had  been  there?  But  I  am  of  course  aware  that 
next  day  the  pilgrims  buried  something  in  a  muddy  hole. 

"And  then  they  very  nearly  buried  me. 

"However,  as  you  see  I  did  not  go  to  join  Kurtz  there  and  then.  I  did  not. 
I  remained  to  dream  the  nightmare  out  to  the  end,  and  to  show  my  loyalty 
to  Kurtz  once  more.  Destiny.  My  destiny!  Droll  thing  life  is— that  mys- 
terious arrangement  of  merciless  logic  for  a  futile  purpose.  The  most  you  can 
hope  from  it  is  some  knowledge  of  yourself— that  comes  too  late— a  crop 
of  unextinguishable  regrets.  I  have  wrestled  with  death.  It  is  the  most  un- 
exciting contest  you  can  imagine.  It  takes  place  in  an  impalpable  grayness, 
with  nothing  underfoot,  with  nothing  around,  without  spectators,  without 
clamor,  without  glory,  without  the  great  desire  of  victory,  without  the  great 
fear  of  defeat,  in  a  sickly  atmosphere  of  tepid  skepticism,  without  much 
belief  in  your  own  right,  and  still  less  in  that  of  your  adversary.  If  such  is 
the  form  of  ultimate  wisdom,  then  life  is  a  greater  riddle  than  some  of  us 
think  it  to  be.  I  was  within  a  hair's  breadth  of  the  last  opportunity  for  pro- 

380        THE   SHORT   STORY 


nouncement,  and  I  found  with  humiliation  that  probably  I  would  have 
nothing  to  say.  This  is  the  reason  why  I  affirm  that  Kurtz  was  a  remarkable 
man.  He  had  something  to  say.  He  said  it.  Since  I  had  peeped  over  the 
edge  myself,  I  understand  better  the  meaning  of  his  stare,  that  could  not 
see  the  flame  of  the  candle,  but  was  wide  enough  to  embrace  the  whole 
universe,  piercing  enough  to  penetrate  all  the  hearts  that  beat  in  the  dark- 
ness. He  had  summed  up— he  had  judged.  'The  horror!'  He  was  a  remark- 
able man.  After  all,  this  was  the  expression  of  some  sort  of  belief;  it  had 
candor,  it  had  conviction,  it  had  a  vibrating  note  of  revolt  in  its  whisper, 
it  had  the  appalling  face  of  a  glimpsed  truth— the  strange  commingling  of 
desire  and  hate.  And  it  is  not  my  own  extremity  I  remember  best— a  vision 
of  grayness  without  form  filled  with  physical  pain,  and  a  careless  contempt 
for  the  evanescence  of  all  things— even  of  this  pain  itself.  Nol  It  is  his 
extremity  that  I  seem  to  have  lived  through.  True,  he  had  made  that  last 
stride,  he  had  stepped  over  the  edge,  while  I  had  been  permitted  to  draw 
back  my  hesitating  foot.  And  perhaps  in  this  is  the  whole  difference;  per- 
haps all  the  wisdom,  and  all  truth,  and  all  sincerity,  are  just  compressed 
into  the  inappreciable  moment  of  time  in  which  we  step  over  the  threshold 
of  the  invisible.  Perhaps!  I  like  to  think  my  summing-up  would  not  have 
been  a  word  of  careless  contempt.  Better  his  cry— much  better.  It  was  an 
affirmation,  a  moral  victory  paid  for  by  innumerable  defeats,  by  abominable 
terrors,  by  abominable  satisfactions.  But  it  was  a  victory!  That  is  why  I  have 
remained  loyal  to  Kurtz  to  the  last,  and  even  beyond,  when  a  long  time  after 
I  heard  once  more,  not  his  own  choice,  but  the  echo  of  his  magnificent 
eloquence  thrown  to  me  from  a  soul  as  translucently  pure  as  a  cliff  of 
crystal. 

"No,  they  did  not  bury  me,  though  there  is  a  period  of  time  which  I 
remember  mistily,  with  a  shuddering  wonder,  like  a  passage  through  some 
inconceivable  world  that  had  no  hope  in  it  and  no  desire.  I  found  myself 
back  in  the  sepulchral  city  resenting  the  sight  of  people  hurrying  through 
the  streets  to  filch  a  little  money  from  each  other,  to  devour  their  infamous 
cookery,  to  gulp  their  unwholesome  beer,  to  dream  their  insignificant  and 
silly  dreams.  They  trespassed  upon  my  thoughts.  They  were  intruders  whose 
knowledge  of  life  was  to  me  an  irritating  pretense,  because  I  felt  so  sure  they 
could  not  possibly  know  the  things  I  knew.  Their  bearing,  which  was  simply 
the  bearing  of  commonplace  individuals  going  about  their  business  in  the 
assurance  of  perfect  safety,  was  offensive  to  me  like  the  outrageous  flaunt- 
ings  of  folly  in  the  face  of  a  danger  it  is  unable  to  comprehend.  I  had  no 
particular  desire  to  enlighten  them,  but  I  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining 
myself  from  laughing  in  their  faces,  so  full  of  stupid  importance.  I  daresay 
I  was  not  very  well  at  that  time.  I  tottered  about  the  streets— there  were 

HEART  OF  DARKNESS       381 


various  affairs  to  settle— grinning  bitterly  at  perfectly  respectable  persons. 
I  admit  my  behavior  was  inexcusable,  but  then  my  temperature  was  seldom 
normal  in  these  days.  My  dear  aunt's  endeavors  to  'nurse  up  my  strength' 
seemed  altogether  beside  the  mark.  It  was  not  my  strength  that  wanted 
nursing,  it  was  my  imagination  that  wanted  soothing.  I  kept  the  bundle  of 
papers  given  me  by  Kurtz,  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  do  with  it.  His 
mother  had  died  lately,  watched  over,  as  I  was  told,  by  his  Intended.  A 
clean-shaved  man,  with  an  official  manner  and  wearing  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles, called  on  me  one  day  and  made  inquiries,  at  first  circuitous,  after- 
wards suavely  pressing,  about  what  he  was  pleased  to  denominate  certain 
'documents/  I  was  not  surprised,  because  I  had  had  two  rows  with  the  man- 
ager on  the  subject  out  there.  I  had  refused  to  give  up  the  smallest  scrap  out 
of  that  package,  and  I  took  the  same  attitude  with  the  spectacled  man.  He 
became  darkly  menacing  at  last,  and  with  much  heat  argued  that  the  Com- 
pany had  the  right  to  every  bit  of  information  about  its  'territories/  And  said 
he,  'Mr.  Kurtz's  knowledge  of  unexplored  regions  must  have  been  neces- 
sarily extensive  and  peculiar— owing  to  his  great  abilities  and  to  the  deplor- 
able circumstances  in  which  he  had  been  placed:  therefore—'  I  assured  him 
Mr.  Kurtz's  knowledge,  however  extensive,  did  not  bear  upon  the  problems 
of  commerce  or  administration.  He  invoked  then  the  name  of  science.  It 
would  be  an  incalculable  loss,  if/  etc.,  etc.  I  offered  him  the  report  on  the 
'Suppression  of  Savage  Customs/  with  the  postscriptum  torn  off.  He  took  it 
up  eagerly,  but  ended  by  sniffing  at  it  with  an  air  of  contempt.  'This  is  not 
what  we  had  a  right  to  expect/  he  remarked.  'Expect  nothing  else/  I  said. 
'There  are  only  private  letters/  He  withdrew  upon  some  threat  of  legal 
proceedings,  and  I  saw  him  no  more;  but  another  fellow,  calling  himself 
Kurtz's  cousin,  appeared  two  days  later,  and  was  anxious  to  hear  all  the 
details  about  his  dear  relative's  last  moments.  Incidentally  he  gave  me  to 
understand  that  Kurtz  had  been  essentially  a  great  musician.  'There  was  the 
making  of  an  immense  success/  said  the  man,  who  was  an  organist,  I  believe, 
with  lank  gray  hair  flowing  over  a  greasy  coat-collar.  I  had  no  reason  to 
doubt  his  statement;  and  to  this  day  I  am  unable  to  say  what  was  Kurtz's 
profession,  whether  he  ever  had  any— which  was  the  greatest  of  his  talents. 
I  had  taken  him  for  a  painter  who  wrote  for  the  papers,  or  else  for  a  jour- 
nalist who  could  paint— but  even  the  cousin  (who  took  snuff  during  the 
interview)  could  not  tell  me  what  he  had  been— exactly.  He  was  a  universal 
genius— on  that  point  I  agreed  with  the  old  chap,  who  thereupon  blew  his 
nose  noisily  into  a  large  cotton  handkerchief  and  withdrew  in  senile  agita- 
tion, bearing  off  some  family  letters  and  memoranda  without  importance. 
Ultimately  a  journalist  anxious  to  know  something  of  the  fate  of  his  'dear 
colleague'  turned  up.  This  visitor  informed  me  Kurtz's  proper  sphere  ought 

382        THE   SHORT   STORY 


to  have  been  politics  'on  the  popular  side/  He  had  furry  straight  eyebrows, 
bristly  hair  cropped  short,  an  eye-glass  on  a  broad  ribbon,  and,  becoming 
expansive,  confessed  his  opinion  that  Kurtz  really  couldn't  write  a  bit— 
'but  heavens!  how  that  man  could  talk.  He  electrified  large  meetings.  He  had 
faith— don't  you  see?— he  had  the  faith.  He  could  get  himself  to  believe  any- 
thing—anything. He  would  have  been  a  splendid  leader  of  an  extreme 
party/  'What  party?'  I  asked.  'Any  party/  answered  the  other.  'He  was  an— 
an— extremist/  Did  I  not  think  so?  I  assented.  Did  I  know,  he  asked,  with 
a  sudden  flash  of  curiosity,  'what  it  was  that  had  induced  him  to  go  out 
there?'  'Yes/  said  I,  and  forthwith  handed  him  the  famous  Report  for  pub- 
lication, if  he  thought  fit.  He  glanced  through  it  hurriedly,  mumbling  all  the 
time,  judged  'it  would  do/  and  took  himself  off  with  this  plunder. 

"Thus  I  was  left  at  last  with  a  slim  packet  of  letters  and  the  girl's  portrait. 
She  struck  me  as  beautiful— I  mean  she  had  a  beautiful  expression.  I  know 
that  the  sunlight  can  be  made  to  lie,  too,  yet  one  felt  that  no  manipulation  of 
light  and  pose  could  have  conveyed  the  delicate  shade  of  truthfulness  upon 
those  features.  She  seemed  ready  to  listen  without  mental  reservation,  with- 
out suspicion,  without  a  thought  for  herself.  I  concluded  I  would  go  and 
give  her  back  her  portrait  and  those  letters  myself.  Curiosity?  Yes;  and  also 
some  other  feeling  perhaps.  All  that  had  been  Kurtz's  had  passed  out  of 
my  hands:  his  soul,  his  body,  his  station,  his  plans,  his  ivory,  his  career.  There 
remained  only  his  memory  and  his  Intended— and  I  wanted  to  give  that  up, 
too,  to  the  past,  in  a  way— to  surrender  personally  all  that  remained  of  him 
with  me  to  that  oblivion  which  is  the  last  word  of  our  common  fate.  I  don't 
defend  myself.  I  had  no  clear  perception  of  what  it  was  I  really  wanted. 
Perhaps  it  was  an  impulse  of  unconscious  loyalty,  or  the  fulfillment  of  one  of 
those  ironic  necessities  that  lurk  in  the  facts  of  human  existence.  I  don't 
know.  I  can't  tell.  But  I  went. 

"I  thought  his  memory  was  like  the  other  memories  of  the  dead  that 
accumulate  in  every  man's  life— a  vague  impress  on  the  brain  of  shadows 
that  had  fallen  on  it  in  their  swift  and  final  passage;  but  before  the  high 
and  ponderous  door,  between  the  tall  houses  of  a  street  as  still  and  deco- 
rous as  a  well-kept  alley  in  a  cemetery,  I  had  a  vision  of  him  on  the  stretcher, 
opening  his  mouth  voraciously,  as  if  to  devour  all  the  earth  with  all  its 
mankind.  He  lived  then  before  me;  he  lived  as  much  as  he  had  ever  lived— 
a  shadow  insatiable  of  splendid  appearances,  of  frightful  realities;  a  shadow 
darker  than  the  shadow  of  the  night,  and  draped  nobly  in  the  folds  of  a 
gorgeous  eloquence.  The  vision  seemed  to  enter  the  house  with  me— the 
stretcher,  the  phantom-bearers,  the  wild  crowd  of  obedient  worshipers, 
the  gloom  of  the  forest,  the  glitter  of  the  reach  between  the  murky  bends, 
the  beat  of  the  drum,  regular  and  muffled  like  the  beating  of  a  heart— the 

HEART   OF   DARKNESS        383 


heart  of  a  conquering  darkness.  It  was  a  moment  of  triumph  for  the  wilder- 
ness, an  invading  and  vengeful  rush  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  would  have  to 
keep  back  alone  for  the  salvation  of  another  soul.  And  the  memory  of  what 
I  had  heard  him  say  afar  there,  with  the  horned  shapes  stirring  at  my  back, 
in  the  glow  of  fires,  within  the  patient  woods,  those  broken  phrases  came 
back  to  me,  were  heard  again  in  their  ominous  and  terrifying  simplicity. 
I  remembered  his  abject  pleading,  his  abject  threats,  the  colossal  scale  of  his 
vile  desires,  the  meanness,  the  torment,  the  tempestuous  anguish  of  his  soul. 
And  later  on  I  seemed  to  see  his  collected  languid  manner,  when  he 
said  one  day,  'This  lot  of  ivory  now  is  really  mine.  The  Company  did  not 
pay  for  it.  I  collected  it  myself  at  a  very  great  personal  risk.  I  am  afraid 
they  will  try  to  claim  it  as  theirs  though.  H'm.  It  is  a  difficult  case.  What  do 
you  think  I  ought  to  do— resist?  Eh?  I  want  no  more  than  justice/  .  .  .  He 
wanted  no  more  than  justice— no  more  than  justice.  I  rang  the  bell  before  a 
mahogany  door  on  the  first  floor,  and  while  I  waited  he  seemed  to  stare 
at  me  out  of  the  glassy  panel— stare  with  that  wide  and  immense  stare 
embracing,  condemning,  loathing  all  the  universe.  I  seemed  to  hear  the 
whispered  cry,  'The  horror!  The  horror!' 

"The  dusk  was  falling.  I  had  to  wait  in  a  lofty  drawing  room  with  three 
long  windows  from  floor  to  ceiling  that  were  like  three  luminous  and  be- 
draped  columns.  The  bent  gilt  legs  and  backs  of  the  furniture  shone  in  in- 
distinct curves.  The  tall  marble  fireplace  had  a  cold  and  monumental  white- 
ness. A  grand  piano  stood  massively  in  a  corner;  with  dark  gleams  on  the 
flat  surfaces  like  a  somber  and  polished  sarcophagus.  A  high  door  opened— 
closed.  I  rose. 

"She  came  forward,  all  in  black,  with  a  pale  head,  floating  towards  me 
in  the  dusk.  She  was  in  mourning.  It  was  more  than  a  year  since  his  death, 
more  than  a  year  since  the  news  came;  she  seemed  as  though  she  would 
remember  and  mourn  forever.  She  took  both  my  hands  in  hers  and  mur- 
mured, 1  had  heard  you  were  coming/  I  noticed  she  was  not  very  young— 
I  mean  not  girlish.  She  had  a  mature  capacity  for  fidelity,  for  belief,  for  suf- 
fering. The  room  seemed  to  have  grown  darker,  as  if  all  the  sad  light  of  the 
cloudy  evening  had  taken  refuge  on  her  forehead.  This  fair  hair,  this  pale 
visage,  this  pure  brow,  seemed  surrounded  by  an  ashy  halo  from  which 
the  dark  eyes  looked  out  at  me.  Their  glance  was  guileless,  profound, 
confident,  and  trustful.  She  carried  her  sorrowful  head  as  though  she  were 
proud  of  that  sorrow,  as  though  she  would  say,  I— I  alone  know  how  to 
mourn  him  as  he  deserves.  But  while  we  were  still  shaking  hands,  such  a  look 
of  awful  desolation  came  upon  her  face  that  I  perceived  she  was  one  of 
those  creatures  that  are  not  the  playthings  of  Time.  For  her  he  had  died 
only  yesterday.  And,  by  Jove!  the  impression  was  so  powerful  that  for  me, 
too,  he  seemed  to  have  died  only  yesterday— nay,  this  very  minute.  I  saw 


384 


THE    SHORT   STORY 


her  and  him  in  the  same  instant  of  time— his  death  and  her  sorrow— I  saw 
her  sorrow  in  the  very  moment  of  his  death.  Do  you  understand?  I  saw  them 
together— I  heard  them  together.  She  had  said,  with  a  deep  catch  of  the 
breath,  1  have  survived'  while  my  strained  ears  seemed  to  hear  distinctly, 
mingled  with  her  tone  of  despairing  regret,  the  summing  up  whisper  of  his 
eternal  condemnation.  I  asked  myself  what  I  was  doing  there,  with  a 
sensation  of  panic  in  my  heart  as  though  I  had  blundered  into  a  place  of 
cruel  and  absurd  mysteries  not  fit  for  a  human  being  to  behold.  She  motioned 
me  to  a  chair.  We  sat  down.  I  laid  the  packet  gently  on  the  little  table,  and 
she  put  her  hand  over  it.  ...  'You  knew  him  well,'  she  murmured,  after  a 
moment  of  mourning  silence. 

"  'Intimacy  grows  quickly  out  there/  I  said.  'I  knew  him  as  well  as  it  is 
possible  for  one  man  to  know  another.' 

"  'And  you  admired  him/  she  said.  It  was  impossible  to  know  him  and 
not  to  admire  him.  Was  it?' 

"  'He  was  a  remarkable  man/  I  said,  unsteadily.  Then  before  the  appealing 
fixity  of  her  gaze,  that  seemed  to  watch  for  more  words  on  my  lips,  I  went 
on,  'It  was  impossible  not  to—' 

"  'Love  him/  she  finished  eagerly,  silencing  me  into  an  appalled  dumbness. 
'How  true!  how  true!  But  when  you  think  that  no  one  knew  him  so  well 
as  I!  I  had  all  his  noble  confidence.  I  knew  him  best/ 

"  'You  knew  him  best/  I  repeated.  And  perhaps  she  did.  But  with  every 
word  spoken  the  room  was  growing  darker,  and  only  her  forehead,  smooth 
and  white,  remained  illumined  by  the  unextinguishable  light  of  belief  and 
love. 

"'You  were  his  friend/  she  went  on.  'His  friend/  she  repeated,  a  little 
louder.  'You  must  have  been,  if  he  had  given  you  this,  and  sent  you  to  me. 
I  feel  I  can  speak  to  you— and  oh!  I  must  speak.  I  want  you— you  have  heard 
his  last  words— to  know  I  have  been  worthy  of  him.  ...  It  is  not  pride.  .  .  . 
Yes!  I  am  proud  to  know  I  understood  him  better  than  any  one  on  earth— he 
told  me  so  himself.  And  since  his  mother  died  I  have  had  no  one— no  one— to 
-to-' 

"I  listened.  The  darkness  deepened.  I  was  not  even  sure  he  had  given  me 
the  right  bundle.  I  rather  suspect  he  wanted  me  to  take  care  of  another 
batch  of  his  papers  which,  after  his  death,  I  saw  the  manager  examining 
under  the  lamp.  And  the  girl  talked,  easing  her  pain  in  the  certitude  of  my 
sympathy;  she  talked  as  thirsty  men  drink.  I  had  heard  that  her  engage- 
ment with  Kurtz  had  been  disapproved  by  her  people.  He  wasn't  rich 
enough  or  something.  And  indeed  I  don't  know  whether  he  had  not  been 
a  pauper  all  his  life.  He  had  given  me  some  reason  to  infer  that  it  was  his 
impatience  of  comparative  poverty  that  drove  him  out  there. 

" '.  .  .  Who  was  not  his  friend  who  had  heard  him  speak  once?'  she  was 

HEART  OF   DARKNESS        385 


saying.  'He  drew  men  towards  him  by  what  was  best  in  them/  She  looked 
at  me  with  intensity.  It  is  the  gift  of  the  great/  she  went  on,  and  the  sound 
of  her  low  voice  seemed  to  have  the  accompaniment  of  all  the  other  sounds, 
full  of  mystery,  desolation,  and  sorrow,  I  had  ever  heard— the  ripple  of  the 
river,  the  soughing  of  the  trees  swayed  by  the  wind,  the  murmurs  of  the 
crowds,  the  faint  ring  of  incomprehensible  words  cried  from  afar,  the  whisper 
of  a  voice  speaking  from  beyond  the  threshold  of  an  eternal  darkness.  'But 
you  have  heard  himl  You  know!'  she  cried. 

"  'Yes,  I  know/  I  said  with  something  like  despair  in  my  heart,  but  bowing 
my  head  before  the  faith  that  was  in  her,  before  that  great  and  saving 
illusion  that  shone  with  an  unearthly  glow  in  the  darkness,  in  the  triumphant 
darkness  from  which  I  could  not  have  defended  her— from  which  I  could 
not  even  defend  myself. 

"  What  a  loss  to  me— to  us!'— she  corrected  herself  with  beautiful  generos- 
ity; then  added  in  a  murmur,  'To  the  world/  By  the  last  gleams  of  twilight  I 
could  see  the  glitter  of  her  eyes,  full  of  tears— of  tears  that  would  not  fall. 

"  'I  have  been  very  happy— very  fortunate— very  proud/  she  went  on.  'Too 
fortunate.  Too  happy  for  a  little  while.  And  now  I  am  unhappy  for— for  life/ 

"She  stood  up;  her  fair  hair  seemed  to  catch  all  the  remaining  light  in  a 
glimmer  of  gold.  I  rose,  too. 

"  'And  of  all  this/  she  went  on,  mournfully,  'of  all  his  promise,  and  of  all 
his  greatness,  of  his  generous  mind,  of  his  noble  heart,  nothing  remains- 
nothing  but  a  memory.  You  and  I—' 

"*We  shall  always  remember  him/  I  said,  hastily. 

"  'No!'  she  cried.  'It  is  impossible  that  all  this  should  be  lost— that  such 
a  life  should  be  sacrificed  to  leave  nothing— but  sorrow.  You  know  what 
vast  plans  he  had.  I  knew  of  them,  too— I  could  not  perhaps  understand- 
but  others  knew  of  them.  Something  must  remain.  His  words,  at  least, 
have  not  died/ 

"  'His  words  will  remain/  I  said. 

"'And  his  example/  she  whispered  to  herself.  'Men  looked  up  to  him— 
his  goodness  shone  in  every  act.  His  example—' 

"  'True/  I  said;  'his  example,  too.  Yes,  his  example.  I  forgot  that/ 

"  'But  I  do  not.  I  cannot— I  cannot  believe— not  yet.  I  cannot  believe  that  I 
shall  never  see  him  again,  that  nobody  will  see  him  again,  never,  never, 
never/ 

"She  put  out  her  arms  as  if  after  a  retreating  figure,  stretching  them  black 
and  with  clasped  pale  hands  across  the  fading  and  narrow  sheen  of  the  win- 
dow. Never  see  him!  I  saw  him  clearly  enough  then.  I  shall  see  this  eloquent 
phantom  as  long  as  I  live,  and  I  shall  see  her,  too,  a  tragic  and  familiar 
Shade,  resembling  in  this  gesture  another  one,  tragic  also,  and  bedecked  with 
powerless  charms,  stretching  bare  brown  arms  over  the  glitter  of  the  infernal 

886        THE  SHORT   STORY 


stream,  the  stream  of  darkness.  She  said  suddenly  very  low,  *He  died  as  he 
lived.' 

"  'His  end/  said  I,  with  dull  anger  stirring  in  me,  'was  in  every  way  worthy 
of  his  life/ 

"  'And  I  was  not  with  him/  she  murmured.  My  anger  subsided  before  a 
feeling  of  infinite  pity. 

"  'Everything  that  could  be  done—'  I  mumbled. 

"'Ah,  but  I  believed  in  him  more  than  any  one  on  earth— more  than  his 
own  mother,  more  than— himself .  He  needed  mel  Me!  I  would  have  treasured 
every  sigh,  every  word,  every  sign,  every  glance/ 

"I  felt  like  a  chill  grip  on  my  chest.  'Don't/  I  said,  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"  'Forgive  me.  I— I— have  mourned  so  long  in  silence— in  silence.  .  .  .  You 
were  with  him— to  the  last?  I  think  of  his  loneliness.  Nobody  near  to  under* 
stand  him  as  I  would  have  understood.  Perhaps  no  one  to  hear.  .  .  / 

"'To  the  very  end/  I  said,  shakily.  'I  heard  his  very  last  words.  .  .  /  I 
stopped  in  a  fright. 

"  'Repeat  them/  she  murmured  in  a  heart-broken  tone.  1  want— I  want- 
something— something— to— live  with.' 

"I  was  on  the  point  of  crying  at  her,  'Don't  you  hear  them?'  The  dusk  was 
repeating  them  in  a  persistent  whisper  all  around  us,  in  a  whisper  that  seemed 
to  swell  menacingly  like  the  first  whisper  of  a  rising  wind.  'The  horrorl 
The  horror!' 

"  'His  last  word— to  live  with/  she  insisted.  'Don't  you  understand  I  loved 
him— I  loved  him— I  loved  him!' 

"I  pulled  myself  together  and  spoke  slowly. 

"  'The  last  word  he  pronounced  was— your  name/ 

"I  heard  a  light  sigh  and  then  my  heart  stood  still,  stopped  dead  short 
by  an  exulting  and  terrible  cry,  by  the  cry  of  inconceivable  triumph  and  of 
unspeakable  pain.  'I  knew  it— I  was  sure!'  .  .  .  She  knew.  She  was  sure.  I 
heard  her  weeping;  she  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  hands.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  house  would  collapse  before  I  could  escape,  that  the  heavens  would 
fall  upon  my  head.  But  nothing  happened.  The  heavens  do  not  fall  for 
such  a  trifle.  Would  they  have  fallen,  I  wonder,  if  I  had  rendered  Kurtz 
that  justice  which  was  his  due?  Hadn't  he  said  he  wanted  only  justice?  But 
I  couldn't.  I  could  pot  tell  her.  It  would  have  been  too  dark— too  dark 
altogether.  .  .  ." 

Marlow  ceased,  and  sat  apart,  indistinct  and  silent,  in  the  pose  of  a  med- 
itating Buddha.  Nobody  moved  for  a  time.  "We  have  lost  the  first  of  the 
ebb,"  said  the  Director,  suddenly.  I  raised  my  head.  The  offing  was  barred 
by  a  black  bank  of  clouds,  and  the  tranquil  waterway  leading  to  the  utter- 
most ends  of  the  earth  flowed  somber  under  an  overcast  sky— seemed  to  lead 
into  the  heart  of  an  immense  darkness.  (1903) 

HEART   OF   DARKNESS        387 


JAMES  JOYCE 


Araby 


NORTH  RICHMOND  STREET,  being  blind,  was  a  quiet  street  except  at  the 
hour  when  the  Christian  Brothers'  School  set  the  boys  free.  An  un- 
inhabited house  of  two  storeys  stood  at  the  blind  end,  detached  from  its 
neighbours  in  a  square  ground.  The  other  houses  of  the  street,  conscious 
of  decent  lives  within  them,  gazed  at  one  another  with  brown  imperturbable 
faces. 

The  former  tenant  of  our  house,  a  priest,  had  died  in  the  back  drawing- 
room.  Air,  musty  from  having  been  long  enclosed,  hung  in  all  the  rooms, 
and  the  waste  room  behind  the  kitchen  was  littered  with  old  useless  papers. 
Among  these  I  found  a  few  paper-covered  books,  the  pages  of  which  were 
curled  and  damp:  The  Abbot,  by  Walter  Scott,  The  Devout  Communicant 
and  The  Memoirs  of  Vidocq.  I  liked  the  last  best,  because  its  leaves  were 
yellow.  The  wild  garden  behind  the  house  contained  a  central  apple-tree 
and  a  few  straggling  bushes,  under  one  of  which  I  found  the  late  tenant's 
rusty  bicycle-pump.  He  had  been  a  very  charitable  priest;  in  his  will  he  had 
left  all  his  money  to  institutions  and  the  furniture  of  his  house  to  his  sister. 

When  the  short  days  of  winter  came,  dusk  fell  before  we  had  well  eaten 
our  dinners.  When  we  met  in  the  street,  the  houses  had  grown  sombre.  The 
space  of  sky  above  us  was  the  colour  of  ever-changing  violet,  and  towards  it 
the  lamps  of  the  street  lifted  their  feeble  lanterns.  The  cold  air  stung  us 
and  we  played  till  our  bodies  glowed.  Our  shouts  echoed  in  the  silent 
street.  The  career  of  our  play  brought  us  through  the  dark  muddy  lanes 
behind  the  houses  where  we  ran  the  gauntlet  of  the  rough  tribes  from 
the  cottages,  to  the  back  doors  of  the  dark  dripping  gardens  where  odours 
arose  from  the  ashpits,  to  the  dark  odorous  stables  where  a  coachman 
smoothed  and  combed  the  horse  or  shook  music  from  the  buckled  harness. 
When  we  returned  to  the  street,  light  from  the  kitchen  windows  had  filled 
the  areas.  If  my  uncle  was  seen  turning  the  corner,  we  hid  in  the  shadow 
until  we  had  seen  him  safely  housed.  Or  if  Mangan's  sister  came  out  on  the 
doorstep  to  call  her  brother  in  to  his  tea,  we  watched  her  from  our  shadow 
peer  up  and  down  the  street.  We  waited  to  see  whether  she  would  remain 
or  go  in,  and,  if  she  remained,  we  left  our  shadow  and  walked  up  to  Man- 
gan's  steps  resignedly.  She  was  waiting  for  us,  her  figure  defined  by  the 
light  from  the  half -opened  door.  Her  brother  always  teased  her  before  he 


From  Dubliners,  by  James  Joyce.  Included  in  The  Portable  James  Joyce,  copyright  1946, 
by  The  Viking  Press,  Inc.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  The  Viking  Press,  Inc.,  New  York. 

388        THE   SHORT    STORY 


obeyed,  and  I  stood  by  the  railings  looking  at  her.  Her  dress  swung  as  she 
moved  her  body,  and  the  soft  rope  of  her  hair  tossed  from  side  to  side. 

Every  morning  I  lay  on  the  floor  in  the  front  parlour  watching  her  door. 
The  blind  was  pulled  down  to  within  an  inch  of  the  sash,  so  that  I  could  not 
be  seen.  When  she  came  out  on  the  doorstep,  my  heart  leaped.  I  ran  to 
the  hall,  seized  my  books,  and  followed  her.  I  kept  her  brown  figure  always 
in  my  eye,  and,  when  we  came  near  the  point  at  which  our  ways  diverged, 
I  quickened  my  pace  and  passed  her.  This  happened  morning  after  morning. 
I  had  never  spoken  to  her,  except  for  a  few  casual  words,  and  yet  her  name 
was  like  a  summons  to  all  my  foolish  blood. 

Her  image  accompanied  me  even  in  places  the  most  hostile  to  romance. 
On  Saturday  evenings,  when  my  aunt  went  marketing,  I  had  to  go  to  carry 
some  of  the  parcels.  We  walked  through  the  flaring  streets,  jostled  by 
drunken  men  and  bargaining  women,  amid  the  curses  of  labourers,  the 
shrill  litanies  of  shop-boys  who  stood  on  guard  by  the  barrels  of  pigs'  cheeks, 
the  nasal  chanting  of  street-singers,  who  sang  a  come-all-you  about 
O'Donovan  Rossa,  or  a  ballad  about  the  troubles  in  our  native  land.  These 
noises  converged  in  a  single  sensation  of  life  for  me:  I  imagined  that  I  bore 
my  chalice  safely  through  a  throng  of  foes.  Her  name  sprang  to  my  lips  at 
moments  in  strange  prayers  and  praises  which  I  myself  did  not  understand. 
My  eyes  were  often  full  of  tears  (I  could  not  tell  why)  and  at  times  a  flood 
from  my  heart  seemed  to  pour  itself  out  into  my  bosom.  I  thought  little  of 
the  future.  I  did  not  know  whether  I  would  ever  speak  to  her  or  not,  or,  if 
I  spoke  to  her,  how  I  could  tell  her  of  my  confused  adoration.  But  my  body 
was  like  a  harp,  and  her  words  and  gestures  were  like  fingers  running  upon 
the  wires. 

One  evening  I  went  into  the  back  drawing-room,  in  which  the  priest  had 
died.  It  was  a  dark  rainy  evening,  and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  house. 
Through  one  of  the  broken  panes  I  heard  the  rain  impinge  upon  the  earth, 
the  fine  incessant  needles  of  water  playing  in  the  sodden  beds.  Some  distant 
lamp  or  lighted  window  gleamed  below  me.  I  was  thankful  that  I  could  see 
so  little.  All  my  senses  seemed  to  desire  to  veil  themselves,  and,  feeling  that 
I  was  about  to  slip  from  them,  I  pressed  the  palms  of  my  hands  together 
until  they  trembled,  murmuring:  'O  love!  O  love!'  many  times. 

At  last  she  spoke  to  me.  When  she  addressed  the  first  words  to  me,  I  was 
so  confused  that  I  did  not  know  what  to  answer.  She  asked  me  was  I  going 
to  Araby.  I  forget  whether  I  answered  yes  or  no.  It  would  be  a  splendid 
bazaar;  she  said  she  would  love  to  go. 

"And  why  can't  you?"  I  asked. 

While  she  spoke,  she  turned  a  silver  bracelet  round  and  round  her  wrist. 
She  could  not  go,  she  said,  because  there  would  be  a  retreat  that  week  in 

ARABY     389 


her  convent.  Her  brother  and  two  other  boys  were  fighting  for  their  caps, 
and  I  was  alone  at  the  railings.  She  held  one  of  the  spikes,  bowing  her 
head  towards  me.  The  light  from  the  lamp  opposite  our  door  caught  the 
white  curve  of  her  neck,  lit  up  her  hair  that  rested  there,  and,  falling,  lit 
up  the  hand  upon  the  railing.  It  fell  over  one  side  of  her  dress  and  caught 
the  white  border  of  a  petticoat,  just  visible  as  she  stood  at  ease. 

"It's  well  for  you,**  she  said. 

"If  I  go,"  I  said,  "I  will  bring  you  something." 

What  innumerable  follies  laid  waste  my  waking  and  sleeping  thoughts 
after  that  evening!  I  wished  to  annihilate  the  tedious  intervening  days. 
I  chafed  against  the  work  of  school.  At  night  in  my  bedroom  and  by  day  in 
the  classroom  her  image  came  between  me  and  the  page  I  strove  to  read. 
The  syllables  of  the  word  Araby  were  called  to  me  through  the  silence  in 
which  my  soul  luxuriated  and  cast  an  Eastern  enchantment  over  me.  I 
asked  for  leave  to  go  to  the  bazaar  on  Saturday  night.  My  aunt  was  surprised 
and  hoped  it  was  not  some  Freemason  affair.  I  answered  few  questions  in 
class,  I  watched  my  master's  face  pass  from  amiability  to  sternness;  he 
hoped  I  was  not  beginning  to  idle.  I  could  not  call  my  wandering  thoughts 
together.  I  had  hardly  any  patience  with  the  serious  work  of  life,  which, 
now  that  it  stood  between  me  and  my  desire,  seemed  to  me  child's  play, 
ugly  monotonous  child's  play. 

On  Saturday  morning  I  reminded  my  uncle  that  I  wished  to  go  to  the 
bazaar  in  the  evening.  He  was  fussing  at  the  hallstand,  looking  for  the  hat- 
brush,  and  answered  me  curtly: 

"Yes,  boy,  I  know." 

As  he  was  in  the  hall,  I  could  not  go  into  the  front  parlour  and  lie  at  the 
window.  I  left  the  house  in  bad  humour  and  walked  slowly  towards  the 
school.  The  air  was  pitilessly  raw,  and  already  my  heart  misgave  me. 

When  I  came  home  to  dinner,  my  uncle  had  not  yet  been  home.  Still,  it 
was  early.  I  sat  staring  at  the  clock  for  some  time,  and,  when  its  ticking 
began  to  irritate  me,  I  left  the  room.  I  mounted  the  staircase  and  gained  the 
upper  part  of  the  house.  The  high  cold  empty  gloomy  rooms  liberated  me 
and  I  went  from  room  to  room  singing.  From  the  front  window  I  saw  my 
companions  playing  below  in  the  street.  Their  cries  reached  me  weakened 
and  indistinct,  and,  leaning  my  forehead  against  the  cool  glass,  I  looked 
over  at  the  dark  house  where  she  lived.  I  may  have  stood  there  for  an  hour, 
seeing  nothing  but  the  brown-clad  figure  cast  by  my  imagination,  touched 
discreetly  by  the  lamplight  at  the  curved  neck,  at  the  hand  upon  the  railings, 
and  at  the  border  below  the  dress. 

When  I  came  downstairs  again,  I  found  Mrs.  Mercer  sitting  at  the  fire. 
She  was  an  old  garrulous  woman,  a  pawnbroker's  widow,  who  collected  used 
stamps  for  some  pious  purpose.  I  had  to  endure  the  gossip  of  the  tea-table. 

390        THK  SHORT   STORY 


The  meal  was  prolonged  beyond  an  hour,  vand  still  my  uncle  did  not  come. 
Mrs.  Mercer  stood  up  to  go:  she  was  sorry  she  couldn't  wait  any  longer,  but 
it  was  after  eight  o'clock,  and  she  did  not  like  to  be  out  late,  as  the  night 
air  was  bad  for  her.  When  she  had  gone,  I  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
room,  clenching  my  fists.  My  aunt  said: 

"I'm  afraid  you  may  put  off  your  bazaar  for  this  night  of  Our  Lord/' 

At  nine  o'clock  I  heard  my  uncle's  latchkey  in  the  hall-door.  I  heard  him 
talking  to  himself  and  heard  the  hall-stand  rocking  when  it  had  received 
the  weight  of  his  overcoat.  I  could  interpret  these  signs.  When  he  was  mid- 
way through  his  dinner,  I  asked  him  to  give  me  the  money  to  go  to  the 
bazaar.  He  had  forgotten. 

"The  people  are  in  bed  and  after  their  first  sleep  now,"  he  said. 

I  did  not  smile.  My  aunt  said  to  him  energetically: 

"Can't  you  give  him  the  money  and  let  him  go?  You've  kept  him  late 
enough  as  it  is/' 

My  uncle  said  he  was  very  sorry  he  had  forgotten.  He  said  he  believed  in 
the  old  saying:  "All  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a  dull  boy."  He  asked  me 
where  I  was  going,  and,  when  I  had  told  him  a  second  time,  he  asked  me 
did  I  know  The  Arab's  Farewell  to  His  Steed.  When  I  left  the  kitchen,  he  was 
about  to  recite  the  opening  lines  of  the  piece  to  my  aunt. 

I  held  a  florin  tightly  in  my  hand  as  I  strode  down  Buckingham  Street 
towards  the  station.  The  sight  of  the  streets  thronged  with  buyers  and  glar- 
ing with  gas  recalled  to  me  the  purpose  of  my  journey.  I  took  my  seat  in  a 
third-class  carriage  of  a  deserted  train.  After  an  intolerable  delay  the  train 
moved  out  of  the  station  slowly.  It  crept  onward  among  ruinous  houses  and 
over  the  twinkling  river.  At  Westland  Row  Station  a  crowd  of  people  pressed 
to  the  carriage  doors;  but  the  porters  moved  them  back,  saying  that  it  was 
a  special  train  for  the  bazaar.  I  remained  alone  in  the  bare  carriage.  In  a 
few  minutes  the  train  drew  up  beside  an  improvised  wooden  platform.  I 
passed  out  on  to  the  road  and  saw  by  the  lighted  dial  of  a  clock  that  it  was 
ten  minutes  to  ten.  In  front  of  me  was  a  large  building  which  displayed  the 
magical  name. 

I  could  not  find  any  sixpenny  entrance,  and,  fearing  that  the  bazaar  would 
be  closed,  I  passed  in  quickly  through  a  turnstile,  handing  a  shilling  to  a 
weary-looking  man.  I  found  myself  in  a  big  hall  girdled  at  half  its  height  by 
a  gallery.  Nearly  all  the  stalls  were  closed  and  the  greater  part  of  the  hall 
was  in  darkness.  I  recognised  a  silence  like  that  which  pervades  a  church 
after  a  service.  I  walked  into  the  centre  of  the  bazaar  timidly.  A  few  people 
were  gathered  about  the  stalls  which  were  still  open.  Before  a  curtain,  over 
which  the  words  Caf£  Chantant  were  written  in  coloured  lamps,  two  men 
were  counting  money  on  a  salver.  I  listened  to  the  fall  of  the  coins. 

Remembering  with  difficulty  why  I  had  come,  I  went  over  to  one  of 

ARABY        391 


the  stalls  and  examined  porcelain  vases  and  flowered  tea-sets.  At  the  door 
of  the  stall  a  young  lady  was  talking  and  laughing  with  two  young  gentlemen. 
I  remarked  their  English  accents  and  listened  vaguely  to  their  conversation. 

"O,  I  never  said  such  a  thing!" 

"O,  but  you  did!" 

"O,  but  I  didn't!" 

"Didn't  she  say  that?" 

"Yes.  I  heard  her." 

"O,  there's  a  ...  fib!" 

Observing  me,  the  young  lady  came  over  and  asked  me  did  I  wish  to  buy 
anything.  The  tone  of  her  voice  was  not  encouraging;  she  seemed  to  have 
spoken  to  me  out  of  a  sense  of  duty.  I  looked  humbly  at  the  great  jars  that 
stood  like  eastern  guards  at  either  side  of  the  dark  entrance  to  the  stall 
and  murmured: 

"No,  thank  you." 

The  young  lady  changed  the  position  of  one  of  the  vases  and  went  back 
to  the  two  young  men.  They  began  to  talk  of  the  same  subject.  Once  or 
twice  the  young  lady  glanced  at  me  over  her  shoulder. 

I  lingered  before  her  stall,  though  I  knew  my  stay  was  useless,  to  make 
my  interest  in  her  wares  seem  the  more  real.  Then  I  turned  away  slowly 
and  walked  down  the  middle  of  the  bazaar.  I  allowed  the  two  pennies  to  fall 
against  the  sixpence  in  iny  pocket.  I  heard  a  voice  call  from  one  end  of  the 
gallery  that  the  light  was  out.  The  upper  part  of  the  hall  was  now  completely 
dark. 

Gazing  up  into  the  darkness,  I  saw  myself  as  a  creature  driven  and  derided 
by  vanity;  and  my  eyes  burned  with  anguish  and  anger.  (1914) 


KATHERINE   MANSFIELD 


Miss  Brill 


A  THOUGH  it  was  so  brilliantly  fine— the  blue  sky  powdered  with  gold  and 
great  spots  of  light  like  white  wine  splashed  over  the  Jardins  Publiques 
—Miss  Brill  was  glad  that  she  had  decided  on  her  fur.  The  air  was  motion- 
less, but  when  you  opened  your  mouth  there  was  just  a  faint  chill,  like  a 
chill  from  a  glass  of  iced  water  before  you  sip,  and  now  and  again  a  leaf 
came  drifting— from  nowhere,  from  the  sky.  Miss  Brill  put  up  her  hand  and 


Reprinted  from  The  Garden  Party  by  {Catherine  Mansfield,  by  permission  of  Alfred  A. 
Knopf,  Inc.  Copyright  1922  by  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc. 

392         THE   SHORT    STORY 


touched  her  fur.  Dear  little  thing!  It  was  nice  to  feel  it  again.  She  had 
taken  it  out  of  its  box  that  afternoon,  shaken  out  the  moth-powder,  given 
it  a  good  brush,  and  rubbed  the  life  back  into  the  dim  little  eyes.  "What 
has  been  happening  to  me?"  said  the  sad  little  eyes.  Oh,  how  sweet  it  was 
to  see  them  snap  at  her  again  from  the  red  eiderdown!  ,  .  .  But  the  nose, 
which  was  of  some  black  composition,  wasn't  at  all  firm.  It  must  have  had 
a  knock,  somehow.  Never  mind— a  little  dab  of  black  sealing-wax  when  the 
time  came— when  it  was  absolutely  necessary.  .  .  .  Little  rogue!  Yes,  she 
really  felt  like  that  about  it.  Little  rogue  biting  its  tail  just  by  her  left  ear.  She 
could  have  taken  it  off  and  laid  it  on  her  lap  and  stroked  it.  She  felt  a 
tingling  in  her  hands  and  arms,  but  that  came  from  walking,  she  supposed. 
And  when  she  breathed,  something  light  and  sad—no,  not  sad,  exactly— 
something  gentle  seemed  to  move  in  her  bosom. 

There  were  a  number  of  people  out  this  afternoon,  far  more  than  last 
Sunday.  And  the  band  sounded  louder  and  gayer.  That  was  because  the 
Season  had  begun.  For  although  the  band  played  all  the  year  round  on 
Sundays,  out  of  season  it  was  never  the  same.  It  was  like  some  one  playing 
with  only  the  family  to  listen;  it  didn't  care  how  it  played  if  there  weren't 
any  strangers  present.  Wasn't  the  conductor  wearing  a  new  coat,  too?  She 
was  sure  it  was  new.  He  scraped  with  his  foot  and  flapped  his  arms  like 
a  rooster  about  to  crow,  and  the  bandsmen  sitting  in  the  green  rotunda  blew 
out  their  cheeks  and  glared  at  the  music.  Now  there  came  a  little  "flutey" 
bit— very  pretty!— a  little  chain  of  bright  drops.  She  was  sure  it  would  be 
repeated.  It  was;  she  lifted  her  head  and  smiled. 

Only  two  people  shared  her  "special"  seat:  a  fine  old  man  in  a  velvet 
coat,  his  hands  clasped  over  a  huge  carved  walking-stick,  and  a  big  old 
woman,  sitting  upright,  with  a  roll  of  knitting  on  her  embroidered  apron. 
They  did  not  speak.  This  was  disappointing,  for  Miss  Brill  always  looked 
forward  to  the  conversation.  She  had  become  really  quite  expert,  she  thought, 
at  listening  as  though  she  didn't  listen,  at  sitting  in  other  people's  lives  just 
for  a  minute  while  they  talked  round  her. 

She  glanced,  sideways,  at  the  old  couple.  Perhaps  they  would  go  soon. 
Last  Sunday,  too,  hadn't  been  as  interesting  as  usual.  An  Englishman  and 
his  wife,  he  wearing  a  dreadful  Panama  hat  and  she  button  boots.  And  she'd 
gone  on  the  whole  time  about  how  she  ought  to  wear  spectacles;  she 
knew  she  needed  them;  but  that  it  was  no  good  getting  any;  they'd  be  sure 
to  break  and  they'd  never  keep  on.  And  he'd  been  so  patient.  He'd  suggested 
everything— gold  rims,  the  kind  that  curved  round  your  ears,  little  pads 
inside  the  bridge.  No,  nothing  would  please  her.  "They'll  always  be  sliding 
down  my  nose!"  Miss  Brill  had  wanted  to  shake  her. 

The  old  people  sat  on  the  bench,  still  as  statues.  Never  mind,  there  was 

MISS  BRILL      393 


always  the  crowd  to  watch.  To  and  fro,  in  front  of  the  flower-beds  and 
the  band  rotunda,  the  couples  and  groups  paraded,  stopped  to  talk,  to 
greet,  to  buy  a  handful  of  flowers  from  the  old  beggar  who  had  his  tray 
fixed  to  the  railings.  Little  children  ran  among  them,  swooping  and  laugh- 
ing; little  boys  with  big  white  silk  bows  under  their  chins,  little  girls, 
little  French  dolls,  dressed  up  in  velvet  and  lace.  And  sometimes  a  tiny 
staggerer  came  suddenly  rocking  into  the  open  from  under  the  trees,  stopped, 
stared,  as  suddenly  sat  down  "flop,"  until  its  small  high-stepping  mother, 
like  a  young  hen,  rushed  scolding  to  its  rescue.  Other  people  sat  on  the 
benches  and  green  chairs,  but  they  were  nearly  always  the  same,  Sunday 
after  Sunday,  and— Miss  Brill  had  often  noticed— there  was  something 
funny  about  nearly  all  of  them.  They  were  odd,  silent,  nearly  all  old,  and 
from  the  way  they  stared  they  looked  as  though  they'd  just  come  from 
dark  little  rooms  or  even— even  cupboards! 

Behind  the  rotunda  the  slender  trees  with  yellow  leaves  down  drooping, 
and  through  them  just  a  line  of  sea,  and  beyond  the  blue  sky  with  gold- 
veined  clouds. 

Tum-tum-tum  tiddle-um!  tiddle-um!  turn  tiddley-um  turn  ta!  blew  the 
band. 

Two  young  girls  in  red  came  by  and  two  young  soldiers  in  blue  met 
them,  and  they  laughed  and  paired  and  went  off  arm-in-arm.  Two  peasant 
women  with  funny  straw  hats  passed,  gravely,  leading  beautiful  smoke- 
colored  donkeys.  A  cold,  pale  nun  hurried  by.  A  beautiful  woman  came 
along  and  dropped  her  bunch  of  violets,  and  a  little  boy  ran  after  to  hand 
them  to  her,  and  she  took  them  and  threw  them  away  as  if  they'd  been 
poisoned.  Dear  me!  Miss  Brill  didn't  know  whether  to  admire  that  or  not! 
And  now  an  ermine  toque  and  a  gentleman  in  gray  met  just  in  front  of  her. 
He  was  tall,  stiff,  dignified,  and  she  was  wearing  the  ermine  toque  she'd 
bought  when  her  hair  was  yellow.  Now  everything,  her  hair,  her  face, 
even  her  eyes,  was  the  same  color  as  the  shabby  ermine,  and  her  hand, 
in  its  cleaned  glove,  lifted  to  dab  her  lips,  was  a  tiny  yellowish  paw.  Oh, 
she  was  so  pleased  to  see  him— delighted!  She  rather  thought  they  were 
going  to  meet  that  afternoon.  She  described  where  she'd  been— everywhere, 
here,  there,  along  by  the  sea.  The  day  was  so  charming— didn't  he  agree? 
And  wouldn't  he,  perhaps?  .  .  .  But  he  shook  his  head,  lighted  a  cigarette, 
slowly  breathed  a  great  deep  puff  into  her  face,  and,  even  while  she  was 
still  talking  and  kughing,  flicked  the  match  away  and  walked  on.  The 
ermine  toque  was  alone;  she  smiled  more  brightly  than  ever.  But  even 
the  band  seemed  to  know  what  she  was  feeling  and  played  more  softly, 
played  tenderly,  and  the  drum  beat,  "The  Brute!  The  Brute!"  over  and 
over.  What  would  she  do?  What  was  going  to  happen  now?  But  as  Miss 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


Brill  wondered,  the  ermine  toque  turned,  raised  her  hand  as  though  she'd 
seen  some  one  else,  much  nicer,  just  over  there,  and  pattered  away.  And 
the  band  changed  again  and  played  more  quickly,  more  gayly  than  ever, 
and  the  old  couple  on  Miss  Brill's  seat  got  up  and  marched  away,  and  such 
a  funny  old  man  with  long  whiskers  hobbled  along  in  time  to  the  music  and 
was  nearly  knocked  over  by  four  girls  walking  abreast. 

Oh,  how  fascinating  it  was!  How  she  enjoyed  it!  How  she  loved  sitting 
here,  watching  it  all!  It  was  like  a  play.  It  was  exactly  like  a  play.  Who 
could  believe  the  sky  at  the  back  wasn't  painted?  But  it  wasn't  till  a  little 
brown  dog  trotted  on  solemn  and  then  slowly  trotted  off,  like  a  little  "theater" 
dog,  a  little  dog  that  had  been  drugged,  that  Miss  Brill  discovered  what  it 
was  that  made  it  so  exciting.  They  were  all  on  the  stage.  They  weren't 
only  the  audience,  not  only  looking  on;  they  were  acting.  Even  she  had 
a  part  and  came  every  Sunday.  No  doubt  somebody  would  have  noticed  if 
she  hadn't  been  there;  she  was  part  of  the  performance  after  all.  How 
strange  she'd  never  thought  of  it  like  that  before!  And  yet  it  explained  why 
she  made  such  a  point  of  starting  from  home  at  just  the  same  time  each 
week— so  as  not  to  be  late  for  the  performance— and  it  also  explained  why 
she  had  quite  a  queer,  shy  feeling  at  telling  her  English  pupils  how  she 
spent  her  Sunday  afternoons.  No  wonder!  Miss  Brill  nearly  laughed  out 
loud.  She  was  on  the  stage.  She  thought  of  the  old  invalid  gentleman  to 
whom  she  read  the  newspaper  four  afternoons  a  week  while  he  slept  in 
the  garden.  She  had  got  quite  used  to  the  frail  head  on  the  cotton  pillow, 
the  hollowed  eyes,  the  open  mouth  and  the  high  pinched  nose.  If  he'd  been 
dead  she  mightn't  have  noticed  for  weeks;  she  wouldn't  have  minded.  But 
suddenly  he  knew  he  was  having  the  paper  read  to  him  by  an  actress! 
"An  actress!"  The  old  head  lifted;  two  points  of  light  quivered  in  the  old 
eyes.  "An  actress— are  ye?"  And  Miss  Brill  smoothed  the  newspaper  as  though 
it  were  the  manuscript  of  her  part  and  said  gently:  "Yes,  I  have  been  an 
actress  for  a  long  time." 

The  band  had  been  having  a  rest.  Now  they  started  again.  And  what 
they  played  was  warm,  sunny,  yet  there  was  just  a  faint  chill— a  something, 
what  was  it?— not  sadness— no,  not  sadness— a  something  that  made  you 
want  to  sing.  The  tune  lifted,  lifted,  the  light  shone;  and  it  seemed  to  Miss 
Brill  that  in  another  moment  all  of  them,  all  the  whole  company,  would 
begin  singing.  The  young  ones,  the  laughing  ones  who  were  moving  together, 
they  would  begin,  and  the  men's  voices,  very  resolute  and  brave,  would  join 
them.  And  then  she  too,  she  too,  and  the  others  on  the  benches— they  would 
come  in  with  a  kind  of  accompaniment— something  low,  that  scarcely  rose 
or  fell,  something  so  beautiful— moving.  .  .  .  And  Miss  Brill's  eyes  filled  with 
tears  and  she  looked  smiling  at  all  the  other  members  of  the  company.  Yes, 

MISS  BRILL        395 


we  understand,  we  understand,  she  thought— though  what  they  understood 
she  didn't  know. 

Just  at  that  moment  a  boy  and  a  girl  came  and  sat  down  where  the  old 
couple  had  been.  They  were  beautifully  dressed;  they  were  in  love.  The 
hero  and  heroine,  of  course,  just  arrived  from  his  father's  yacht.  And  still 
soundlessly  singing,  still  with  that  trembling  smile,  Miss  Brill  prepared  to 
listen. 

"No,  not  now,"  said  the  girl.  "Not  here,  I  can't." 

"But  why?  Because  of  that  stupid  old  thing  at  the  end  there?"  asked 
the  boy.  "Why  does  she  come  here  at  all— who  wants  her?  Why  doesn't 
she  keep  her  silly  old  mug  at  home?" 

"It's  her  fu-fur  which  is  so  funny,"  giggled  the  girl.  "It's  exactly  like  a 
fried  whiting." 

"Ah,  be  off  with  you!"  said  the  boy  in  an  angry  whisper.  Then:  "Tell  me, 
ma  petite  chere— " 

"No,  not  here,"  said  the  girl.  "Not  yet" 

On  her  way  home  she  usually  bought  a  slice  of  honeycake  at  the  baker's. 
It  was  her  Sunday  treat.  Sometimes  there  was  an  almond  in  her  slice, 
sometimes  not.  It  made  a  great  difference.  If  there  was  an  almond  it  was 
like  carrying  home  a  tiny  present— a  surprise— something  that  might  very 
well  not  have  been  there.  She  hurried  on  the  almond  Sundays  and  struck 
the  match  for  the  kettle  in  quite  a  dashing  way. 

But  to-day  she  passed  the  baker's  by,  climbed  the  stairs,  went  into  the 
little  dark  room— her  room  like  a  cupboard— and  sat  down  on  the  red  eider- 
down. She  sat  there  for  a  long  time.  The  box  that  the  fur  came  out  of  was 
on  the  bed.  She  unclasped  the  necklet  quickly;  quickly,  without  looking, 
laid  it  inside.  But  when  she  put  the  lid  on  she  thought  she  heard  something 
crying.  (1920) 


396 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


FRANZ  KAFKA 


A  hunger  artist 


DURING  these  last  decades  the  interest  in  professional  fasting  has 
markedly  diminished.  It  used  to  pay  very  well  to  stage  such  great 
performances  under  one's  own  management,  but  today  that  is  quite  im- 
possible. We  live  in  a  different  world  now.  At  one  time  the  whole  town 
took  a  lively  interest  in  the  hunger  artist;  from  day  to  day  of  his  fast  the 
excitement  mounted;  everybody  wanted  to  see  him  at  least  once  a  day; 
there  were  people  who  bought  season  tickets  for  the  last  few  days  and  sat 
from  morning  till  night  in  front  of  his  small  barred  cage;  even  in  the  night- 
time there  were  visiting  hours,  when  the  whole  effect  was  heightened  by 
torch  flares;  on  fine  days  the  cage  was  set  out  in  the  open  air,  and  then  it 
was  the  children's  special  treat  to  see  the  hunger  artist;  for  their  elders  he 
was  often  just  a  joke  that  happened  to  be  in  fashion,  but  the  children 
stood  open-mouthed,  holding  each  other's  hands  for  greater  security, 
marveling  at  him  as  he  sat  there  pallid  in  black  tights,  with  his  ribs  sticking 
out  so  prominently,  not  even  on  a  seat  but  down  among  straw  on  the 
ground,  sometimes  giving  a  courteous  nod,  answering  questions  with  a 
constrained  smile,  or  perhaps  stretching  an  arm  through  the  bars  so  that 
one  might  feel  how  thin  it  was,  and  then  again  withdrawing  deep  into 
himself,  paying  no  attention  to  anyone  or  anything,  not  even  to  the  all- 
important  striking  of  the  clock  that  was  the  only  piece  of  furniture  in  his 
cage,  but  merely  staring  into  vacancy  with  half -shut  eyes,  now  and  then 
taking  a  sip  from  a  tiny  glass  of  water  to  moisten  his  lips. 

Besides  casual  onlookers  there  were  also  relays  of  permanent  watchers 
selected  by  the  public,  usually  butchers,  strangely  enough,  and  it  was  their 
task  to  watch  the  hunger  artist  day  and  night,  three  of  them  at  a  time,  in 
case  he  should  have  some  secret  recourse  to  nourishment.  This  was  nothing 
but  a  formality,  instituted  to  reassure  the  masses,  for  the  initiates  knew 
well  enough  that  during  his  fast  the  artist  would  never  in  any  circum- 
stances, not  even  under  forcible  compulsion,  swallow  the  smallest  morsel 
of  food;  the  honor  of  his  profession  forbade  it.  Not  every  watcher,  of  course, 
was  capable  of  understanding  this,  there  were  often  groups  of  night 
watchers  who  were  very  lax  in  carrying  out  their  duties  and  deliberately 
huddled  together  in  a  retired  corner  to  play  cards  with  great  absorption, 
obviously  intending  to  give  the  hunger  artist  the  chance  of  a  little  refresh- 


Reprinted  from  The  Penal  Colony,  by  Franz  Kafka.  Translated  by  Willa  and  Edwin 
Muir.  Copyright  1948  by  Schocken  Books. 

A  HUNGER  ARTIST        397 


ment,  which  they  supposed  he  could  draw  from  some  private  hoard. 
Nothing  annoyed  the  artist  more  than  such  watchers;  they  made  him 
miserable;  they  made  his  fast  seem  unendurable;  sometimes  he  mastered 
his  feebleness  sufficiently  to  sing  during  their  watch  for  as  long  as  he  could 
keep  going,  to  show  them  how  unjust  their  suspicions  were.  But  that  was  of 
little  use;  they  only  wondered  at  his  cleverness  in  being  able  to  fill  his 
mouth  even  while  singing.  Much  more  to  his  taste  were  the  watchers  who 
sat  close  up  to  the  bars,  who  were  not  content  with  the  dim  night  lighting 
of  the  hall  but  focused  him  in  the  full  glare  of  the  electric  pocket  torch 
given  them  by  the  impresario.  The  harsh  light  did  not  trouble  him  at  all,  in 
any  case  he  could  never  sleep  properly,  and  he  could  always  drowse  a 
little,  whatever  the  light,  at  any  hour,  even  when  the  hall  was  thronged 
with  noisy  onlookers.  He  was  quite  happy  at  the  prospect  of  spending  a 
sleepless  night  with  such  watchers;  he  was  ready  to  exchange  jokes  with 
them,  to  tell  them  stories  out  of  his  nomadic  life,  anything  at  all  to  keep 
them  awake  and  demonstrate  to  them  again  that  he  had  no  eatables  in  his 
cage  and  that  he  was  fasting  as  not  one  of  them  could  fast.  But  his  happiest 
moment  was  when  the  morning  came  and  an  enormous  breakfast  was 
brought  them,  at  his  expense,  on  which  they  flung  themselves  with  the 
keen  appetite  of  healthy  men  after  a  weary  night  of  wakefulness.  Of  course 
there  were  people  who  argued  that  this  breakfast  was  an  unfair  attempt 
to  bribe  the  watchers,  but  that  was  going  rather  too  far,  and  when  they 
were  invited  to  take  on  a  night's  vigil  without  a  breakfast,  merely  for  the 
sake  of  the  cause,  they  made  themselves  scarce,  although  they  stuck  stub- 
bornly to  their  suspicions. 

Such  suspicions,  anyhow,  were  a  necessary  accompaniment  to  the  pro- 
fession of  fasting.  No  one  could  possibly  watch  the  hunger  artist  con- 
tinuously, day  and  night,  and  so  no  one  could  produce  first-hand  evidence 
that  the  fast  had  really  been  rigorous  and  continuous;  only  the  artist  him- 
self could  know  that,  he  was  therefore  bound  to  be  the  sole  completely 
satisfied  spectator  of  his  own  fast.  Yet  for  other  reasons  he  was  never 
satisfied;  it  was  not  perhaps  mere  fasting  that  had  brought  him  to  such 
skeleton  thinness  that  many  people  had  regretfully  to  keep  away  from  his 
exhibitions,  because  the  sight  of  him  was  too  much  for  them,  perhaps  it  was 
dissatisfaction  with  himself  that  had  worn  him  down.  For  he  alone  knew, 
what  no  other  initiate  knew,  how  easy  it  was  to  fast.  It  was  the  easiest  thing 
in  the  world.  He  made  no  secret  of  this,  yet  people  did  not  believe  him, 
at  the  best  they  set  him  down  as  modest,  most  of  them,  however,  thought 
he  was  out  for  publicity  or  else  was  some  kind  of  cheat  who  found  it  easy 
to  fast  because  he  had  discovered  a  way  of  making  it  easy,  and  then  had 
the  impudence  to  admit  the  fact,  more  or  less.  He  had  to  put  up  with  all 

398        THE  SHORT  STORY 


that,  and  in  the  course  of  time  had  got  used  to  it,  but  his  inner  dissatisfac- 
tion always  rankled,  and  never  yet,  after  any  term  of  fasting—this  must  be 
granted  to  his  credit— had  he  left  the  cage  of  his  own  free  will.  The  longest 
period  of  fasting  was  fixed  by  his  impresario  at  forty  days,  beyond  that 
term  he  was  not  allowed  to  go,  not  even  in  great  cities,  and  there  was  good 
reason  for  it,  too.  Experience  had  proved  that  for  about  forty  days  the 
interest  of  the  public  could  be  stimulated  by  a  steadily  increasing  pressure 
of  advertisement,  but  after  that  the  town  began  to  lose  interest,  sympathetic 
support  began  notably  to  fall  off;  there  were  of  course  local  variations  as 
between  one  town  and  another  or  one  country  and  another,  but  as  a  general 
rule  forty  days  marked  the  limit.  So  on  the  fortieth  day  the  flower-bedecked 
cage  was  opened,  enthusiastic  spectators  filled  the  hall,  a  military  band 
played,  two  doctors  entered  the  cage  to  measure  the  results  of  the  fast, 
which  were  announced  through  a  megaphone,  and  finally  two  young 
ladies  appeared,  blissful  at  having  been  selected  for  the  honor,  to  help  the 
hunger  artist  down  the  few  steps  leading  to  a  small  table  on  which  was 
spread  a  carefully  chosen  invalid  repast.  And  at  this  very  moment  the 
artist  always  turned  stubborn.  True,  he  would  entrust  his  bony  arms  to  the 
outstretched  helping  hands  of  the  ladies  bending  over  him,  but  stand  up 
he  would  not.  Why  stop  fasting  at  this  particular  moment,  after  forty  days 
of  it?  He  had  held  out  for  a  long  time,  an  illimitably  long  time;  why  stop 
now,  when  he  was  in  his  best  fasting  form,  or  rather,  not  yet  quite  in  his 
best  fasting  form?  Why  should  he  be  cheated  of  the  fame  he  would  get  for 
fasting  longer,  for  being  not  only  the  record  hunger  artist  of  all  time,  which 
presumably  he  was  already,  but  for  beating  his  own  record  by  a  per- 
formance beyond  human  imagination,  since  he  felt  that  there  were  no 
limits  to  his  capacity  for  fasting?  His  public  pretended  to  admire  him  so 
much,  why  should  it  have  so  little  patience  with  him;  if  he  could  endure 
fasting  longer,  why  shouldn't  the  public  endure  it?  Besides,  he  was  tired, 
he  was  comfortable  sitting  in  the  straw,  and  now  he  was  supposed  to  lift 
himself  to  his  full  height  and  go  down  to  a  meal  the  very  thought  of  which 
gave  him  a  nausea  that  only  the  presence  of  the  ladies  kept  him  from 
betraying,  and  even  that  with  an  effort.  And  he  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of 
the  ladies  who  were  apparently  so  friendly  and  in  reality  so  cruel,  and 
shook  his  head,  which  felt  too  heavy  on  its  strengthless  neck.  But  then 
there  happened  yet  again  what  always  happened.  The  impresario  came 
forward,  without  a  word— for  the  band  made  speech  impossible— lifted  his 
arms  in  the  air  above  the  artist,  as  if  inviting  Heaven  to  look  down  upon 
its  creature  here  in  the  straw,  this  suffering  martyr,  which  indeed  he  was, 
although  in  quite  another  sense;  grasped  him  round  the  emaciated  waist, 
with  exaggerated  caution,  so  that  the  frail  condition  he  was  in  might  be 

A  HUNGER  ARTIST        399 


appreciated;  and  committed  him  to  the  care  of  the  blenching  ladies,  not 
without  secretly  giving  him  a  shaking  so  that  his  legs  and  body  tottered 
and  swayed.  The  artist  now  submitted  completely;  his  head  lolled  on  his 
breast  as  if  it  had  landed  there  by  chance;  his  body  was  hollowed  out; 
his  legs  in  a  spasm  of  self-preservation  clung  close  to  each  other  at  the 
knees,  yet  scraped  on  the  ground  as  if  it  were  not  really  solid  ground,  as  if 
they  were  only  trying  to  find  solid  ground;  and  the  whole  weight  of  his 
body,  a  featherweight  after  all,  relapsed  onto  one  of  the  ladies,  who,  look- 
ing round  for  help  and  panting  a  little— this  post  of  honor  was  not  at  all 
what  she  had  expected  it  to  be—first  stretched  her  neck  as  far  as  she  could 
to  keep  her  face  at  least  free  from  contact  with  the  artist,  then  finding  this 
impossible,  and  her  more  fortunate  companion  not  coming  to  her  aid  but 
merely  holding  extended  on  her  own  trembling  hand  the  little  bunch  of 
knucklebones  that  was  the  artist's,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  spectators 
burst  into  tears  and  had  to  be  replaced  by  an  attendant  who  had  long 
been  stationed  in  readiness.  Then  came  the  food,  a  little  of  which  the 
impresario  managed  to  get  between  the  artist's  lips,  while  he  sat  in  a  kind 
of  half-fainting  trance,  to  the  accompaniment  of  cheerful  patter  designed 
to  distract  the  public's  attention  from  the  artist's  condition;  after  that,  a 
toast  was  drunk  to  the  public,  supposedly  prompted  by  a  whisper  from  the 
artist  in  the  impresario's  ear;  the  band  confirmed  it  with  a  mighty  flourish, 
the  spectators  melted  away,  and  no  one  had  any  cause  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  the  proceedings,  no  one  except  the  hunger  artist  himself,  he  only,  as 
always. 

So  he  lived  for  many  years,  with  small  regular  intervals  of  recuperation, 
in  visible  glory,  honored  by  the  world,  yet  in  spite  of  that  troubled  in  spirit, 
and  all  the  more  troubled  because  no  one  would  take  his  trouble  seriously. 
What  comfort  could  he  possibly  need?  What  more  could  he  possibly  wish 
for?  And  if  some  good-natured  person,  feeling  sorry  for  him,  tried  to  con- 
sole him  by  pointing  out  that  his  melancholy  was  probably  caused  by 
fasting,  it  could  happen,  especially  when  he  had  been  fasting  for  some 
time,  that  he  reacted  with  an  outburst  of  fury  and  to  the  general  alarm 
began  to  shake  the  bars  of  his  cage  like  a  wild  animal.  Yet  the  impresario 
had  a  way  of  punishing  these  outbreaks  which  he  rather  enjoyed  putting 
into  operation.  He  would  apologize  publicly  for  the  artist's  behavior, 
which  was  only  to  be  excused,  he  admitted,  because  of  the  irritability 
caused  by  fasting;  a  condition  hardly  to  be  understood  by  well-fed  people; 
then  by  natural  transition  he  went  on  to  mention  the  artist's  equally  in- 
comprehensible boast  that  he  could  fast  for  much  longer  than  he  was  do- 
ing; he  praised  the  high  ambition,  the  good  will,  the  great  self-denial 
undoubtedly  implicit  in  such  a  statement;  and  then  quite  simply  countered 


400 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


it  by  bringing  out  photographs,  which  were  also  on  sale  to  the  public, 
showing  the  artist  on  the  fortieth  day  of  a  fast  lying  in  bed  almost  dead 
from  exhaustion.  This  perversion  of  the  truth,  familiar  to  the  artist  though 
it  was,  always  unnerved  him  afresh  and  proved  too  much  for  him.  What 
was  a  consequence  of  the  premature  ending  of  his  fast  was  here  presented 
as  the  cause  of  it!  To  fight  against  this  lack  of  understanding,  against  a 
whole  world  of  non-understanding,  was  impossible.  Time  and  again  in  good 
faith  he  stood  by  the  bars  listening  to  the  impresario,  but  as  soon  as  thg 
photographs  appeared  he  always  let  go  and  sank  with  a  groan  back  on  to 
his  straw,  and  the  reassured  public  could  once  more  come  close  and  gaze 
at  him. 

A  few  years  later  when  the  witnesses  of  such  scenes  called  them  to  mind, 
they  often  failed  to  understand  themselves  at  all.  For  meanwhile  the  afore- 
mentioned change  in  public  interest  had  set  in;  it  seemed  to  happen  almost 
overnight;  there  may  have  been  profound  causes  for  it,  but  who  was  going 
to  bother  about  that;  at  any  rate  the  pampered  hunger  artist  suddenly 
found  himself  deserted  one  fine  day  by  the  amusement  seekers,  who  went 
streaming  past  him  to  other  more  favored  attractions.  For  the  last  time 
the  impresario  hurried  him  over  half  Europe  to  discover  whether  the  old 
interest  might  still  survive  here  and  there;  all  in  vain;  everywhere,  as  if  by 
secret  agreement,  a  positive  revulsion  from  professional  fasting  was  in  evi- 
dence. Of  course  it  could  not  really  have  sprung  up  so  suddenly  as  all 
that,  and  many  premonitory  symptoms  which  had  not  been  sufficiently 
remarked  or  suppressed  during  the  rush  and  glitter  of  success  now  came 
retrospectively  to  mind,  but  it  was  now  too  late  to  take  any  counter- 
measures.  Fasting  would  surely  come  into  fashion  again  at  some  future 
date,  yet  that  was  no  comfort  for  those  living  in  the  present.  What,  then, 
was  the  hunger  artist  to  do?  He  had  been  applauded  by  thousands  in  his 
time  and  could  hardly  come  down  to  showing  himself  in  a  street  booth  at 
village  fairs,  and  as  for  adopting  another  profession,  he  was  not  only  too 
old  for  that  but  too  fanatically  devoted  to  fasting.  So  he  took  leave  of  the 
impresario,  his  partner  in  an  unparalleled  career,  and  hired  himself  to  a 
large  circus;  in  order  to  spare  his  own  feelings  he  avoided  reading  the  con- 
ditions of  his  contract. 

A  large  circus  with  its  enormous  traffic  in  replacing  and  recruiting  men, 
animals  and  apparatus  can  always  find  a  use  for  people  at  any  time,  even 
for  a  hunger  artist,  provided  of  course  that  he  does  not  ask  too  much,  and 
in  this  particular  case  anyhow  it  was  not  only  the  artist  who  was  taken  on 
but  his  famous  and  long-known  name  as  well,  indeed  considering  the 
peculiar  nature  of  his  performance,  which  was  not  impaired  by  advancing 
age,  it  could  not  be  objected  that  here  was  an  artist  past  his  prime,  no 

A   HUNGER  ARTIST        401 


longer  at  the  height  of  his  professional  skill,  seeking  a  refuge  in  some  quiet 
corner  of  a  circus,  on  the  contrary,  the  hunger  artist  averred  that  he  could 
fast  as  well  as  ever,  which  was  entirely  credible,  he  even  alleged  that  if  he 
were  allowed  to  fast  as  he  liked,  and  this  was  at  once  promised  him  with- 
out more  ado,  he  could  astound  the  world  by  establishing  a  record  never 
yet  achieved,  a  statement  which  certainly  provoked  a  smile  among  the 
other  professionals,  since  it  left  out  of  account  the  change  in  public  opinion, 
which  the  hunger  artist  in  his  zeal  conveniently  forgot. 

He  had  not,  however,  actually  lost  his  sense  of  the  real  situation  and 
took  it  as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  and  his  cage  should  be  stationed,  not 
in  the  middle  of  the  ring  as  a  main  attraction,  but  outside,  near  the  animal 
cages,  on  a  site  that  was  after  all  easily  accessible.  Large  and  gaily  painted 
placards  made  a  frame  for  the  cage  and  announced  what  was  to  be 
seen  inside  it.  When  the  public  came  thronging  out  in  the  intervals  to  see 
the  animals,  they  could  hardly  avoid  passing  the  hunger  artist's  cage  and 
stopping  there  for  a  moment,  perhaps  they  might  even  have  stayed  longer 
had  not  those  pressing  behind  them  in  the  narrow  gangway,  who  did  not 
understand  why  they  should  be  held  up  on  their  way  towards  the  excite- 
ments of  the  menagerie,  made  it  impossible  for  anyone  to  stand  gazing 
quietly  for  any  length  of  time.  And  that  was  the  reason  why  the  hunger 
artist,  who  had  of  course  been  looking  forward  to  these  visiting  hours  as 
the  main  achievement  of  his  life,  began  instead  to  shrink  from  them.  At 
first  he  could  hardly  wait  for  the  intervals;  it  was  exhilarating  to  watch 
the  crowds  come  streaming  his  way,  until  only  too  soon— not  even  the  most 
obstinate  self-deception,  clung  to  almost  consciously,  could  hold  out  against 
the  fact— the  conviction  was  borne  in  upon  him  that  these  people,  most  of 
them,  to  judge  from  their  actions,  again  and  again,  without  exception, 
were  all  on  their  way  to  the  menagerie.  And  the  first  sight  of  them  from  the 
distance  remained  the  best.  For  when  they  reached  his  cage  he  was  at  once 
deafened  by  the  storm  of  shouting  and  abuse  that  arose  from  the  two  con- 
tending factions,  which  renewed  themselves  continuously,  of  those  who 
wanted  to  stop  and  stare  at  him— he  soon  began  to  dislike  them  more  than 
the  others— not  out  of  real  interest  but  only  out  of  obstinate  self-assertive- 
ness,  and  those  who  wanted  to  go  straight  on  to  the  animals.  When  the 
first  great  rush  was  past,  the  stragglers  came  along,  and  these,  whom 
nothing  could  have  prevented  from  stopping  to  look  at  him  as  long  as  they 
had  breath,  raced  past  with  long  strides,  hardly  even  glancing  at  him,  in 
their  haste  to  get  to  the  menagerie  in  time.  And  all  too  rarely  did  it  hap- 
pen that  he  had  a  stroke  of  luck,  when  some  father  of  a  family  fetched  up 
before  him  with  his  children,  pointed  a  finger  at  the  hunger  artist  and  ex- 
plained at  length  what  the  phenomenon  meant,  telling  stories  of  earlier 


402 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


years  when  he  himself  had  watched  similar  but  much  more  thrilling  per- 
formances, and  the  children,  still  rather  uncomprehending,  since  neither 
inside  nor  outside  school  had  they  been  sufficiently  prepared  for  this 
lesson— what  did  they  care  about  fasting?— yet  showed  by  the  brightness 
of  their  intent  eyes  that  new  and  better  times  might  be  coming.  Perhaps, 
said  the  hunger  artist  to  himself  many  a  time,  things  would  be  a  little  better 
if  his  cage  were  set  not  quite  so  near  the  menagerie.  That  made  it  too  easy 
for  people  to  make  their  choice,  to  say  nothing  of  what  he  suffered  from 
the  stench  of  the  menagerie,  the  animals'  restlessness  by  night,  the  carrying 
past  of  raw  lumps  of  flesh  for  the  beasts  of  prey,  the  roaring  at  feeding 
times,  which  depressed  him  continually.  But  he  did  not  dare  to  lodge  a 
complaint  with  the  management;  after  all,  he  had  the  animals  to  thank  for 
the  troops  of  people  who  passed  his  cage,  among  whom  there  might  always 
be  one  here  and  there  to  take  an  interest  in  him,  and  who  could  tell  where 
they  might  seclude  him  if  he  called  attention  to  his  existence  and  thereby 
to  the  fact  that,  strictly  speaking,  he  was  only  an  impediment  on  the  way 
to  the  menagerie. 

A  small  impediment,  to  be  sure,  one  that  grew  steadily  less.  People 
grew  familiar  with  the  strange  idea  that  they  could  be  expected,  in  times 
like  these,  to  take  an  interest  in  a  hunger  artist,  and  with  this  familiarity 
the  verdict  went  out  against  him.  He  might  fast  as  much  as  he  could,  and 
he  did  so;  but  nothing  could  save  him  now,  people  passed  him  by.  Just 
try  to  explain  to  anyone  the  art  of  fasting!  Anyone  who  has  no  feeling  for 
it  cannot  be  made  to  understand  it.  The  fine  placards  grew  dirty  and 
illegible,  they  were  torn  down;  the  little  notice  board  telling  the  number 
of  fast  days  achieved,  which  at  first  was  changed  carefully  every  day,  had 
long  stayed  at  the  same  figure,  for  after  the  first  few  weeks  even  this  small 
task  seemed  pointless  to  the  staff;  and  so  the  artist  simply  fasted  on  and 
on,  as  he  had  once  dreamed  of  doing,  and  it  was  no  trouble  to  him,  just  as 
he  had  always  foretold,  but  no  one  counted  the  days,  no  one,  not  even  the 
artist  himself,  knew  what  records  he  was  already  breaking,  and  his  heart 
grew  heavy.  And  when  once  in  a  time  some  leisurely  passer-by  stopped, 
made  merry  over  the  old  figure  on  the  board  and  spoke  of  swindling,  that 
was  in  its  way  the  stupidest  lie  ever  invented  by  indifference  and  inborn 
malice,  since  it  was  not  the  hunger  artist  who  was  cheating,  he  was  working 
honestly,  but  the  world  was  cheating  him  of  his  reward. 

Many  more  days  went  by,  however,  and  that  too  came  to  an  end.  An 
overseer's  eye  fell  on  the  cage  one  day  and  he  asked  the  attendants  why 
this  perfectly  good  stage  should  be  left  standing  there  unused  with  dirty 
straw  inside  it;  nobody  knew,  until  one  man,  helped  out  by  the  notice 

A  HUNGER  ARTIST        403 


board,  remembered  about  the  hunger  artist.  They  poked  into  the  straw 
with  sticks  and  found  him  in  it.  "Are  you  still  fasting?"  asked  the  overseer, 
"when  on  earth  do  you  mean  to  stop?"  "Forgive  me,  everybody,"  whispered 
the  hunger  artist;  only  the  overseer,  who  had  his  ear  to  the  bars,  under- 
stood him.  "Of  course,"  said  the  overseer,  and  tapped  his  forehead  with  a 
finger  to  let  the  attendants  know  what  state  the  man  was  in,  "we  forgive 
you."  "I  always  wanted  you  to  admire  my  fasting,"  said  the  hunger  artist. 
"We  do  admire  it,"  said  the  overseer,  affably.  "But  you  shouldn't  admire 
it,"  said  the  hunger  artist.  "Well  then  we  don't  admire  it,"  said  the  over- 
seer, "but  why  shouldn't  we  admire  it?"  "Because  I  have  to  fast,  I  can't  help 
it,"  said  the  hunger  artist.  "What  a  fellow  you  are,"  said  the  overseer,  "and 
why  can't  you  help  it?"  "Because,"  said  the  hunger  artist,  lifting  his  head 
a  little  and  speaking,  with  his  lips  pursed,  as  if  for  a  kiss,  right  into  the 
overseer's  ear,  so  that  no  syllable  might  be  lost,  "because  I  couldn't  find 
the  food  I  liked.  If  I  had  found  it,  believe  me,  I  should  have  made  no  fuss 
and  stuffed  myself  like  you  or  anyone  else."  These  were  his  last  words,  but 
in  his  dimming  eyes  remained  the  firm  though  no  longer  proud  persuasion 
that  he  was  still  continuing  to  fast. 

"Well,  clear  this  out  now!"  said  the  overseer,  and  they  buried  the  hunger 
artist,  straw  and  all.  Into  the  cage  they  put  a  young  panther.  Even  the 
most  insensitive  felt  it  refreshing  to  see  this  wild  creature  leaping  around 
the  cage  that  had  so  long  been  dreary.  The  panther  was  all  right.  The 
food  he  liked  was  brought  him  without  hesitation  by  the  attendants;  he 
seemed  not  even  to  miss  his  freedom;  his  noble  body,  furnished  almost  to 
the  bursting  point  with  all  that  it  needed,  seemed  to  carry  freedom  around 
with  it  too;  somewhere  in  his  jaws  it  seemed  to  lurk;  and  the  joy  of  life 
streamed  with  such  ardent  passion  from  his  throat  that  for  the  onlookers 
it  was  not  easy  to  stand  the  shock  of  it.  But  they  braced  themselves, 
crowded  round  the  cage,  and  did  not  want  ever  to  move  away.  ( 1924) 


ERNEST    HEMINGWAY 


The  killers 


THE  DOOR  of  Henry's  lunch-room  opened  and  two  men  came  in.  They 
sat  down  at  the  counter. 
"What's  yours?"  George  asked  them. 

"I  don't  know,"  one  of  the  men  said.  "What  do  you  want  to  eat,  Al?" 
"I  don't  know,"  said  Al.  "I  don't  know  what  I  want  to  eat." 


Reprinted  from  Men  Without  Women  by  Ernest  Hemingway;   copyright  1927  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons;  used  by  permission  of  the  publishers. 

404        THE  SHORT  STORY 


Outside  it  was  getting  dark.  The  street-light  came  on  outside  the  window. 
The  two  men  at  the  counter  read  the  menu.  From  the  other  end  of  the 
counter  Nick  Adams  watched  them.  He  had  been  talking  to  George  when 
they  came  in. 

"I'll  have  a  roast  pork  tenderloin  with  apple  sauce  and  mashed  potatoes," 
the  first  man  said. 

"It  isn't  ready  yet." 

"What  the  hell  do  you  put  it  on  the  card  for?" 

"That's  the  dinner,"  George  explained.  "You  can  get  that  at  six  o'clock." 

George  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  wall  behind  the  counter. 

"It's  five  o'clock." 

"The  clock  says  twenty  minutes  past  five,"  the  second  man  said. 

"It's  twenty  minutes  fast." 

"Oh,  to  hell  with  the  clock,"  the  first  man  said.  "What  have  you  got  to 
eat?" 

"I  can  give  you  any  kind  of  sandwiches,"  George  said.  "You  can  have  ham 
and  eggs,  bacon  and  eggs,  liver  and  bacon,  or  a  steak." 

"Give  me  chicken  croquettes  with  green  peas  and  cream  sauce  and  mashed 
potatoes." 

"That's  the  dinner." 

"Everything  we  want's  the  dinner,  eh?  That's  the  way  you  work  it." 

"I  can  give  you  ham  and  eggs,  bacon  and  eggs,  liver — " 

"I'll  take  ham  and  eggs,"  the  man  called  Al  said.  He  wore  a  derby  hat 
and  a  black  overcoat  buttoned  across  the  chest.  His  face  was  small  and  white 
and  he  had  tight  lips.  He  wore  a  silk  muffler  and  gloves. 

"Give  me  bacon  and  eggs,"  said  the  other  man.  He  was  about  the  same 
size  as  AL  Their  faces  were  different  but  they  were  dressed  like  twins.  Both 
wore  overcoats  too  tight  for  them.  They  sat  leaning  forward,  their  elbows 
on  the  counter. 

"Got  anything  to  drink?"  Al  asked. 

"Silver  beer,  bevo,  ginger-ale,"  George  said. 

"I  mean  you  got  anything  to  drink?" 

"Just  those  I  said." 

"This  is  a  hot  town,"  said  the  other.  "What  do  they  call  it?" 

"Summit." 

"Ever  hear  of  it?"  Al  asked  his  friend. 

"No,"  said  the  friend. 

"What  do  you  do  here  nights?"  Al  asked. 

"They  eat  the  dinner,"  his  friend  said.  "They  all  come  here  and  eat  the 
big  dinner." 

"That's  right,"  George  said. 

THE  KILLERS        405 


"So  you  think  that's  right?"  Al  asked  George. 

"Sure." 

"You're  a  pretty  bright  boy,  aren't  you?*' 

"Sure,"  said  George. 

'Well,  you're  not,"  said  the  other  little  man.  "Is  he,  Al?" 

"He's  dumb,"  said  Al.  He  turned  to  Nick.  "What's  your  name?" 

"Adams." 

"Another  bright  boy,"  Al  said.  "Ain't  he  a  bright  boy,  Max?" 

"The  town's  full  of  bright  boys,"  Max  said. 

George  put  the  two  platters,  one  of  ham  and  eggs,  the  other  of  bacon  and 
eggs,  on  the  counter.  He  set  down  two  side-dishes  of  fried  potatoes  and 
closed  the  wicket  into  the  kitchen. 

"Which  is  yours?"  he  asked  Al. 

"Don't  you  remember?" 

"Ham  and  eggs." 

"Just  a  bright  boy,"  Max  said.  He  leaned  forward  and  took  the  ham  and 
eggs.  Both  men  ate  with  their  gloves  on.  George  watched  them  eat. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  Max  looked  at  George. 

"Nothing." 

"The  hell  you  were.  You  were  looking  at  me." 

"Maybe  the  boy  meant  it  for  a  joke,  Max,"  Al  said. 

George  laughed. 

"Yo«  don't  have  to  laugh,"  Max  said  to  him.  "Yow  don't  have  to  laugh  at 
all,  see?" 

"All  right,"  said  George. 

"So  he  thinks  it's  all  right."  Max  turned  to  Al.  "He  thinks  it's  all  right. 
That's  a  good  one." 

"Oh,  he's  a  thinker,"  Al  said.  They  went  on  eating. 

"What's  the  bright  boy's  name  down  the  counter?"  Al  asked  Max. 

"Hey,  bright  boy,"  Max  said  to  Nick.  "You  go  around  on  the  other  side 
of  the  counter  with  your  boy  friend." 

"What's  the  idea?"  Nick  asked. 

"There  isn't  any  idea." 

"You  better  go  around,  bright  boy,"  Al  said.  Nick  went  around  behind  the 
counter. 

"What's  the  idea?"  George  asked. 

"None  of  your  damn  business,"  Al  said.  "Who's  out  in  the  kitchen?" 

'The  nigger." 

"What  do  you  mean  the  nigger?" 

"The  nigger  that  cooks." 

"Tell  him  to  come  in." 

406        THE  SHORT  STORY 


"What's  the  idea?" 

"Tell  him  to  come  in." 

"Where  do  you  think  you  are?" 

"We  know  damn  well  where  we  are,"  the  man  called  Max  said.  "Do  we 
look  silly?" 

"You  talk  silly,"  Al  said  to  him.  "What  the  hell  do  you  argue  with  this  kid 
for?  Listen,"  he  said  to  George,  "tell  the  nigger  to  come  out  here." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  to  him?" 

"Nothing.  Use  your  head,  bright  boy.  What  would  we  do  to  a  nigger?" 

George  opened  the  slit  that  opened  back  into  the  kitchen.  "Sam,"  he 
called.  "Come  in  here  a  minute." 

The  door  to  the  kitchen  opened  and  the  nigger  came  in.  "What  was  it?" 
he  asked.  The  two  men  at  the  counter  took  a  look  at  him. 

"All  right,  nigger.  You  stand  right  there,"  Al  said. 

Sam,  the  nigger,  standing  in  his  apron,  looked  at  the  two  men  sitting  at 
the  counter.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  said.  Al  got  down  from  his  stool. 

'Tin  going  back  to  the  kitchen  with  the  nigger  and  bright  boy,"  he  said. 
"Go  on  back  to  the  kitchen,  nigger.  You  go  with  him,  bright  boy."  The  little 
man  walked  after  Nick  and  Sam,  the  cook,  back  into  the  kitchen.  The  door 
shut  after  them.  The  man  called  Max  sat  at  the  counter  opposite  George. 
He  didn't  look  at  George  but  looked  in  the  mirror  that  ran  along  back  of  the 
counter.  Henry's  had  been  made  over  from  a  saloon  into  a  lunch-counter. 

"Well,  bright  boy,"  Max  said,  looking  into  the  mirror,  "why  don't  you  say 
something?" 

"What's  it  all  about?" 

"Hey,  Al,"  Max  called,  "bright  boy  wants  to  know  what  it's  all  about." 

"Why  don't  you  tell  him?"  Al's  voice  came  from  the  kitchen. 

"What  do  you  think  it's  all  about?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

Max  looked  into  the  mirror  all  the  time  he  was  talking. 

"I  wouldn't  say." 

"Hey,  Al,  bright  boy  says  he  wouldn't  say  what  he  thinks  it's  all  about." 

"I  can  hear  you,  all  right,"  Al  said  from  the  kitchen.  He  had  propped  open 
the  slit  that  dishes  passed  through  into  the  kitchen  with  a  catsup  bottle. 
"Listen,  bright  boy,"  he  said  from  the  kitchen  to  George.  "Stand  a  little 
further  along  the  bar.  You  move  a  little  to  the  left,  Max."  He  was  like  a 
photographer  arranging  for  a  group  picture. 

"Talk  to  me,  bright  boy,"  Max  said.  "What  do  you  think's  going  to 
happen?" 

George  did  not  say  anything. 

THE   KILLERS        407 


"Ill  tell  you,"  Max  said.  "We're  going  to  kill  a  Swede.  Do  you  know  a  big 
Swede  named  Ole  Andreson?" 

"Yes/' 

"He  comes  here  to  eat  every  night,  don't  he?" 

"Sometimes  he  comes  here." 

"He  comes  here  at  six  o'clock,  don't  he?" 

"If  he  comes." 

"We  know  all  that,  bright  boy,"  Max  said.  "Talk  about  something  else. 
Ever  go  to  the  movies?" 

"Once  in  a  while." 

"You  ought  to  go  to  the  movies  more.  The  movies  are  fine  for  a  bright 
boy  like  you." 

"What  are  you  going  to  kill  Ole  Andreson  for?  What  did  he  ever  do 
to  you?" 

"He  never  had  a  chance  to  do  anything  to  us.  He  never  even  seen  us." 

"And  he's  only  going  to  see  us  once,"  Al  said  from  the  kitchen. 

"What  are  you  going  to  kill  him  for,  then?"  George  asked. 

"We're  killing  him  for  a  friend.  Just  to  oblige  a  friend,  bright  boy." 

"Shut  up,"  said  Al  from  the  kitchen.  "You  talk  too  goddam  much." 

"Well,  I  got  to  keep  bright  boy  amused.  Don't  I,  bright  boy?" 

"You  talk  too  damn  much,"  Al  said.  "The  nigger  and  my  bright  boy  are 
amused  by  themselves.  I  got  them  tied  up  like  a  couple  of  girl  friends  in 
the  convent." 

"I  suppose  you  were  in  a  convent?" 

"You  never  know." 

"You  were  in  a  kosher  convent.  That's  where  you  were." 

George  looked  up  at  the  clock. 

"If  anybody  comes  in  you  tell  them  the  cook  is  off,  and  if  they  keep  after 
it,  you  tell  them  you'll  go  back  and  cook  yourself.  Do  you  get  that,  bright 
boy?" 

"All  right,"  George  said.  "What  you  going  to  do  with  us  afterward?" 

"That'll  depend,"  Max  said.  "That's  one  of  those  things  you  never  know 
at  the  time." 

George  looked  up  at  the  clock.  It  was  a  quarter  past  six.  The  door  from 
the  street  opened.  A  street-car  motorman  came  in. 

"Hello,  George,"  he  said.  "Can  I  get  supper?" 

"Sam's  gone  out,"  George  said.  "He'll  be  back  in  about  half  an  hour/' 

"I'd  better  go  up  the  street,"  the  motorman  said.  George  looked  at  the 
clock.  It  was  twenty  minutes  past  six. 

"That  was  nice,  bright  boy,"  Max  said.  "You're  a  regular  little  gentleman." 

"He  knew  I'd  blow  his  head  off,"  Al  said  from  the  kitchen. 


408 


THE    SHORT    STORY 


"No,"  said  Max.  "It  ain't  that.  Bright  boy  is  nice.  He's  a  nice  boy.  I 
like  him." 

At  six-fifty-five  George  said:  "He's  not  coming." 

Two  other  people  had  been  in  the  lunch-room.  Once  George  had  gone 
out  to  the  kitchen  and  made  a  ham-and-egg  sandwich  "to  go"  that  a  man 
wanted  to  take  with  him.  Inside  the  kitchen  he  saw  Al,  his  derby  hat  tipped 
back,  sitting  on  a  stool  beside  the  wicket  with  the  muzzle  of  a  sawed  off 
shotgun  resting  on  the  ledge.  Nick  and  the  cook  were  back  to  back  in  the 
corner,  a  towel  tied  in  each  of  their  mouths.  George  had  cooked  the  sand- 
wich, wrapped  it  up  in  oiled  paper,  put  it  in  a  bag,  brought  it  in,  and  the 
man  had  paid  for  it  and  gone  out. 

"Bright  boy  can  do  everything,"  Max  said.  "He  can  cook  and  everything. 
You'd  make  some  girl  a  nice  wife,  bright  boy." 

"Yes?"  George  said.  "Your  friend,  Ole  Andreson,  isn't  going  to  come." 

"We'll  give  him  ten  minutes,"  Max  said. 

Max  watched  the  mirror  and  the  clock.  The  hands  of  the  clock  marked 
seven  o'clock,  and  then  five  minutes  past  seven. 

"Come  on,  Al,"  said  Max.  "We  better  go.  He's  not  coming." 

"Better  give  him  five  minutes,"  Al  said  from  the  kitchen. 

In  the  five  minutes  a  man  came  in,  and  George  explained  that  the  cook 
was  sick. 

"Why  the  hell  don't  you  get  another  cook?"  the  man  asked.  "Aren't  you 
running  a  lunch-counter?"  He  went  out. 

"Come  on,  Al,"  Max  said. 

"What  about  the  two  bright  boys  and  the  nigger?" 

"They're  all  right." 

"You  think  so?" 

"Sure.  We're  through  with  it." 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Al.  "It's  sloppy.  You  talk  too  much." 

"Oh,  what  the  hell,"  said  Max.  "We  got  to  keep  amused,  haven't  we?" 

"You  talk  too  much,  all  the  same,"  Al  said.  He  came  out  from  the  kitchen. 
The  cut-off  barrels  of  the  shotgun  made  a  slight  bulge  under  the  waist 
of  his  too  tight-fitting  overcoat.  He  straightened  his  coat  with  his  gloved 
hands. 

"So  long,  bright  boy,"  he  said  to  George.  "You  got  a  lot  of  luck." 

"That's  the  truth,"  Max  said.  "You  ought  to  play  the  races,  bright  boy." 

The  two  of  them  went  out  the  door.  George  watched  them,  through  the 
window,  pass  under  the  arc-light  and  cross  the  street.  In  their  tight  over- 
coats and  derby  hats  they  looked  like  a  vaudeville  team.  George  went 
back  through  the  swinging-door  into  the  kitchen  and  untied  Nick  and  the 
cook. 

THE    KILLERS        409 


"I  don't  want  any  more  of  that,"  said  Sam,  the  cook.  "I  don't  want  any 
more  of  that/' 

Nick  stood  up.  He  had  never  had  a  towel  in  his  mouth  before. 

"Say,"  he  said.  'What  the  hell?"  He  was  trying  to  swagger  it  off. 

"They  were  going  to  kill  Ole  Andreson,"  George  said.  "They  were  going 
to  shoot  him  when  he  came  in  to  eat." 

"Ole  Andreson?" 

"Sure." 

The  cook  felt  the  corners  of  his  mouth  with  his  thumbs. 

"They  all  gone?"  he  asked. 

"Yeah,"  said  George.  "They're  gone  now." 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  the  cook.  "I  don't  like  any  of  it  at  all." 

"Listen,"  George  said  to  Nick.  "You  better  go  see  Ole  Andreson." 

"All  right." 

"You  better  not  have  anything  to  do  with  it  at  all,"  Sam,  the  cook,  said. 
"You  better  stay  way  out  of  it." 

"Don't  go  if  you  don't  want  to,"  George  said. 

"Mixing  up  in  this  ain't  going  to  get  you  anywhere,"  the  cook  said.  "You 
stay  out  of  it," 

"111  go  see  him,"  Nick  said  to  George.  "Where  does  he  live?" 

The  cook  turned  away. 

"Little  boys  always  know  what  they  want  to  do,"  he  said. 

"He  lives  up  at  Hirsch's  rooming-house,"  George  said  to  Nick. 

"I'll  go  up  there." 

Outside  the  arc-light  shone  through  the  bare  branches  of  a  tree.  Nick 
walked  up  the  street  beside  the  car-tracks  and  turned  at  the  next  arc-light 
down  a  side-street.  Three  houses  up  the  street  was  Hirsch's  rooming-house. 
Nick  walked  up  the  two  steps  and  pushed  the  bell.  A  woman  came  to  the 
door. 

"Is  Ole  Andreson  here?" 

"Do  you  want  to  see  him?" 

"Yes,  if  he's  in." 

Nick  followed  the  woman  up  a  flight  of  stairs  and  back  to  the  end  of  a 
corridor.  She  knocked  on  the  door. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"It's  somebody  to  see  you,  Mr.  Andreson,"  the  woman  said. 

"It's  Nick  Adams." 

"Come  in." 

Nick  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the  room.  Ole  Andreson  was  lying 
on  the  bed  with  all  his  clothes  on.  He  had  been  a  heavyweight  prizefighter 
and  he  was  too  long  for  the  bed.  He  lay  with  his  head  on  two  pillows.  He 
did  not  look  at  Nick. 

410         THE   SHORT    STORY 


'What  was  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  up  at  Henry's,"  Nick  said,  "and  two  fellows  came  in  and  tied 
up  me  and  the  cook,  and  they  said  they  were  going  to  kill  you." 

It  sounded  silly  when  he  said  it.  Ole  Andreson  said  nothing. 

"They  put  us  out  in  the  kitchen,"  Nick  went  on.  "They  were  going  to 
shoot  you  when  you  came  to  supper." 

Ole  Andreson  looked  at  the  wall  and  did  not  say  anything. 

"George  thought  I  better  come  and  tell  you  about  it." 

"There  isn't  anything  I  can  do  about  it,"  Ole  Andreson  said. 

"Ill  tell  you  what  they  were  like." 

"I  don't  want  to  know  what  they  were  like,"  Ole  Andreson  said.  He  looked 
at  the  wall.  "Thanks  for  coming  to  tell  me  about  it." 

"That's  all  right." 

Nick  looked  at  the  big  man  lying  on  the  bed. 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  go  and  see  the  police?" 

"No,"  Ole  Andreson  said.  "That  wouldn't  do  any  good." 

"Isn't  there  something  I  could  do?" 

"No.  There  isn't  anything  to  do." 

"Maybe  it  was  just  a  bluff." 

"No.  It  ain't  just  a  bluff." 

Ole  Andreson  rolled  over  toward  the  wall. 

"The  only  thing  is,"  he  said,  talking  toward  the  wall,  "I  just  can't  make 
up  my  mind  to  go  out.  I  been  in  here  all  day." 

"Couldn't  you  get  out  of  town?" 

"No,"  Ole  Andreson  said.  "I'm  through  with  all  that  running  around." 

He  looked  at  the  wall. 

"There  ain't  anything  to  do  now." 

"Couldn't  you  fix  it  up  some  way?" 

"No.  I  got  in  wrong."  He  talked  in  the  same  flat  voice.  "There  ain't  any* 
thing  to  do.  After  a  while  I'll  make  up  my  mind  to  go  out." 

"I  better  go  back  and  see  George,"  Nick  said. 

"So  long,"  said  Ole  Andreson.  He  did  not  look  toward  Nick.  "Thanks 
for  coming  around." 

Nick  went  out.  As  he  shut  the  door  he  saw  Ole  Andreson  with  all  his 
clothes  on,  lying  on  the  bed  looking  at  the  wall. 

"He's  been  in  his  room  all  day,"  the  landlady  said  down-stairs.  "I  guess 
he  don't  feel  well.  I  said  to  him:  'Mr.  Andreson,  you  ought  to  go  out  and 
take  a  walk  on  a  nice  fall  day  like  this/  but  he  didn't  feel  like  it." 

"He  doesn't  want  to  go  out." 

"I'm  sorry  he  don't  feel  well,"  the  woman  said.  "He's  an  awfully  nice 
man.  He  was  in  the  ring,  you  know." 

"I  know  it" 

THE   KILLERS         411 


"You'd  never  know  it  except  from  the  way  his  face  is,"  the  woman  said. 
They  stood  talking  just  inside  the  street  door.  "He's  just  as  gentle/' 

"Well,  good-night,  Mrs.  Hirsch,"  Nick  said. 

"I'm  not  Mrs.  Hirsch,"  the  woman  said.  "She  owns  the  place.  I  just  look 
after  it  for  her.  I'm  Mrs.  Bell." 

"Well,  good-night,  Mrs.  Bell,"  Nick  said. 

"Good-night,"  the  woman  said. 

Nick  walked  up  the  dark  street  to  the  corner  under  the  arc-light,  and 
then  along  the  car-tracks  to  Henry's  eating-house.  George  was  inside,  back 
of  the  counter. 

"Did  you  see  Ole?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nick.  "He's  in  his  room  and  he  won't  go  out." 

The  cook  opened  the  door  from  the  kitchen  when  he  heard  Nick's  voice. 

"I  don't  even  listen  to  it,"  he  said  and  shut  the  door. 

"Did  you  tell  him  about  it?"  George  asked. 

"Sure.  I  told  him  but  he  knows  what  it's  all  about." 

"What's  he  going  to  do?" 

"Nothing." 

"They'll  kill  him." 

"I  guess  they  will." 

"He  must  have  got  mixed  up  in  something  in  Chicago." 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Nick. 

"It's  a  hell  of  a  thing." 

"It's  an  awful  thing,"  Nick  said. 

They  did  not  say  anything.  George  reached  down  for  a  towel  and  wiped 
the  counter. 

"I  wonder  what  he  did?"  Nick  said. 

"Double-crossed  somebody.  That's  what  they  kill  them  for." 

Tm  going  to  get  out  of  this  town,"  Nick  said. 

"Yes,"  said  George.  "That's  a  good  thing  to  do." 

"I  can't  stand  to  think  about  him  waiting  in  the  room  and  knowing  he's 
going  to  get  it.  It's  too  damned  awful." 

"Well,"  said  George,  "you  better  not  think  about  it."  ( 1927) 


412 


THE  SHORT   STORY 


KATHERINE   ANNE   PORTER 


Flowering  Judas 


BRAGGIONI  sits  heaped  upon  the  edge  of  a  straightbacked  chair  much 
too  small  for  him,  and  sings  to  Laura  in  a  furry,  mournful  voice.  Laura 
has  begun  to  find  reasons  for  avoiding  her  own  house  until  the  latest  pos- 
sible moment,  for  Braggioni  is  there  almost  every  night.  No  matter  how  late 
she  is,  he  will  be  sitting  there  with  a  surly,  waiting  expression,  pulling  at 
his  kinky  yellow  hair,  thumbing  the  strings  of  his  guitar,  snarling  a  tune 
under  his  breath.  Lupe  the  Indian  maid  meets  Laura  at  the  door,  and  says 
with  a  flicker  of  a  glance  towards  the  upper  room,  "He  waits." 

Laura  wishes  to  lie  down,  she  is  tired  of  her  hairpins  and  the  feel  of  her 
long  tight  sleeves,  but  she  says  to  him,  "Have  you  a  new  song  for  me  this 
evening?"  If  he  says  yes,  she  asks  him  to  sing  it.  If  he  says  no,  she  remem- 
bers his  favorite  one,  and  asks  him  to  sing  it  again.  Lupe  brings  her  a  cup 
of  chocolate  and  a  plate  of  rice,  and  Laura  eats  at  the  small  table  under  the 
lamp,  first  inviting  Braggioni,  whose  answer  is  always  the  same:  "I  have 
eaten,  and  besides,  chocolate  thickens  the  voice." 

Laura  says,  "Sing,  then,"  and  Braggioni  heaves  himself  into  song.  He 
scratches  the  guitar  familiarly  as  though  it  were  a  pet  animal,  and  sings 
passionately  off  key,  taking  the  high  notes  in  a  prolonged  painful  squeal. 
Laura,  who  haunts  the  markets  listening  to  the  ballad  singers,  and  stops 
every  day  to  hear  the  blind  boy  playing  his  reed-flute  in  Sixteenth  of  Sep- 
tember Street,  listens  to  Braggioni  with  pitiless  courtesy,  because  she  dares 
not  smile  at  his  miserable  performance.  Nobody  dares  to  smile  at  him. 
Braggioni  is  cruel  to  everyone,  with  a  kind  of  specialized  insolence,  but 
he  is  so  vain  of  his  talents,  and  so  sensitive  to  slights,  it  would  require  a 
cruelty  and  vanity  greater  than  his  own  to  lay  a  finger  on  the  vast  cureless 
wound  of  his  self-esteem.  It  would  require  courage,  too,  for  it  is  dangerous 
to  offend  him,  and  nobody  has  this  courage. 

Braggioni  loves  himself  with  such  tenderness  and  amplitude  and  eternal 
charity  that  his  followers— for  he  is  a  leader  of  men,  a  skilled  revolutionist, 
and  his  skin  has  been  punctured  in  honorable  warfare— warm  themselves 
in  the  reflected  glow,  and  say  to  each  other:  "He  has  a  real  nobility,  a  love 
of  humanity  raised  above  mere  personal  affections."  The  excess  of  this  self- 
love  has  flowed  out,  inconveniently  for  her,  over  Laura,  who,  with  so  many 
others,  owes  her  comfortable  situation  and  her  salary  to  him.  When  he  is  in 

From  Flowering  Judas  and  Other  Stories,  by  Katherine  Anne  Porter.  Copyright,  1930, 
1935,  by  Katherine  Anne  Porter.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  Harcourt,  Brace  and  Com- 
pany, Inc. 

FLOWERING   JUDAS         413 


a  very  good  humor,  he  tells  her,  T  am  tempted  to  forgive  you  for  being  a 
gringa.  GringitaF  and  Laura,  burning,  imagines  herself  leaning  forward 
suddenly,  and  with  a  sound  back-handed  slap  wiping  the  suety  smile  from 
his  face.  If  he  notices  her  eyes  at  these  moments  he  gives  no  sign. 

She  knows  what  Braggioni  would  offer  her,  and  she  must  resist  tenaciously 
without  appearing  to  resist,  and  if  she  could  avoid  it  she  would  not  admit 
even  to  herself  the  slow  drift  of  his  intention.  During  these  long  evenings 
which  have  spoiled  a  long  month  for  her,  she  sits  in  her  deep  chair  with 
an  open  book  on  her  knees,  resting  her  eyes  on  the  consoling  rigidity  of  the 
printed  page  when  the  sight  and  sound  of  Braggioni  singing  threaten  to 
identify  themselves  with  all  her  remembered  afflictions  and  to  add  their 
weight  to  her  uneasy  premonitions  of  the  future.  The  gluttonous  bulk  of 
Braggioni  has  become  a  symbol  of  her  many  disillusions,  for  a  revolutionist 
should  be  lean,  animated  by  heroic  faith,  a  vessel  of  abstract  virtues.  This 
is  nonsense,  she  knows  it  now  and  is  ashamed  of  it.  Revolution  must  have 
leaders,  and  leadership  is  a  career  for  energetic  men.  She  is,  her  comrades 
tell  her,  full  of  romantic  error,  for  what  she  defines  as  cynicism  in  them  is 
merely  "a  developed  sense  of  reality."  She  is  almost  too  willing  to  say,  "I  am 
wrong,  I  suppose  I  don't  really  understand  the  principles,"  and  afterward 
she  makes  a  secret  truce  with  herself,  determined  not  to  surrender  her  will 
to  such  expedient  logic.  But  she  cannot  help  feeling  that  she  has  been 
betrayed  irreparably  by  the  disunion  between  her  way  of  living  and  her 
feeling  of  what  life  should  be,  and  at  times  she  is  almost  contented  to  rest 
in  this  sense  of  grievance  as  a  private  store  of  consolation.  Sometimes  she 
wishes  to  run  away,  but  she  stays.  Now  she  longs  to  fly  out  of  this  room, 
down  the  narrow  stairs,  and  into  the  street  where  the  houses  lean  together 
like  conspirators  under  a  single  mottled  lamp,  and  leave  Braggioni  singing 
to  himself. 

Instead  she  looks  at  Braggioni,  frankly  and  clearly,  like  a  good  child  who 
understands  the  rules  of  behavior.  Her  knees  cling  together  under  sound 
blue  serge,  and  her  round  white  collar  is  not  purposely  nun-like.  She  wears 
the  uniform  of  an  idea,  and  has  renounced  vanities.  She  was  born  Roman 
Catholic,  and  in  spite  of  her  fear  of  being  seen  by  someone  who  might 
make  a  scandal  of  it,  she  slips  now  and  again  into  some  crumbling  little 
church,  kneels  on  the  chilly  stone,  and  says  a  Hail  Mary  on  the  gold  rosary 
she  bought  in  Tehuantepec.  It  is  no  good  and  she  ends  by  examining  the 
altar  with  its  tinsel  flowers  and  ragged  brocades,  and  feels  tender  about 
the  battered  doll-shape  of  some  male  saint  whose  white,  lace-trimmed 
drawers  hang  limply  around  his  ankles  below  the  hieratic  dignity  of  his 
velvet  robe.  She  has  encased  herself  in  a  set  of  principles  derived  from  her 
early  training,  leaving  no  detail  of  gesture  or  of  personal  taste  untouched, 

414        THE  SHORT  STORY 


and  for  this  reason  she  will  not  wear  lace  made  on  machines.  This  is  her 
private  heresy,  for  in  her  special  group  the  machine  is  sacred,  and  will  be 
the  salvation  of  the  workers.  She  loves  fine  lace,  and  there  is  a  tiny  edge  of 
fluted  cobweb  on  this  collar,  which  is  one  of  twenty  precisely  alike,  folded 
in  blue  tissue  paper  in  the  upper  drawer  of  her  clothes  chest. 

Braggioni  catches  her  glance  solidly  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  it,  leans 
forward,  balancing  his  paunch  between  his  spread  knees,  and  sings  with 
tremendous  emphasis,  weighing  his  words.  He  has,  the  song  relates,  no 
father  and  no  mother,  nor  even  a  friend  to  console  him;  lonely  as  a  wave  of 
the  sea  he  comes  and  goes,  lonely  as  a  wave.  His  mouth  opens  round  and 
yearns  sideways,  his  balloon  cheeks  grow  oily  with  the  labor  of  song.  He 
bulges  marvelously  in  his  expensive  garments.  Over  his  lavender  collar, 
crushed  upon  a  purple  necktie,  held  by  a  diamond  hoop:  over  his  ammuni- 
tion belt  of  tooled  leather  worked  in  silver,  buckled  cruelly  around  his  gasp- 
ing middle:  over  the  tops  of  his  glossy  yellow  shoes  Braggioni  swells  with 
ominous  ripeness,  his  mauve  silk  hose  stretched  taut,  his  ankles  bound  with 
the  stout  leather  thongs  of  his  shoes. 

When  he  stretches  his  eyelids  at  Laura  she  notes  again  that  his  eyes  are 
the  true  tawny  yellow  cat's  eyes.  He  is  rich,  not  in  money,  he  tells  her,  but 
in  power,  and  this  power  brings  with  it  the  blameless  ownership  of  things, 
and  the  right  to  indulge  his  love  of  small  luxuries.  "I  have  a  taste  for  the 
elegant  refinements,"  he  said  once,  flourishing  a  yellow  silk  handkerchief 
before  her  nose.  "Smell  that?  It  is  Jockey  Club,  imported  from  New  York." 
Nonetheless  he  is  wounded  by  life.  He  will  say  so  presently.  "It  is  true 
everything  turns  to  dust  in  the  hand,  to  gall  on  the  tongue."  He  sighs  and 
his  leather  belt  creaks  like  a  saddle  girth.  "I  am  disappointed  in  everything 
as  it  comes.  Everything."  He  shakes  his  head.  "You,  poor  thing,  you  will  be 
disappointed  too.  You  are  born  for  it.  We  are  more  alike  than  you  realize 
in  some  things.  Wait  and  see.  Some  day  you  will  remember  what  I  have  told 
you,  you  will  know  that  Braggioni  was  your  friend." 

Laura  feels  a  slow  chill,  a  purely  physical  sense  of  danger,  a  warning  in 
her  blood  that  violence,  mutilation,  a  shocking  death,  wait  for  her  with 
lessening  patience.  She  has  translated  this  fear  into  something  homely,  im- 
mediate, and  sometimes  hesitates  before  crossing  the  street.  "My  personal 
fate  is  nothing,  except  as  the  testimony  of  a  mental  attitude,"  she  reminds 
herself,  quoting  from  some  forgotten  philosophic  primer,  and  is  sensible 
enough  to  add,  "Anyhow,  I  shall  not  be  killed  by  an  automobile  if  I  can 
help  it." 

"It  may  be  true  I  am  as  corrupt,  in  another  way,  as  Braggioni,"  she  thinks 
in  spite  of  herself,  "as  callous,  as  incomplete,"  and  if  this  is  so,  any  kind  of 
death  seems  preferable.  Still  she  sits  quietly,  she  does  not  run.  Where  could 

FLOWERING  JUDAS        415 


she  go?  Uninvited  she  has  promised  herself  to  this  place;  she  can  no  longer 
imagine  herself  as  living  in  another  country,  and  there  is  no  pleasure  in 
remembering  her  life  before  she  came  here. 

Precisely  what  is  the  nature  of  this  devotion,  its  true  motives,  and  what 
are  its  obligations?  Laura  cannot  say.  She  spends  part  of  her  days  in 
Xochimilco,  near  by,  teaching  Indian  children  to  say  in  English,  "The  cat  is 
on  the  mat."  When  she  appears  in  the  classroom  they  crowd  about  her  with 
smiles  on  their  wise,  innocent,  clay-colored  faces,  crying,  "Good  morning, 
my  titcher!"  in  immaculate  voices,  and  they  make  of  her  desk  a  fresh  garden 
of  flowers  every  day. 

During  her  leisure  she  goes  to  union  meetings  and  listens  to  busy  impor- 
tant voices  quarreling  over  tactics,  methods,  internal  politics.  She  visits  the 
prisoners  of  her  own  political  faith  in  their  cells,  where  they  entertain  them- 
selves with  counting  cockroaches,  repenting  of  their  indiscretions,  compos- 
ing their  memoirs,  writing  out  manifestoes  and  plans  for  their  comrades  who 
are  still  walking  about  free,  hands  in  pockets,  sniffing  fresh  air.  Laura  brings 
them  food  and  cigarettes  and  a  little  money,  and  she  brings  messages  dis- 
guised in  equivocal  phrases  from  the  men  outside  who  dare  not  set  foot  in 
the  prison  for  fear  of  disappearing  into  the  cells  kept  empty  for  them.  If  the 
prisoners  confuse  night  and  day,  and  complain,  "Dear  little  Laura,  time 
doesn't  pass  in  this  infernal  hole,  and  I  won't  know  when  it  is  time  to  sleep 
unless  I  have  a  reminder/'  she  brings  them  their  favorite  narcotics,  and  says 
in  a  tone  that  does  not  wound  them  with  pity,  "Tonight  will  really  be  night 
for  you,"  and  though  her  Spanish  amuses  them,  they  find  her  comforting, 
useful.  If  they  lose  patience  and  all  faith,  and  curse  the  slowness  of  their 
friends  in  coming  to  their  rescue  with  money  and  influence,  they  trust  her 
not  to  repeat  everything,  and  if  she  inquires,  "Where  do  you  think  we  can 
find  money,  or  influence?"  they  are  certain  to  answer,  "Well,  there  is 
Braggioni,  why  doesn't  he  do  something?" 

She  smuggles  letters  from  headquarters  to  men  hiding  from  firing  squads 
in  back  streets  in  mildewed  houses,  where  they  sit  in  tumbled  beds  and  talk 
bitterly  as  if  all  Mexico  were  at  their  heels,  when  Laura  knows  positively 
they  might  appear  at  the  band  concert  in  the  Alameda  on  Sunday  morning, 
and  no  one  would  notice  them.  But  Braggioni  says,  "Let  them  sweat  a  little. 
The  next  time  they  may  be  careful.  It  is  very  restful  to  have  them  out  of 
the  way  for  a  while."  She  is  not  afraid  to  knock  on  any  door  in  any  street 
after  midnight,  and  enter  in  the  darkness,  and  say  to  one  of  these  men  who 
is  really  in  danger:  "They  will  be  looking  for  you— seriously— tomorrow 
morning  after  six.  Here  is  some  money  from  Vicente.  Go  to  Vera  Cruz  and 
wait." 

She  borrows  money  from  the  Roumanian  agitator  to  give  to  his  bitter 
enemy  the  Polish  agitator.  The  favor  of  Braggioni  is  their  disputed  territory, 

416        THE   SHORT   STORY 


and  Braggioni  holds  the  balance  nicely,  for  he  can  use  them  both.  The  Polish 
agitator  talks  love  to  her  over  ca£6  tables,  hoping  to  exploit  what  he  believes 
is  her  secret  sentimental  preference  for  him,  and  he  gives  her  misinformation 
which  he  begs  her  to  repeat  as  the  solemn  truth  to  certain  persons.  The 
Roumanian  is  more  adroit.  He  is  generous  with  his  money  in  all  good  causes, 
and  lies  to  her  with  an  air  of  ingenuous  candor,  as  if  he  were  her  good  friend 
and  confidant.  She  never  repeats  anything  they  may  say.  Braggioni  never 
asks  questions.  He  has  other  ways  to  discover  all  that  he  wishes  to  know 
about  them. 

Nobody  touches  her,  but  all  praise  her  gray  eyes,  and  the  soft,  round  under 
lip  which  promises  gayety,  yet  is  always  grave,  nearly  always  firmly  closed; 
and  they  cannot  understand  why  she  is  in  Mexico.  She  walks  back  and  forth 
on  her  errands,  with  puzzled  eyebrows,  carrying  her  little  folder  of  drawings 
and  music  and  school  papers.  No  dancer  dances  more  beautifully  than  Laura 
walks,  and  she  inspires  some  amusing,  unexpected  ardors,  which  cause  little 
gossip,  because  nothing  comes  of  them.  A  young  captain  who  had  been  a 
soldier  in  Zapata's  army  attempted,  during  a  horseback  ride  near  Cuerna- 
vaca,  to  express  his  desire  for  her  with  the  noble  simplicity  befitting  a  rude 
folk-hero:  but  gently,  because  he  was  gentle.  This  gentleness  was  his  defeat, 
for  when  he  alighted,  and  removed  her  foot  from  the  stirrup,  and  essayed 
to  draw  her  down  into  his  arms,  her  horse,  ordinarily  a  tame  one,  shied 
fiercely,  reared  and  plunged  away.  The  young  hero's  horse  careered  blindly 
after  his  stable-mate,  and  the  hero  did  not  return  to  the  hotel  until  rather 
late  that  evening.  At  breakfast  he  came  to  her  table  in  full  charro  dress,  gray 
buckskin  jacket  and  trousers  with  strings  of  silver  buttons  down  the  leg, 
and  he  was  in  a  humorous,  careless  mood.  "May  I  sit  with  you?"  and  "You 
are  a  wonderful  rider.  I  was  terrified  that  you  might  be  thrown  and  dragged. 
I  should  never  have  forgiven  myself.  But  I  cannot  admire  you  enough  for 
your  ridingl" 

"I  learned  to  ride  in  Arizona,"  said  Laura. 

"If  you  will  ride  with  me  again  this  morning,  I  promise  you  a  horse  that 
will  not  shy  with  you,"  he  said.  But  Laura  remembered  that  she  must  return 
to  Mexico  City  at  noon. 

Next  morning  the  children  made  a  celebration  and  spent  their  play- 
time writing  on  the  blackboard,  "We  lov  ar  ticher,"  and  with  tinted  chalks 
they  drew  wreaths  of  flowers  around  the  words.  The  young  hero  wrote  her 
a  letter:  "I  am  a  very  foolish,  wasteful,  impulsive  man.  I  should  have  first 
said  I  love  you,  and  then  you  would  not  have  run  away.  But  you  shall  see 
me  again."  Laura  thought,  "I  must  send  him  a  box  of  colored  crayons,"  but 
she  was  trying  to  forgive  herself  for  having  spurred  her  horse  at  the  wrong 
moment. 

A  brown,  shock-haired  youth  came  and  stood  in  her  patio  one  night  and 

FLOWERING   JUDAS        417 


sang  like  a  lost  soul  for  two  hours,  but  Laura  could  think  of  nothing  to  do 
about  it.  The  moonlight  spread  a  wash  of  gauzy  silver  over  the  clear  spaces 
of  the  garden,  and  the  shadows  were  cobalt  blue.  The  scarlet  blossoms  of 
the  Judas  tree  were  dull  purple,  and  the  names  of  the  colors  repeated  them- 
selves automatically  in  her  mind,  while  she  watched  not  the  boy,  but  his 
shadow,  fallen  like  a  dark  garment  across  the  fountain  rim,  trailing  in  the 
water.  Lupe  came  silently  and  whispered  expert  counsel  in  her  ear:  "If  you 
will  throw  him  one  little  flower,  he  will  sing  another  song  or  two  and  go 
away."  Laura  threw  the  flower,  and  he  sang  a  last  song  and  went  away  with 
the  flower  tucked  in  the  band  of  his  hat.  Lupe  said,  "He  is  one  of  the 
organizers  of  the  Typographers  Union,  and  before  that  he  sold  corridos  in 
the  Merced  market,  and  before  that,  he  came  from  Guanajuato,  where  I  was 
born.  I  would  not  trust  any  man,  but  I  trust  least  those  from  Guanajuato/' 

She  did  not  tell  Laura  that  he  would  be  back  again  the  next  night,  and 
the  next,  nor  that  he  would  follow  her  at  a  certain  fixed  distance  around  the 
Merced  market,  through  the  Zdcolo,  up  Francisco  I.  Madero  Avenue,  and 
so  along  the  Paseo  de  la  Reforma  to  Chapultepec  Park,  and  into  the  Philoso- 
pher's Footpath,  still  with  that  flower  withering  in  his  hat,  and  an  indivisible 
attention  in  his  eyes. 

Now  Laura  is  accustomed  to  him,  it  means  nothing  except  that  he  is  nine- 
teen years  old  and  is  observing  a  convention  with  all  propriety,  as  though  it 
were  founded  on  a  law  of  nature,  which  in  the  end  it  might  well  prove  to  be. 
He  is  beginning  to  write  poems  which  he  prints  on  a  wooden  press,  and  he 
leaves  them  stuck  like  handbills  in  her  door.  She  is  pleasantly  disturbed  by 
the  abstract,  unhurried  watchfulness  of  his  black  eyes  which  will  in  time 
turn  easily  towards  another  object.  She  tells  herself  that  throwing  the  flower 
was  a  mistake,  for  she  is  twenty-two  years  old  and  knows  better;  but  she 
refuses  to  regret  it,  and  persuades  herself  that  her  negation  of  all  external 
events  as  they  occur  is  a  sign  that  she  is  gradually  perfecting  herself  in  the 
stoicism  she  strives  to  cultivate  against  that  disaster  she  fears,  though  she 
cannot  name  it. 

She  is  not  at  home  in  the  world.  Every  day  she  teaches  children  who 
remain  strangers  to  her,  though  she  loves  their  tender  round  hands  and  their 
charming  opportunist  savagery.  She  knocks  at  unfamiliar  doors  not  knowing 
whether  a  friend  or  a  stranger  shall  answer,  and  even  if  a  known  face 
emerges  from  the  sour  gloom  of  that  unknown  interior,  still  it  is  the  face  of 
a  stranger.  No  matter  what  this  stranger  says  to  her,  nor  what  her  message 
to  him,  the  very  cells  of  her  flesh  reject  knowledge  and  kinship  in  one  mo- 
notonous word.  No.  No.  No.  She  draws  her  strength  from  this  one  holy 
talismanic  word  which  does  not  suffer  her  to  be  led  into  evil.  Denying 

418        THE  SHORT  STORY 


everything,  she  may  walk  anywhere  in  safety,  she  looks  at  everything  with- 
out amazement. 

No,  repeats  this  firm  unchanging  voice  of  her  blood;  and  she  looks  at 
Braggioni  without  amazement.  He  is  a  great  man,  he  wishes  to  impress  this 
simple  girl  who  covers  her  great  round  breasts  with  thick  dark  cloth,  and 
who  hides  long,  invaluably  beautiful  legs  under  a  heavy  skirt.  She  is  almost 
thin  except  for  the  incomprehensible  fullness  of  her  breasts,  like  a  nursing 
mother's,  and  Braggioni,  who  considers  himself  a  judge  of  women,  speculates 
again  on  the  puzzle  of  her  notorious  virginity,  and  takes  the  liberty  of  speech 
which  she  permits  without  a  sign  of  modesty,  indeed,  without  any  sort  of 
sign,  which  is  disconcerting. 

"You  think  you  are  so  cold,  gringita!  Wait  and  see.  You  will  surprise  your- 
self some  dayl  May  I  be  there  to  advise  you!"  He  stretches  his  eyelids  at 
her,  and  his  ill-humored  cat's  eyes  waver  in  a  separate  glance  for  the  two 
points  of  light  marking  the  opposite  ends  of  a  smoothly  drawn  path  between 
the  swollen  curve  of  her  breasts.  He  is  not  put  off  by  that  blue  serge,  nor  by 
her  resolutely  fixed  gaze.  There  is  all  the  time  in  the  world.  His  cheeks 
are  bellying  with  the  wind  of  song.  "O  girl  with  the  dark  eyes,"  he  sings, 
and  reconsiders.  "But  yours  are  not  dark.  I  can  change  all  that.  O  girl  with 
the  green  eyes,  you  have  stolen  my  heart  awayl"  then  his  mind  wanders 
to  the  song,  and  Laura  feels  the  weight  of  his  attention  being  shifted  else- 
where. Singing  thus,  he  seems  harmless,  he  is  quite  harmless,  there  is  nothing 
to  do  but  sit  patiently  and  say  "No,"  when  the  moment  comes.  She  draws 
a  full  breath,  and  her  mind  wanders  also,  but  not  far.  She  dares  not  wander 
too  far. 

Not  for  nothing  has  Braggioni  taken  pains  to  be  a  good  revolutionist  and 
a  professional  lover  of  humanity.  He  will  never  die  of  it.  He  has  the  malice, 
the  cleverness,  the  wickedness,  the  sharpness  of  wit,  the  hardness  of  heart, 
stipulated  for  loving  the  world  profitably.  He  will  never  die  of  it.  He  will 
live  to  see  himself  kicked  out  from  his  feeding  trough  by  other  hungry  world- 
saviors.  Traditionally  he  must  sing  in  spite  of  his  life  which  drives  him  to 
bloodshed,  he  tells  Laura,  for  his  father  was  a  Tuscany  peasant  who  drifted 
to  Yucatan  and  married  a  Maya  woman:  a  woman  of  race,  an  aristocrat. 
They  gave  him  the  love  and  knowledge  of  music,  thus:  and  under  the  tip 
of  his  thumbnail,  the  strings  of  the  instrument  complain  like  exposed  nerves. 

Once  he  was  called  Delgadito  by  all  the  girls  and  married  women  who 
ran  after  him;  he  was  so  scrawny  all  his  bones  showed  under  his  thin  cotton 
clothing,  and  he  could  squeeze  his  emptiness  to  the  very  backbone  with  his 
two  hands.  He  was  a  poet  and  the  revolution  was  only  a  dream  then;  too 
many  women  loved  him  and  sapped  away  his  youth,  and  he  could  never 

FLOWERING   JUDAS         419 


find  enough  to  eat  anywhere,  anywhere!  Now  he  is  a  leader  of  men,  crafty 
men  who  whisper  in  his  ear,  hungry  men  who  wait  for  hours  outside  his 
office  for  a  word  with  him,  emaciated  men  with  wild  faces  who  waylay  him 
at  the  street  gate  with  a  timid,  "Comrade,  let  me  tell  you  .  .  ."  and  they  blow 
the  foul  breath  from  their  empty  stomachs  in  his  face. 

He  is  always  sympathetic.  He  gives  them  handfuls  of  small  coins  from 
his  own  pocket,  he  promises  them  work,  there  will  be  demonstrations,  they 
must  join  the  unions  and  attend  the  meetings,  above  all  they  must  be  on  the 
watch  for  spies.  They  are  closer  to  him  than  his  own  brothers,  without 
them  he  can  do  nothing— until  tomorrow,  comrade! 

Until  tomorrow.  "They  are  stupid,  they  are  lazy,  they  are  treacherous,  they 
would  cut  my  throat  for  nothing,"  he  says  to  Laura.  He  has  good  food  and 
abundant  drink,  he  hires  an  automobile  and  drives  in  the  Paseo  on  Sunday 
morning,  and  enjoys  plenty  of  sleep  in  a  soft  bed  beside  a  wife  who  dares 
not  disturb  him,  and  he  sits  pampering  his  bones  in  easy  billows  of  fat, 
singing  to  Laura,  who  knows  and  thinks  these  things  about  him.  When  he 
was  fifteen,  he  tried  to  drown  himself  because  he  loved  a  girl,  his  first  love, 
and  she  laughed  at  him.  "A  thousand  women  have  paid  for  that,"  and  his 
tight  little  mouth  turns  down  at  the  corners.  Now  he  perfumes  his  hair  with 
Jockey  Club,  and  confides  to  Laura:  "One  woman  is  really  as  good  as  another 
for  me,  in  the  dark.  I  prefer  them  all." 

His  wife  organizes  unions  among  the  girls  in  the  cigarette  factories,  and 
walks  in  picket  lines,  and  even  speaks  at  meetings  in  the  evening.  But  she 
cannot  be  brought  to  acknowledge  the  benefits  of  true  liberty.  "I  tell  her 
I  must  have  my  freedom,  net.  She  does  not  understand  my  point  of  view." 
Laura  has  heard  this  many  times.  Braggioni  scratches  the  guitar  and  medi- 
tates. "She  is  an  instinctively  virtuous  woman,  pure  gold,  no  doubt  of  that. 
If  she  were  not,  I  should  lock  her  up,  and  she  knows  it." 

His  wife,  who  works  so  hard  for  the  good  of  the  factory  girls,  employs 
part  of  her  leisure  lying  on  the  floor  weeping  because  there  are  so  many 
women  in  the  world,  and  only  one  husband  for  her,  and  she  never  knows 
where  nor  when  to  look  for  him.  He  told  her:  "Unless  you  can  learn  to  cry 
when  I  am  not  here,  I  must  go  away  for  good."  That  day  he  went  away  and 
took  a  room  at  the  Hotel  Madrid. 

It  is  this  month  of  separation  for  the  sake  of  higher  principles  that  has 
been  spoiled  not  only  for  Mrs.  Braggioni,  whose  sense  of  reality  is  beyond 
criticism,  but  for  Laura,  who  feels  herself  bogged  in  a  nightmare.  Tonight 
Laura  envies  Mrs.  Braggioni,  who  is  alone,  and  free  to  weep  as  much  as  she 
pleases  about  a  concrete  wrong.  Laura  has  just  come  from  a  visit  to  the 
prison,  and  she  is  waiting  for  tomorrow  with  a  bitter  anxiety  as  if  tomorrow 
may  not  come,  but  time  may  be  caught  immovably  in  this  hour,  with  her- 

420        THE  SHORT   STORY 


self  transfixed,  Braggioni  singing  on  forever,  and  Eugenio's  body  not  yet 
discovered  by  the  guard. 

Braggioni  says:  "Are  you  going  to  sleep?"  Almost  before  she  can  shake 
her  head,  he  begins  telling  her  about  the  May-day  disturbances  coming  on 
in  Morelia,  for  the  Catholics  hold  a  festival  in  honor  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
and  the  Socialists  celebrate  their  martyrs  on  that  day.  "There  will  be  two 
independent  processions,  starting  from  either  end  of  town,  and  they  will 
march  until  they  meet,  and  the  rest  depends  .  .  ."  He  asks  her  to  oil  and  load 
his  pistols.  Standing  up,  he  unbuckles  his  ammunition  belt,  and  spreads  it 
laden  across  her  knees.  Laura  sits  with  the  shells  slipping  through  the  clean- 
ing cloth  dipped  in  oil,  and  he  says  again  he  cannot  understand  why  she 
works  so  hard  for  the  revolutionary  idea  unless  she  loves  some  man  who  is 
in  it.  "Are  you  not  in  love  with  someone?"  "No,"  says  Laura.  "And  no  one 
is  in  love  with  you?"  "No."  "Then  it  is  your  own  fault.  No  woman  need  go 
begging.  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  The  legless  beggar  woman  in 
the  Alameda  has  a  perfectly  faithful  lover.  Did  you  know  that?" 

Laura  peers  down  the  pistol  barrel  and  says  nothing,  but  a  long,  slow 
faintness  rises  and  subsides  in  her;  Braggioni  curves  his  swollen  fingers 
around  the  throat  of  the  guitar  and  softly  smothers  the  music  out  of  it,  and 
when  she  hears  him  again  he  seems  to  have  forgotten  her,  and  is  speaking 
in  the  hypnotic  voice  he  uses  when  talking  in  small  rooms  to  a  listening, 
close-gathered  crowd.  Some  day  this  world,  now  seemingly  so  composed  and 
eternal,  to  the  edges  of  every  sea  shall  be  merely  a  tangle  of  gaping  trenches, 
of  crashing  walls  and  broken  bodies.  Everything  must  be  torn  from  its 
accustomed  place  where  it  has  rotted  for  centuries,  hurled  skyward  and 
distributed,  cast  down  again  clean  as  rain,  without  separate  identity.  Noth- 
ing shall  survive  that  the  stiffened  hands  of  poverty  have  created  for  the 
rich  and  no  one  shall  be  left  alive  except  the  elect  spirits  destined  to  pro- 
create a  new  world  cleansed  of  cruelty  and  injustice,  ruled  by  benevolent 
anarchy:  "Pistols  are  good,  I  love  them,  cannon  are  even  better,  but  in  the  end 
I  pin  my  faith  to  good  dynamite,"  he  concludes,  and  strokes  the  pistol  lying 
in  her  hands.  "Once  I  dreamed  of  destroying  this  city,  in  case  it  offered 
resistance  to  General  Ortiz,  but  it  fell  into  his  hands  like  an  overripe  pear." 

He  is  made  restless  by  his  own  words,  rises  and  stands  waiting.  Laura 
holds  up  the  belt  to  him:  "Put  that  on,  and  go  kill  somebody  in  Morelia,  and 
you  will  be  happier,"  she  says  softly.  The  presence  of  death  in  the  room 
makes  her  bold.  "Today,  I  found  Eugenio  going  into  a  stupor.  He  refused 
to  allow  me  to  call  the  prison  doctor.  He  had  taken  all  the  tablets  I  brought 
him  yesterday.  He  said  he  took  them  because  he  was  bored." 

"He  is  a  fool,  and  his  death  is  his  own  business,"  says  Braggioni,  fastening 
his  belt  carefully. 

FLOWERING  JUDAS        421 


"I  told  him  if  he  had  waited  only  a  little  while  longer,  you  would  have 
got  him  set  free,"  says  Laura.  "He  said  he  did  not  want  to  wait." 

"He  is  a  fool  and  we  are  well  rid  of  him/'  says  Braggioni,  reaching  for  his 
hat. 

He  goes  away.  Laura  knows  his  mood  has  changed,  she  will  not  see  him 
any  more  for  a  while.  He  will  send  word  when  he  needs  her  to  go  on  errands 
into  strange  streets,  to  speak  to  the  strange  faces  that  will  appear,  like  clay 
masks  with  the  power  of  human  speech,  to  mutter  their  thanks  to  Braggioni 
for  his  help.  Now  she  is  free,  and  she  thinks,  I  must  run  while  there  is  time. 
But  she  does  not  go. 

Braggioni  enters  his  own  house  where  for  a  month  his  wife  has  spent 
many  hours  every  night  weeping  and  tangling  her  hair  upon  her  pillow.  She 
is  weeping  now,  and  she  weeps  more  at  the  sight  of  him,  the  cause  of  all 
her  sorrows.  He  looks  about  the  room.  Nothing  is  changed,  the  smells  are 
good  and  familiar,  he  is  well  acquainted  with  the  woman  who  comes  toward 
him  with  no  reproach  except  grief  on  her  face.  He  says  to  her  tenderly: 
"You  are  so  good,  please  don't  cry  any  more,  you  dear  good  creature."  She 
says,  "Are  you  tired,  my  angel?  Sit  here  and  I  will  wash  your  feet."  She 
brings  a  bowl  of  water,  and  kneeling,  unlaces  his  shoes,  and  when  from 
her  knees  she  raises  her  sad  eyes  under  her  blackened  lids,  he  is  sorry  for 
everything,  and  bursts  into  tears.  "Ah,  yes,  I  am  hungry,  I  am  tired,  let  us 
eat  something  together,"  he  says,  between  sobs.  His  wife  leans  her  head 
on  his  arm  and  says,  "Forgive  me!"  and  this  time  he  is  refreshed  by  the 
solemn,  endless  rain  of  her  tears. 

Laura  takes  off  her  serge  dress  and  puts  on  a  white  linen  nightgown  and 
goes  to  bed.  She  turns  her  head  a  little  to  one  side,  and  lying  still,  reminds 
herself  that  it  is  time  to  sleep.  Numbers  tick  in  her  brain  like  little  clocks, 
soundless  doors  close  of  themselves  around  her.  If  you  would  sleep,  you 
must  not  remember  anything,  the  children  will  say  tomorrow,  good  morn- 
ing, my  teacher,  the  poor  prisoners  who  come  every  day  bringing  flowers  to 
their  jailor.  1-2-3-4-5  it  is  monstrous  to  confuse  love  with  revolution,  night 
with  day,  life  with  death— ah,  Eugenic! 

The  tolling  of  the  midnight  bell  is  a  signal,  but  what  does  it  mean?  Get 
up,  Laura,  and  follow  me:  come  out  of  your  sleep,  out  of  your  bed,  out  of 
this  strange  house.  What  are  you  doing  in  this  house?  Without  a  word, 
without  fear  she  rose  and  reached  for  Eugenio's  hand,  but  he  eluded  her 
with  a  sharp,  sly  smile  and  drifted  away.  This  is  not  all,  you  shall  see- 
Murderer,  he  said,  follow  me,  I  will  show  you  a  new  country,  but  it  is  far 
away  and  we  must  hurry.  No,  said  Laura,  not  unless  you  take  my  hand,  no; 
and  she  clung  first  to  the  stair  rail,  and  then  to  the  topmost  branch  of  the 
Judas  tree  that  bent  down  slowly  and  set  her  upon  the  earth,  and  then  to 

422        THE  SHORT  STORY 


the  rocky  ledge  of  a  cliff,  and  then  to  the  jagged  wave  of  a  sea  that  was  not 
water  but  a  desert  of  crumbling  stone.  Where  are  you  taking  me,  she  asked 
in  wonder  but  without  fear.  To  death,  and  it  is  a  long  way  off,  and  we  must 
hurry,  said  Eugenio.  No,  said  Laura,  not  unless  you  take  my  hand.  Then 
eat  these  flowers,  poor  prisoner,  said  Eugenio  in  a  voice  of  pity,  take  and 
eat:  and  from  the  Judas  tree  he  stripped  the  warm  bleeding  flowers,  and 
held  them  to  her  lips.  She  saw  that  his  hand  was  fleshless,  a  cluster  of  small 
white  petrified  branches,  and  his  eye  sockets  were  without  light,  but  she 
ate  the  flowers  greedily  for  they  satisfied  both  hunger  and  thirst.  Murderer! 
said  Eugenio,  and  Cannibal!  This  is  my  body  and  my  blood.  Laura  cried 
No!  and  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice,  she  awoke  trembling,  and  was 
afraid  to  sleep  again.  (1930) 


WILLIAM  FAULKNER 


The  bear 


HE  WAS  TEN.  But  it  had  already  begun,  long  before  that  day  when  at 
last  he  wrote  his  age  in  two  figures  and  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
camp  where  his  father  and  Major  de  Spain  and  old  General  Compson  and 
the  others  spent  two  weeks  each  November  and  two  weeks  again  each  June. 
He  had  already  inherited  then,  without  ever  having  seen  it,  the  tremendous 
bear  with  one  trap-ruined  foot  which,  in  an  area  almost  a  hundred  miles 
deep,  had  earned  itself  a  name,  a  definite  designation  like  a  living  man. 

He  had  listened  to  it  for  years:  the  long  legend  of  corncribs  rifled,  of 
shotes  and  grown  pigs  and  even  calves  carried  bodily  into  the  woods  and 
devoured,  of  traps  and  deadfalls  overthrown  and  dogs  mangled  and  slain, 
and  shotgun  and  even  rifle  charges  delivered  at  point-blank  range  and  with 
no  more  effect  than  so  many  peas  blown  through  a  tube  by  a  boy— a  corridor 
of  wreckage  and  destruction  beginning  back  before  he  was  born,  through 
which  sped,  not  fast  but  rather  with  the  ruthless  and  irresistible  delibera- 
tion of  a  locomotive,  the  shaggy  tremendous  shape. 

It  ran  in  his  knowledge  before  he  ever  saw  it.  It  looked  and  towered  in 
his  dreams  before  he  even  saw  the  unaxed  woods  where  it  left  its  crooked 
print,  shaggy,  huge,  red-eyed,  not  malevolent  but  just  big— too  big  for  the 
dogs  which  tried  to  bay  it,  for  the  horses  which  tried  to  ride  it  down,  for 
the  men  and  the  bullets  they  fired  into  it,  too  big  for  the  very  country 


Copyright,  1942,  by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company. 

THE   BEAR         423 


which  was  its  constricting  scope.  He  seemed  to  see  it  entire  with  a  child's 
complete  divination  before  he  ever  laid  eyes  on  either— the  doomed  wilder- 
ness whose  edges  were  being  constantly  and  punily  gnawed  at  by  men 
with  axes  and  plows  who  feared  it  because  it  was  wilderness,  men  myriad 
and  nameless  even  to  one  another  in  the  land  where  the  old  bear  had 
earned  a  name,  through  which  ran  not  even  a  mortal  animal  but  an 
anachronism,  indomitable  and  invincible,  out  of  an  old  dead  time,  a  phantom, 
epitome  and  apotheosis  of  the  old  wild  life  at  which  the  puny  humans 
swarmed  and  hacked  in  a  fury  of  abhorrence  and  fear,  like  pygmies  about 
the  ankles  of  a  drowsing  elephant:  the  old  bear  solitary,  indomitable  and 
alone,  widowered,  childless,  and  absolved  of  mortality— old  Priam  reft  of 
his  old  wife  and  having  outlived  all  his  sons. 

Until  he  was  ten,  each  November  he  would  watch  the  wagon  containing 
the  dogs  and  the  bedding  and  food  and  guns  and  his  father  and  Tennie's 
Jim,  the  Negro,  and  Sam  Fathers,  the  Indian,  son  of  a  slave  woman  and  a 
Chickasaw  chief,  depart  on  the  road  to  town,  to  Jefferson,  where  Major 
de  Spain  and  the  others  would  join  them.  To  the  boy,  at  seven,  eight,  and 
nine,  they  were  not  going  into  the  Big  Bottom  to  hunt  bear  and  deer,  but 
to  keep  yearly  rendezvous  with  the  bear  which  they  did  not  even  intend  to 
kill.  Two  weeks  later  they  would  return,  with  no  trophy,  no  head  and  skin. 
He  had  not  expected  it.  He  had  not  even  been  afraid  it  would  be  in  the 
wagon.  He  believed  that  even  after  he  was  ten  and  his  father  would  let 
him  go  too,  for  those  two  weeks  in  November,  he  would  merely  make  another 
one,  along  with  his  father  and  Major  de  Spain  and  General  Compson  and 
the  others,  the  dogs  which  feared  to  bay  at  it  and  the  rifles  and  shotguns 
which  failed  even  to  bleed  it,  in  the  yearly  pageant  of  the  old  bear's  furious 
immortality. 

Then  he  heard  the  dogs.  It  was  in  the  second  week  of  his  first  time  in 
the  camp.  He  stood  with  Sam  Fathers  against  a  big  oak  beside  the  faint 
crossing  where  they  had  stood  each  dawn  for  nine  days  now,  hearing  the 
dogs.  He  had  heard  them  once  before,  one  morning  last  week— a  murmur, 
sourceless,  echoing  through  the  wet  woods,  swelling  presently  into  separate 
voices  which  he  could  recognize  and  call  by  name.  He  had  raised  and  cocked 
the  gun  as  Sam  told  him  and  stood  motionless  again  while  the  uproar,  the 
invisible  course,  swept  up  and  past  and  faded;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  actually  see  the  deer,  the  buck,  blond,  smoke-colored,  elongated 
with  speed,  fleeing,  vanishing,  the  woods,  the  gray  solitude,  still  ringing 
even  when  the  cries  of  the  dogs  had  died  away. 

"Now  let  the  hammers  down,"  Sam  said. 

"You  knew  they  were  not  coming  here  too,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  Sam  said.  "I  want  you  to  learn  how  to  do  when  you  didn't  shoot. 

424        THE   SHORT   STORY 


It's  after  the  chance  for  the  bear  or  the  deer  has  done  already  come  and 
gone  that  men  and  dogs  get  killed." 

"Anyway/'  he  said,  "it  was  just  a  deer/' 

Then  on  the  tenth  morning  he  heard  the  dogs  again.  And  he  readied 
the  too-long,  too-heavy  gun  as  Sam  had  taught  him,  before  Sam  even  spoke. 
But  this  time  it  was  no  deer,  no  ringing  chorus  of  dogs  running  strong  on 
a  free  scent,  but  a  moiling  yapping  an  octave  too  high,  with  something 
more  than  indecision  and  even  abjectness  in  it,  not  even  moving  very  fast, 
taking  a  long  time  to  pass  completely  out  of  hearing,  leaving  then  some- 
where in  the  air  that  echo,  thin,  slightly  hysterical,  abject,  almost  grieving, 
with  no  sense  of  a  fleeing,  unseen,  smoke-colored,  grass-eating  shape  ahead 
of  it,  and  Sam,  who  had  taught  him  first  of  all  to  cock  the  gun  and  take 
position  where  he  could  see  everywhere  and  then  never  move  again,  had 
himself  moved  up  beside  him;  he  could  hear  Sam  breathing  at  his  shoulder, 
and  he  could  see  the  arched  curve  of  the  old  man's  inhaling  nostrils. 

"Hah/'  Sam  said.  "Not  even  running.  Walking." 

"Old  Ben!"  the  boy  said.  "But  up  here!"  he  cried.  "Way  up  here!" 

"He  do  it  every  year,"  Sam  said.  "Once.  Maybe  to  see  who  in  camp  this 
time,  if  he  can  shoot  or  not.  Whether  we  got  the  dog  yet  that  can  bay  and 
hold  him.  He'll  take  them  to  the  river,  then  he'll  send  them  back  home. 
We  may  as  well  go  back  too;  see  how  they  look  when  they  come  back  to 
camp." 

When  they  reached  the  camp  the  hounds  were  already  there,  ten  of  them 
crouching  back  under  the  kitchen,  the  boy  and  Sam  squatting  to  peer  back 
into  the  obscurity  where  they  had  huddled,  quiet,  the  eyes  luminous,  glow- 
ing at  them  and  vanishing,  and  no  sound,  only  that  effluvium  of  something 
more  than  dog,  stronger  than  dog  and  not  just  animal,  just  beast,  because 
still  there  had  been  nothing  in  front  of  that  abject  and  almost  painful 
yapping  save  the  solitude,  the  wilderness,  so  that  when  the  eleventh  hound 
came  in  at  noon  and  with  all  the  others  watching—even  old  Uncle  Ash,  who 
called  himself  first  a  cook—Sam  daubed  the  tattered  ear  and  the  raked 
shoulder  with  turpentine  and  axle  grease,  to  the  boy  it  was  still  no  living 
creature,  but  the  wilderness  which,  leaning  for  the  moment  down,  had 
patted  lightly  once  the  hound's  temerity. 

"Just  like  a  man,"  Sam  said.  "Just  like  folks.  Put  off  as  long  as  she  could 
having  to  be  brave,  knowing  all  the  time  that  sooner  or  later  she  would  have 
to  be  brave  to  keep  on  living  with  herself,  and  knowing  all  the  time  before- 
hand what  was  going  to  happen  to  her  when  she  done  it." 

That  afternoon,  himself  on  the  one-eyed  wagon  mule  which  did  not 
mind  the  smell  of  blood  nor,  as  they  told  him,  of  bear,  and  with  Sam  on 
the  other  one,  they  rode  for  more  than  three  hours  through  the  rapid, 

THE   BEAR        425 


shortening  winter  day.  They  followed  no  path,  no  trail  even  that  he  could 
see;  almost  at  once  they  were  in  a  country  which  he  had  never  seen  before. 
Then  he  knew  why  Sam  had  made  him  ride  the  mule  which  would  not 
spook.  The  sound  one  stopped  short  and  tried  to  whirl  and  bolt  even 
as  Sam  got  down,  blowing  its  breath,  jerking  and  wrenching  at  the  rein, 
while  Sam  held  it,  coaxing  it  forward  with  his  voice,  since  he  could  not 
risk  tying  it,  drawing  it  forward  while  the  boy  got  down  from  the  marred 
one. 

Then,  standing  beside  Sam  in  the  gloom  of  the  dying  afternoon,  he  looked 
down  at  the  rotted  over-turned  log,  gutted  and  scored  with  claw  marks 
and,  in  the  wet  earth  beside  it,  the  print  of  the  enormous  warped  two-toed 
foot.  He  knew  now  what  he  had  smelled  when  he  peered  under  the  kitchen 
where  the  dogs  huddled.  He  realized  for  the  first  time  that  the  bear  which 
had  run  in  his  listening  and  loomed  in  his  dreams  since  before  he  could  re- 
member to  the  contrary,  and  which,  therefore,  must  have  existed  in  the 
listening  and  dreams  of  his  father  and  Major  de  Spain  and  even  old  General 
Compson,  too,  before  they  began  to  remember  in  their  turn,  was  a  mortal 
animal,  and  that  if  they  had  departed  for  the  camp  each  November  without 
any  actual  hope  of  bringing  its  trophy  back,  it  was  not  because  it  could  not 
be  slain,  but  because  so  far  they  had  had  no  actual  hope  to. 

"Tomorrow,"  he  said. 

"Well  try  tomorrow/'  Sam  said.  "We  ain't  got  the  dog  yet." 

"We've  got  eleven.  They  ran  him  this  morning." 

"It  won't  need  but  one,"  Sam  said.  "He  ain't  here.  Maybe  he  ain't  no- 
where. The  only  other  way  will  be  for  him  to  run  by  accident  over  some- 
body that  has  a  gun." 

"That  wouldn't  be  me,"  the  boy  said.  "It  will  be  Walter  or  Major  or-" 

"It  might,"  Sam  said.  "You  watch  close  in  the  morning.  Because  he's 
smart.  That's  how  come  he  has  lived  this  long.  If  he  gets  hemmed  up  and 
has  to  pick  out  somebody  to  run  over,  he  will  pick  out  you." 

"How?"  the  boy  said.  "How  will  he  know—"  He  ceased.  "You  mean  he 
already  knows  me,  that  I  ain't  never  been  here  before,  ain't  had  time  to 
find  out  yet  whether  I—"  He  ceased  again,  looking  at  Sam,  the  old  man  whose 
face  revealed  nothing  until  it  smiled.  He  said  humbly,  not  even  amazed, 
"It  was  me  he  was  watching.  I  don't  reckon  he  did  need  to  come  but  once." 

The  next  morning  they  left  the  camp  three  hours  before  daylight.  They 
rode  this  time  because  it  was  too  far  to  walk,  even  the  dogs  in  the  wagon; 
again  the  first  gray  light  found  him  in  a  place  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  where  Sam  had  placed  him  and  told  him  to  stay  and  then  departed, 
With  the  gun  which  was  too  big  for  him,  which  did  not  even  belong  to  him, 

426        THE  SHORT  8TORT 


but  to  Major  de  Spain,  and  which  he  had  fired  only  once— at  a  stump  on 
the  first  day,  to  learn  the  recoil  and  how  to  reload  it— he  stood  against  a 
gum  tree  beside  a  little  bayou  whose  black  still  water  crept  without  move- 
ment out  of  a  canebrake  and  crossed  a  small  clearing  and  into  cane  again, 
where,  invisible,  a  bird— the  big  woodpecker  called  Lord-to-God  by  Negroes 
—clattered  at  a  dead  limb. 

It  was  a  stand  like  any  other,  dissimilar  only  in  incidentals  to  the  one 
where  he  had  stood  each  morning  for  ten  days;  a  territory  new  to  him, 
yet  no  less  familiar  than  that  other  one  which,  after  almost  two  weeks,  he  had 
come  to  believe  he  knew  a  little— the  same  solitude,  the  same  loneliness 
through  which  human  beings  had  merely  passed  without  altering  it,  leaving 
no  mark,  no  scar,  which  looked  exactly  as  it  must  have  looked  when  the 
first  ancestor  of  Sam  Fathers'  Chickasaw  predecessors  crept  into  it  and 
looked  about,  club  or  stone  ax  or  bone  arrow  drawn  and  poised;  different 
only  because,  squatting  at  the  edge  of  the  kitchen,  he  smelled  the  hounds 
huddled  and  cringing  beneath  it  and  saw  the  raked  ear  and  shoulder  of  the 
one  who,  Sam  said,  had  had  to  be  brave  once  in  order  to  live  with  herself, 
and  saw  yesterday  in  the  earth  beside  the  gutted  log  the  print  of  the  living 
foot. 

He  heard  no  dogs  at  all.  He  never  did  hear  them.  He  only  heard  the 
drumming  of  the  woodpecker  stop  short  off  and  knew  that  the  bear  was  look* 
ing  at  him.  He  never  saw  it.  He  did  not  know  whether  it  was  in  front  of 
him  or  behind  him.  He  did  not  move,  holding  the  useless  gun,  which  he 
had  not  even  had  warning  to  cock  and  which  even  now  he  did  not  cock, 
tasting  in  his  saliva  that  taint  as  of  brass  which  he  knew  now  because  he 
had  smelled  it  when  he  peered  under  the  kitchen  at  the  huddled  dogs. 

Then  it  was  gone.  As  abruptly  as  it  had  ceased,  the  woodpecker's  dry, 
monotonous  clatter  set  up  again,  and  after  a  while  he  even  believed  he 
could  hear  the  dogs— a  murmur,  scarce  a  sound  even,  which  he  had  probably 
been  hearing  for  some  time  before  he  even  remarked  it,  drifting  into 
hearing  and  then  out  again,  dying  away.  They  came  nowhere  near  him. 
If  it  was  a  bear  they  ran,  it  was  another  bear.  It  was  Sam  himself  who 
came  out  of  the  cane  and  crossed  the  bayou,  followed  by  the  injured  bitch 
of  yesterday.  She  was  almost  at  heel,  like  a  bird  dog,  making  no  sound. 
She  came  and  crouched  against  his  leg,  trembling,  staring  off  into  the  cane. 

"I  didn't  see  him,"  he  said.  "I  didn't,  Sam!" 

"I  know  it,"  Sam  said.  "He  done  the  looking.  You  didn't  hear  him  neither, 
did  you?" 

"No,"  the  boy  said.  "I-" 

"He's  smart,"  Sam  said.  "Too  smart."  He  looked  down  at  the  hound,  trem- 

THE   BEAR        427 


bling  faintly  and  steadily  against  the  boy's  knee.  From  the  raked  shoulder 
a  few  drops  of  fresh  blood  oozed  and  clung.  "Too  big.  We  ain't  got  the  dog 
yet.  But  maybe  someday.  Maybe  not  next  time.  But  someday." 

So  /  must  see  him,  he  thought.  I  must  look  at  him.  Otherwise,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  it  would  go  on  like  this  forever,  as  it  had  gone  on  with  his  father 
and  Major  de  Spain,  who  was  older  than  his  father,  and  even  with  old 
General  Compson,  who  had  been  old  enough  to  be  a  brigade  commander 
in  1865.  Otherwise,  it  would  go  on  so  forever,  next  time  and  next  time,  after 
and  after  and  after.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  never  see  the  two  of 
them,  himself  and  the  bear,  shadowy  in  the  limbo  from  which  time  emerged, 
becoming  time;  the  old  bear  absolved  of  mortality  and  himself  partaking, 
sharing  a  little  of  it,  enough  of  it.  And  he  knew  now  what  he  had  smelled 
in  the  huddled  dogs  and  tasted  in  his  saliva.  He  recognized  fear.  So  I  will 
have  to  see  him,  he  thought,  without  dread  or  even  hope.  7  will  have  to  look 
at  him. 

It  was  in  June  of  the  next  year.  He  was  eleven.  They  were  in  camp  again, 
celebrating  Major  de  Spain's  and  General  Compson's  birthdays.  Although 
the  one  had  been  born  in  September  and  the  other  in  the  depth  of  winter 
and  in  another  decade,  they  had  met  for  two  weeks  to  fish  and  shoot  squir- 
rels and  turkey  and  run  coons  and  wildcats  with  the  dogs  at  night.  That  is, 
he  and  Boon  Hoggenback  and  the  Negroes  fished  and  shot  squirrels  and  ran 
the  coons  and  cats,  because  the  proved  hunters,  not  only  Major  de  Spain 
and  old  General  Compson,  who  spent  those  two  weeks  sitting  in  a  rocking 
chair  before  a  tremendous  iron  pot  of  Brunswick  stew,  stirring  and  tasting, 
with  old  Ash  to  quarrel  with  about  how  he  was  making  it  and  Tennie's  Jim 
to  pour  whiskey  from  the  demijohn  into  the  tin  dipper  from  which  he  drank 
it,  but  even  the  boy's  father  and  Walter  Ewell,  who  were  still  young  enough, 
scorned  such,  other  than  shooting  the  wild  gobblers  with  pistols  for  wagers 
on  their  marksmanship. 

Or,  that  is,  his  father  and  the  others  believed  he  was  hunting  squirrels. 
Until  the  third  day,  he  thought  that  Sam  Fathers  believed  that  too.  Each 
morning  he  would  leave  the  camp  right  after  breakfast.  He  had  his  own 
gun  now,  a  Christmas  present.  He  went  back  to  the  tree  beside  the  bayou 
where  he  had  stood  that  morning.  Using  the  compass  which  old  General 
Compson  had  given  him,  he  ranged  from  that  point;  he  was  teaching  him- 
self to  be  a  better-than-fair  woodsman  without  knowing  he  was  doing  it.  On 
the  second  day  he  even  found  the  gutted  log  where  he  had  first  seen  the 
crooked  print.  It  was  almost  completely  crumbled  now,  healing  with  un- 
believable speed,  a  passionate  and  almost  visible  relinquishment,  back  into 
the  earth  from  which  the  tree  had  grown. 


428 


THE   SHORT  STORY 


He  ranged  the  summer  woods  now,  green  with  gloom;  if  anything,  actually 
dimmer  than  in  November's  gray  dissolution,  where,  even  at  noon,  the  sun 
fell  only  in  intermittent  dappling  upon  the  earth,  which  never  completely 
dried  out  and  which  crawled  with  snakes—moccasins  and  water  snakes  and 
rattlers,  themselves  the  color  of  the  dappling  gloom,  so  that  he  would  not 
always  see  them  until  they  moved,  returning  later  and  later,  first  day,  second 
day,  passing  in  the  twilight  of  the  third  evening  the  little  log  pen  enclosing 
the  log  stable  where  Sam  was  putting  up  the  horses  for  the  night. 

"You  ain't  looked  right  yet,"  Sam  said. 

He  stopped.  For  a  moment  he  didn't  answer.  Then  he  said  peacefully,  in 
a  peaceful  rushing  burst  as  when  a  boy's  miniature  dam  in  a  little  brook 
gives  way,  "All  right.  But  how?  I  went  to  the  bayou.  I  even  found  that  log 
again.  I—" 

"I  reckon  that  was  all  right.  Likely  he's  been  watching  you.  You  never  saw 
his  foot?" 

"I,"  the  boy  said— -"I  didn't— I  never  thought—" 

"It's  the  gun,"  Sam  said.  He  stood  beside  the  fence,  motionless— the  old 
man,  the  Indian,  in  the  battered  faded  overalls  and  the  five-cent  straw  hat 
which  in  the  Negro's  race  had  been  the  badge  of  his  enslavement  and  was 
now  the  regalia  of  his  freedom.  The  camp— the  clearing,  the  house,  the  barn 
and  its  tiny  lot  with  which  Major  de  Spain  in  his  turn  had  scratched  punily 
and  evanescently  at  the  wilderness— faded  in  the  dusk,  back  into  the  im- 
memorial darkness  of  the  woods.  The  gun,  the  boy  thought.  The  gun. 

"Be  scared,"  Sam  said.  "You  can't  help  that.  But  don't  be  afraid.  Ain't 
nothing  in  the  woods  going  to  hurt  you  unless  you  corner  it,  or  it  smells  that 
you  are  afraid.  A  bear  or  a  deer,  too,  has  got  to  be  scared  of  a  coward  the 
same  as  a  brave  man  has  got  to  be." 

The  gun,  the  boy  thought. 

"You  will  have  to  choose,"  Sam  said. 

He  left  the  camp  before  daylight,  long  before  Uncle  Ash  would  wake  in 
his  quilts  on  the  kitchen  floor  and  start  the  fire  for  breakfast.  He  had  only 
the  compass  and  a  stick  for  snakes.  He  could  go  almost  a  mile  before  he 
would  begin  to  need  the  compass.  He  sat  on  a  log,  the  invisible  compass  in 
his  invisible  hand,  while  the  secret  night  sounds,  fallen  still  at  his  move- 
ments, scurried  again  and  then  ceased  for  good,  and  the  owls  ceased  and 
gave  over  to  the  waking  of  day  birds,  and  he  could  see  the  compass.  Then 
he  went  fast  yet  still  quietly;  he  was  becoming  better  and  better  as  a  woods- 
man, still  without  having  yet  realized  it. 

He  jumped  a  doe  and  a  fawn  at  sunrise,  walked  them  out  of  the  bed, 
close  enough  to  see  them— the  crash  of  undergrowth,  the  white  scut,  the  fawn 
scudding  behind  her  faster  than  he  had  believed  it  could  run.  He  was  hunt- 

THE    BEAR         429 


ing  right,  upwind,  as  Sam  had  taught  him;  not  that  it  mattered  now.  He 
had  left  the  gun;  of  his  own  will  and  relinquishment  he  had  accepted  not  a 
gambit,  not  a  choice,  but  a  condition  in  which  not  only  the  bear's  heretofore 
inviolable  anonymity  but  all  the  old  rules  and  balances  of  hunter  and  hunted 
had  been  abrogated.  He  would  not  even  be  afraid,  not  even  in  the  moment 
when  the  fear  would  take  him  completely— blood,  skin,  bowels,  bones,  mem- 
ory from  the  long  time  before  it  became  his  memory—all  save  that  thin,  clear, 
immortal  lucidity  which  alone  differed  him  from  this  bear  and  from  all  the 
other  bear  and  deer  he  would  ever  kill  in  the  humility  and  pride  of  his  skill 
and  endurance,  to  which  Sam  had  spoken  when  he  leaned  in  the  twilight 
on  the  lot  fence  yesterday. 

By  noon  he  was  far  beyond  the  little  bayou,  farther  into  the  new  and  alien 
country  than  he  had  ever  been.  He  was  traveling  now  not  only  by  the  old, 
heavy,  biscuit-thick  silver  watch  which  had  belonged  to  his  grandfather. 
When  he  stopped  at  last,  it  was  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  risen  from  the 
log  at  dawn  when  he  could  see  the  compass.  It  was  far  enough.  He  had  left 
the  camp  nine  hours  ago;  nine  hours  from  now,  dark  would  have  already 
been  an  hour  old.  But  he  didn't  think  that.  He  thought,  All  right.  Yes.  But 
what?  and  stood  for  a  moment,  alien  and  small  in  the  green  and  topless 
solitude,  answering  his  own  question  before  it  had  formed  and  ceased.  It 
was  the  watch,  the  compass,  the  stick— the  three  lifeless  mechanicals  with 
which  for  nine  hours  he  had  fended  the  wilderness  off;  he  hung  the  watch 
and  compass  carefully  on  a  bush  and  leaned  the  stick  beside  them  and  re- 
linquished completely  to  it. 

He  had  not  been  going  very  fast  for  the  last  two  or  three  hours.  He  went 
no  faster  now,  since  distance  would  not  matter  even  if  he  could  have  gone 
fast.  And  he  was  trying  to  keep  a  bearing  on  the  tree  where  he  had  left  the 
compass,  trying  to  complete  a  circle  which  would  bring  him  back  to  it  or  at 
least  intersect  itself,  since  direction  would  not  matter  now  either.  But  the 
tree  was  not  there,  and  he  did  as  Sam  had  schooled  him— made  the  next 
circle  in  the  opposite  direction,  so  that  the  two  patterns  would  bisect  some- 
where, but  crossing  no  print  of  his  own  feet,  finding  the  tree  at  last,  but  in 
the  wrong  place— no  bush,  no  compass,  no  watch— and  the  tree  not  even  the 
tree,  because  there  was  a  down  log  beside  it  and  he  did  what  Sam  Fathers 
had  told  him  was  the  next  thing  and  the  last. 

As  he  sat  down  on  the  log  he  saw  the  crooked  print— the  warped,  tremen- 
dous, two-toed  indentation  which,  even  as  he  watched  it,  filled  with  water. 
As  he  looked  up,  the  wilderness  coalesced,  solidified— the  glade,  the  tree  he 
sought,  the  bush,  the  watch  and  the  compass  glinting  where  a  ray  of  sun- 
shine touched  them.  Then  he  saw  the  bear.  It  did  not  emerge,  appear;  it  was 
just  there,  immobile,  solid,  fixed  in  the  hot  dappling  of  the  green  and  wind- 

430        THE   SHORT  STORY 


less  noon,  not  as  big  as  he  had  dreamed  it,  but  as  big  as  he  had  expected  it, 
bigger,  dimensionless,  against  the  dappled  obscurity,  looking  at  him  where 
he  sat  quietly  on  the  log  and  looked  back  at  it. 

Then  it  moved.  It  made  no  sound.  It  did  not  hurry.  It  crossed  the  glade, 
walking  for  an  instant  into  the  full  glare  of  the  sun;  when  it  reached  the 
other  side  it  stopped  again  and  looked  back  at  him  across  one  shoulder 
while  his  quiet  breathing  inhaled  and  exhaled  three  times. 

Then  it  was  gone.  It  didn't  walk  into  the  woods,  the  undergrowth.  It  faded, 
sank  back  into  the  wilderness  as  he  had  watched  a  fish,  a  huge  old  bass,  sink 
and  vanish  into  the  dark  depths  of  its  pool  without  even  any  movement  of 
its  fins. 

He  thought,  It  will  be  next  fall.  But  it  was  not  next  fall,  nor  the  next  nor 
the  next.  He  was  fourteen  then.  He  had  killed  his  buck,  and  Sam  Fathers 
had  marked  his  face  with  the  hot  blood,  and  in  the  next  year  he  killed  a 
bear.  But  even  before  that  accolade  he  had  become  as  competent  in  the 
woods  as  many  grown  men  with  the  same  experience;  by  his  fourteenth  year 
he  was  a  better  woodsman  than  most  grown  men  with  more.  There  was  no 
territory  within  thirty  miles  of  the  camp  that  he  did  not  know— bayou,  ridge, 
brake,  landmark,  tree  and  path.  He  could  have  led  anyone  to  any  point  in 
it  without  deviation,  and  brought  them  out  again.  He  knew  the  game  trails 
that  even  Sam  Fathers  did  not  know;  in  his  thirteenth  year  he  found  a  buck's 
bedding  place,  and  unbeknown  to  his  father  he  borrowed  Walter  Swell's 
rifle  and  lay  in  wait  at  dawn  and  killed  the  buck  when  it  walked  back  to  the 
bed,  as  Sam  had  told  him  how  the  old  Chickasaw  fathers  did. 

But  not  the  old  bear,  although  by  now  he  knew  its  footprints  better  than 
he  did  his  own,  and  not  only  the  crooked  one.  He  could  see  any  one  of  the 
three  sound  ones  and  distinguish  it  from  any  other,  and  not  only  by  its  size. 
There  were  other  bears  within  these  thirty  miles  which  left  tracks  almost  as 
large,  but  this  was  more  than  that.  If  Sam  Fathers  had  been  his  mentor  and 
the  back-yard  rabbits  and  squirrels  at  home  his  kindergarten,  then  the  wil- 
derness the  old  bear  ran  was  his  college,  the  old  male  bear  itself,  so  long 
unwifed  and  childless  as  to  have  become  its  own  ungendered  progenitor, 
was  his  alma  mater.  But  he  never  saw  it. 

He  could  find  the  crooked  print  now  almost  whenever  he  liked,  fifteen  or 
ten  or  five  miles,  or  sometimes  nearer  the  camp  than  that.  Twice  while  on 
stand  during  the  three  years  he  heard  the  dogs  strike  its  trail  by  accident; 
on  the  second  time  they  jumped  it  seemingly,  the  voices  high,  abject,  almost 
human  in  hysteria,  as  on  that  first  morning  two  years  ago.  But  not  the  bear 
itself.  He  would  remember  that  noon  three  years  ago,  the  glade,  himself 
and  the  bear  fixed  during  that  moment  in  the  windless  and  dappled  blaze, 

THE   BEAR        431 


and  it  would  seem  to  him  that  it  had  never  happened,  that  he  had  dreamed 
that  too.  But  it  had  happened.  They  had  looked  at  each  other,  they  had 
emerged  from  the  wilderness  old  as  earth,  synchronized  to  the  instant 
by  something  more  than  the  blood  that  moved  the  flesh  and  bones  which 
bore  them,  and  touched,  pledged  something,  affirmed,  something  more 
lasting  than  the  frail  web  of  bones  and  flesh  which  any  accident  could 
obliterate. 

Then  he  saw  it  again.  Because  of  the  very  fact  that  he  thought  of  nothing 
else,  he  had  forgotten  to  look  for  it.  He  was  still  hunting  with  Walter  E  well's 
rifle.  He  saw  it  cross  the  end  of  a  long  blow-down,  a  corridor  where  a  tor- 
nado had  swept,  rushing  through  rather  than  over  the  tangle  of  trunks  and 
branches  as  a  locomotive  would  have,  faster  than  he  had  ever  believed  it 
could  move,  almost  as  fast  as  a  deer  even,  because  a  deer  would  have  spent 
most  of  that  time  in  the  air,  faster  than  he  could  bring  the  rifle  sights  up  with 
it.  And  now  he  knew  what  had  been  wrong  during  all  the  three  years.  He 
sat  on  a  log,  shaking  and  trembling  as  if  he  had  never  seen  the  woods  before 
nor  anything  that  ran  them,  wondering  with  incredulous  amazement  how  he 
could  have  forgotten  the  very  thing  which  Sam  Fathers  had  told  him  and 
which  the  bear  itself  had  proved  the  next  day  and  had  now  returned  after 
three  years  to  reaffirm. 

And  now  he  knew  what  Sam  Fathers  had  meant  about  the  right  dog,  a 
dog  in  which  size  would  mean  less  than  nothing.  So  when  he  returned  alone 
in  April— school  was  out  then,  so  that  the  sons  of  farmers  could  help  with 
the  land's  planting,  and  at  last  his  father  had  granted  him  permission,  on 
his  promise  to  be  back  in  four  days— he  had  the  dog.  It  was  his  own,  a  mon- 
grel of  the  sort  called  by  Negroes  a  fyce,  a  ratter,  itself  not  much  bigger 
than  a  rat  and  possessing  that  bravery  which  had  long  since  stopped  being 
courage  and  had  become  foolhardiness. 

It  did  not  take  four  days.  Alone  again,  he  found  the  trail  on  the  first  morn- 
ing. It  was  not  a  stalk;  it  was  an  ambush.  He  timed  the  meeting  almost  as 
if  it  were  an  appointment  with  a  human  being.  Himself  holding  the  fyce 
muffled  in  a  feed  sack  and  Sam  Fathers  with  two  of  the  hounds  on  a  piece 
of  a  plowline  rope,  they  lay  down  wind  of  the  trail  at  dawn  of  the  second 
morning.  They  were  so  close  that  the  bear  turned  without  even  running, 
as  if  in  surprised  amazement  at  the  shrill  and  frantic  uproar  of  the  released 
fyce,  turning  at  bay  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  on  its  hind  feet;  it  seemed 
to  the  boy  that  it  would  never  stop  rising,  taller  and  taller,  and  even  the  two 
hounds  seemed  to  take  a  desperate  and  despairing  courage  from  the  fyce, 
following  it  as  it  went  in. 

Then  he  realized  that  the  fyce  was  actually  not  going  to  stop.  He  flung, 
threw  the  gun  away,  and  ran;  when  he  overtook  and  grasped  the  frantically 


432 


THE    SHORT    STORY 


pin-wheeling  little  dog,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  directly  under  the  bear. 

He  could  smell  it,  strong  and  hot  and  rank.  Sprawling,  he  looked  up  to 
where  it  loomed  and  towered  over  him  like  a  cloudburst  and  colored  like 
a  thunderclap,  quite  familiar,  peacefully  and  even  lucidly  familiar,  until  he 
remembered:  This  was  the  way  he  had  used  to  dream  about  it.  Then  it  was 
gone.  He  didn't  see  it  go.  He  knelt,  holding  the  frantic  fyce  with  both  hands, 
hearing  the  abashed  wailing  of  the  hounds  drawing  farther  and  farther 
away,  until  Sam  came  up.  He  carried  the  gun.  He  laid  it  down  quietly  be- 
side the  boy  and  stood  looking  down  at  him. 

"You've  done  seed  him  twice  now  with  a  gun  in  your  hands,"  he  said. 
"This  time  you  couldn't  have  missed  him." 

The  boy  rose.  He  still  held  the  fyce.  Even  in  his  arms  and  clear  of  the 
ground,  it  yapped  frantically,  straining  and  surging  after  the  fading  uproar 
of  the  two  hounds  like  a  tangle  of  wire  springs.  He  was  panting  a  little,  but 
he  was  neither  shaking  nor  trembling  now. 

"Neither  could  you!"  he  said.  "You  had  the  gun!  Neither  did  you!" 

"And  you  didn't  shoot,"  his  father  said.  "How  close  were  you?" 
"I  don't  know,  sir,"  he  said.  "There  was  a  big  wood  tick  inside  his  right 
hind  leg.  I  saw  that.  But  I  didn't  have  the  gun  then." 

"But  you  didn't  shoot  when  you  had  the  gun,"  his  father  said.  "Why?" 
But  he  didn't  answer,  and  his  father  didn't  wait  for  him  to,  rising  and 
crossing  the  room,  across  the  pelt  of  the  bear  which  the  boy  had  killed  two 
years  ago  and  the  larger  one  which  his  father  had  killed  before  he  was  born, 
to  the  bookcase  beneath  the  mounted  head  of  the  boy's  first  buck.  It  was 
the  room  which  his  father  called  the  office,  from  which  all  the  plantation 
business  was  transacted;  in  it  for  the  fourteen  years  of  his  life  he  had  heard 
the  best  of  all  talking.  Major  de  Spain  would  be  there  and  sometimes  old 
General  Compson,  and  Walter  Ewell  and  Boon  Hoggenback  and  Sam  Fathers 
and  Tennie's  Jim,  too,  were  hunters,  knew  the  woods  and  what  ran  them. 

He  would  hear  it,  not  talking  himself  but  listening— the  wilderness,  the 
big  woods,  bigger  and  older  than  any  recorded  document  of  white  man 
fatuous  enough  to  believe  he  had  bought  any  fragment  of  it  or  Indian  ruth- 
less enough  to  pretend  that  any  fragment  of  it  had  been  his  to  convey.  It 
was  of  the  men,  not  white  nor  black  nor  red,  but  men,  hunters  with  the  will 
and  hardihood  to  endure  and  the  humility  and  skill  to  survive,  and  the  dogs 
and  the  bear  and  deer  juxtaposed  and  reliefed  against  it,  ordered  and  com- 
pelled by  and  within  the  wilderness  in  the  ancient  and  unremitting  contest 
by  the  ancient  and  immitigable  rules  which  voided  all  regrets  and  brooked  no 
quarter,  the  voices  quiet  and  weighty  and  deliberate  for  retrospection  and 
recollection  and  exact  remembering,  while  he  squatted  in  the  blazing  fire- 

THE    BEAR          433 


light  as  Tennie's  Jim  squatted,  who  stirred  only  to  put  more  wood  on  the 
fire  and  to  pass  the  bottle  from  one  glass  to  another.  Because  the  bottle  was 
always  present,  so  that  after  a  while  it  seemed  to  him  that  those  fierce  in- 
stants of  heart  and  brain  and  courage  and  wiliness  and  speed  were  concen- 
trated and  distilled  into  that  brown  liquor  which  not  women,  not  boys  and 
children,  but  only  hunters  drank,  drinking  not  of  the  blood  they  had  spilled 
but  some  condensation  of  the  wild  immortal  spirit,  drinking  it  moderately, 
humbly  even,  not  with  the  pagan's  base  hope  of  acquiring  the  virtues  of 
cunning  and  strength  and  speed,  but  in  salute  to  them, 

His  father  returned  with  the  book  and  sat  down  again  and  opened  it. 
"Listen,"  he  said.  He  read  the  five  stanzas  aloud,  his  voice  quiet  and  deliber- 
ate in  the  room  where  there  was  no  fire  now  because  it  was  already  spring. 
Then  he  looked  up.  The  boy  watched  him.  "All  right,"  his  father  said. 
"Listen."  He  read  again,  but  only  the  second  stanza  this  time,  to  the  end  of  it, 
the  last  two  lines,  and  closed  the  book  and  put  it  on  the  table  beside  him. 
"She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss,  for  ever  wilt  thou  love, 
and  she  be  fair,"  he  said. 

"He's  talking  about  a  girl,"  the  boy  said. 

"He  had  to  talk  about  something,"  his  father  said.  Then  he  said,  "He  was 
talking  about  truth.  Truth  doesn't  change.  Truth  is  one  thing.  It  covers  all 
things  which  touch  the  heart—honor  and  pride  and  pity  and  justice  and 
courage  and  love.  Do  you  see  now?" 

He  didn't  know.  Somehow  it  was  simpler  than  that.  There  was  an  old 
bear,  fierce  and  ruthless,  not  merely  just  to  stay  alive,  but  with  the  fierce 
pride  of  liberty  and  freedom,  proud  enough  of  the  liberty  and  freedom  to 
see  it  threatened  without  fear  or  even  alarm;  nay,  who  at  times  even  seemed 
deliberately  to  put  that  freedom  and  liberty  in  jeopardy  in  order  to  savor 
them,  to  remind  his  old  strong  bones  and  flesh  to  keep  supple  and  quick  to 
defend  and  preserve  them.  There  was  an  old  man,  son  of  a  Negro  slave  and 
an  Indian  king,  inheritor  on  the  one  side  of  the  long  chronicle  of  a  people 
who  had  learned  humility  through  suffering,  and  pride  through  the  endur- 
ance which  survived  the  suffering  and  injustice,  and  on  the  other  side,  the 
chronicle  of  a  people  even  longer  in  the  land  than  the  first,  yet  who  no 
longer  existed  in  the  land  at  all  save  in  the  solitary  brotherhood  of  an  old 
Negro's  alien  blood  and  the  wild  and  invincible  spirit  of  an  old  bear.  There 
was  a  boy  who  wished  to  learn  humility  and  pride  in  order  to  become  skillful 
and  worthy  in  the  woods,  who  suddenly  found  himself  becoming  so  skillful 
so  rapidly  that  he  feared  he  would  never  become  worthy  because  he  had 
not  learned  humility  and  pride,  although  he  had  tried  to,  until  one  day  and 
as  suddenly  he  discovered  that  an  old  man  who  could  not  have  defined  either 
had  led  him,  as  though  by  the  hand,  to  that  point  where  an  old  bear  and  a 


434 


THE    SHORT    STORY 


little  mongrel  of  a  dog  showed  him  that,  by  possessing  one  thing  other,  he 
would  possess  them  both. 

And  a  little  dog,  nameless  and  mongrel  and  many-fathered,  grown,  yet 
weighing  less  than  six  pounds,  saying  as  if  to  itself,  "I  can't  be  dangerous, 
because  there's  nothing  much  smaller  than  I  am;  I  can't  be  fierce,  because 
they  would  call  it  just  a  noise;  I  can't  be  humble,  because  I'm  already  too 
close  to  the  ground  to  genuflect;  I  can't  be  proud,  because  I  wouldn't  be 
near  enough  to  it  for  anyone  to  know  who  was  casting  the  shadow,  and  I 
don't  even  know  that  I'm  not  going  to  heaven,  because  they  have  already 
decided  that  I  don't  possess  an  immortal  soul.  So  all  I  can  be  is  brave.  But 
it's  all  right.  I  can  be  that,  even  if  they  still  call  it  just  noise/' 

That  was  all.  It  was  simple,  much  simpler  than  somebody  talking  in  a 
book  about  youth  and  a  girl  he  would  never  need  to  grieve  over,  because  he 
could  never  approach  any  nearer  her  and  would  never  have  to  get  any 
farther  away.  He  had  heard  about  a  bear,  and  finally  got  big  enough  to 
trail  it,  and  he  trailed  it  four  years  and  at  last  met  it  with  a  gun  in  his  hands 
and  he  didn't  shoot.  Because  a  little  dog—But  he  could  have  shot  long  before 
the  little  dog  covered  the  twenty  yards  to  where  the  bear  waited,  and  Sam 
Fathers  could  have  shot  at  any  time  during  that  interminable  minute  while 
Old  Ben  stood  on  his  hind  feet  over  them.  He  stopped.  His  father  was  watch- 
ing him  gravely  across  the  spring-rife  twilight  of  the  room;  when  he  spoke, 
his  words  were  as  quiet  as  the  twilight,  too,  not  loud,  because  they  did  not 
need  to  be  because  they  would  last,  "Courage,  and  honor,  and  pride,"  his 
father  said,  "and  pity,  and  love  of  justice  and  of  liberty.  They  all  touch  the 
heart,  and  what  the  heart  holds  to  becomes  truth,  as  far  as  we  know  the 
truth.  Do  you  see  now?" 

Sam,  and  Old  Ben,  and  Nip,  he  thought.  And  himself  too.  He  had  been 
all  right  too.  His  father  had  said  so.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  said.  ( 1942) 


435 


J.    D.    SALINGER 

For  Esme — with  love  and  squalor 

JUST  recently,  by  air  mail,  I  received  an  invitation  to  a  wedding  that 
will  take  place  in  England  on  April  18th.  It  happens  to  be  a  wedding 
I'd  give  a  lot  to  be  able  to  get  to,  and  when  the  invitation  first  arrived,  I 
thought  it  might  just  be  possible  for  me  to  make  the  trip  abroad,  by  plane, 
expenses  be  hanged.  However,  Tve  since  discussed  the  matter  rather 
extensively  with  my  wife,  a  breathtakingly  levelheaded  girl,  and  weVe 
decided  against  it— for  one  thing,  I'd  completely  forgotten  that  my  mother- 
in-law  is  looking  forward  to  spending  the  last  two  weeks  in  April  with  us. 
I  really  don't  get  to  see  Mother  Grencher  terribly  often,  and  she's  not 
getting  any  younger.  She's  fifty-eight.  (As  she'd  be  the  first  to  admit.) 

All  the  same,  though,  wher0t;er  I  happen  to  be,  I  don't  think  I'm  the 
type  that  doesn't  even  lift  a  finger  to  prevent  a  wedding  from  flatting. 
Accordingly,  I've  gone  ahead  and  jotted  down  a  few  revealing  notes  on  the 
bride  as  I  knew  her  almost  six  years  ago.  If  my  notes  should  cause  the 
groom,  whom  I  haven't  met,  an  uneasy  moment  or  two,  so  much  the  better. 
Nobody's  aiming  to  please,  here.  More,  really,  to  edify,  to  instruct. 

In  April  of  1944,  I  was  among  some  sixty  American  enlisted  men  who 
took  a  rather  specialized  pre-Invasion  training  course,  directed  by  British 
Intelligence,  in  Devon,  England.  And  as  I  look  back,  it  seems  to  me  that 
we  were  fairly  unique,  the  sixty  of  us,  in  that  there  wasn't  one  good  mixer 
in  the  bunch.  We  were  all  essentially  letter-writing  types,  and  when  we 
spoke  to  each  other  out  of  the  line  of  duty,  it  was  usually  to  ask  somebody 
if  he  had  any  ink  he  wasn't  using.  When  we  weren't  writing  letters  or 
attending  classes,  each  of  us  went  pretty  much  his  own  way.  Mine  usually 
led  me,  on  clear  days,  in  scenic  circles  around  the  countryside.  Rainy  days, 
I  generally  sat  in  a  dry  place  and  read  a  book,  often  just  an  axe  length 
away  from  a  ping-pong  table. 

The  training  course  lasted  three  weeks,  ending  on  a  Saturday,  a  very 
rainy  one.  At  seven  that  last  night,  our  whole  group  was  scheduled  to  en- 
train for  London,  where,  as  rumor  had  it,  we  were  to  be  assigned  to  infantry 
and  air-borne  divisions  mustered  for  the  D  Day  landings.  By  three  in  the 
afternoon,  I'd  packed  all  my  belongings  into  my  barrack  bag,  including 
a  canvas  gas-mask  container  full  of  books  I'd  brought  over  from  the  Other 

Copyright  1950  by  J.  D.  Salinger.  From  Nine  Stories  by  J.  D.  Salinger,  by  permission 
of  Little,  Brown  &  Co.  This  story  appeared  originally  in  The  New  Yorker. 

436        THE  SHORT   STORY 


Side.  (The  gas  mask  itself  I'd  slipped  through  a  porthole  of  the  Mauretania 
some  weeks  earlier,  fully  aware  that  if  the  enemy  ever  did  use  gas  I'd  never 
get  the  damn  thing  on  in  time.)  I  remember  standing  at  an  end  window 
of  our  Quonset  hut  for  a  very  long  time,  looking  out  at  the  slanting,  dreary 
rain,  my  trigger  finger  itching  imperceptibly,  if  at  all.  I  could  hear  behind 
my  back  the  uncomradely  scratching  of  many  fountain  pens  on  many 
sheets  of  V-mail  paper.  Abruptly,  with  nothing  special  in  mind,  I  came 
away  from  the  window  and  put  on  my  raincoat,  cashmere  muffler,  galoshes, 
woollen  gloves,  and  overseas  cap  (the  last  of  which,  I'm  still  told,  I  wore 
at  an  angle  all  my  own— slightly  down  over  both  ears).  Then,  after  synchro- 
nizing my  wristwatch  with  the  clock  in  the  latrine,  I  walked  down  the 
long,  wet  cobblestone  hill  into  town.  I  ignored  the  flashes  of  lightning  all 
around  me.  They  either  had  your  number  on  them  or  they  didn't. 

In  the  center  of  town,  which  was  probably  the  wettest  part  of  town,  I 
stopped  in  front  of  a  church  to  read  the  bulletin  board,  mostly  because 
the  featured  numerals,  white  on  black,  had  caught  my  attention  but  partly 
because,  after  three  years  in  the  Army,  I'd  become  addicted  to  reading 
bulletin  boards.  At  three-fifteen,  the  board  stated,  there  would  be  chil- 
dren's choir  practice.  I  looked  at  my  wristwatch,  then  back  at  the  board. 
A  sheet  of  paper  was  tacked  up,  listing  the  names  of  the  children  expected 
to  attend  practice.  I  stood  in  the  rain  and  read  all  the  names,  then  entered 
the  church. 

A  dozen  or  so  adults  were  among  the  pews,  several  of  them  bearing 
pairs  of  small-size  rubbers,  soles  up,  in  their  laps.  I  passed  along  and  sat 
down  in  the  front  row.  On  the  rostrum,  seated  in  three  compact  rows  of 
auditorium  chairs,  were  about  twenty  children,  mostly  girls,  ranging  in 
age  from  about  seven  to  thirteen.  At  the  moment,  their  choir  coach,  an 
enormous  woman  in  tweeds,  was  advising  them  to  open  their  mouths 
wider  when  they  sang.  Had  anyone,  she  asked,  ever  heard  of  a  little  dickey- 
bird  that  dared  to  sing  his  charming  song  without  first  opening  his  little 
beak  wide,  wide,  wide?  Apparently  nobody  ever  had.  She  was  given  a 
steady,  opaque  look.  She  went  on  to  say  that  she  wanted  all  her  children 
to  absorb  the  meaning  of  the  words  they  sang,  not  just  mouth  them,  like 
silly-billy  parrots.  She  then  blew  a  note  on  her  pitch  pipe,  and  the  children, 
like  so  many  underage  weight-lifters,  raised  their  hymnbooks. 

They  sang  without  instrumental  accompaniment— or,  more  accurately  in 
their  case,  without  any  interference.  Their  voices  were  melodious  and  un- 
sentimental, almost  to  the  point  where  a  somewhat  more  denominational 
man  than  myself  might,  without  straining,  have  experienced  levitation.  A 
couple  of  the  very  youngest  children  dragged  the  tempo  a  trifle,  but  in  a 
way  that  only  the  composer's  mother  could  have  found  fault  with.  I  had 

FOR   ESMis— WITH   LOVE  AND  SQUALOR        437 


never  heard  the  hymn,  but  I  kept  hoping  it  was  one  with  a  dozen  or  more 
verses.  Listening,  I  scanned  all  the  children's  faces  but  watched  one  in 
particular,  that  of  the  child  nearest  me,  on  the  end  seat  in  the  first  row. 
She  was  about  thirteen,  with  straight  ash-blond  hair  of  ear-lobe  length,  an 
exquisite  forehead,  and  blase  eyes  that,  I  thought,  might  very  possibly  have 
counted  the  house.  Her  voice  was  distinctly  separate  from  the  other  chil- 
dren's voices,  and  not  just  because  she  was  seated  nearest  me.  It  had  the 
best  upper  register,  the  sweetest-sounding,  the  surest,  and  it  automatically 
led  the  way.  The  young  lady,  however,  seemed  slightly  bored  with  her  own 
singing  ability,  or  perhaps  just  with  the  time  and  place;  twice,  between 
verses,  I  saw  her  yawn.  It  was  a  ladylike  yawn,  a  closed-mouth  yawn,  but 
you  couldn't  miss  it;  her  nostril  wings  gave  her  away. 

The  instant  the  hymn  ended,  the  choir  coach  began  to  give  her  lengthy 
opinion  of  people  who  can't  keep  their  feet  still  and  their  lips  sealed 
tight  during  the  minister's  sermon.  I  gathered  that  the  singing  part  of  the 
rehearsal  was  over,  and  before  the  coach's  dissonant  speaking  voice  could 
entirely  break  the  spell  the  children's  singing  had  cast,  I  got  up  and  left 
the  church. 

It  was  raining  even  harder.  I  walked  down  the  street  and  looked  through 
the  window  of  the  Red  Cross  recreation  room,  but  soldiers  were  standing 
two  and  three  deep  at  the  coffee  counter,  and,  even  through  the  glass,  I 
could  hear  ping-pong  balls  bouncing  in  another  room.  I  crossed  the  street 
and  entered  a  civilian  tearoom,  which  was  empty  except  for  a  middle-aged 
waitress,  who  looked  as  if  she  would  have  preferred  a  customer  with  a 
dry  raincoat.  I  used  a  coat  tree  as  delicately  as  possible,  and  then  sat  down 
at  a  table  and  ordered  tea  and  cinnamon  toast.  It  was  the  first  time  all  day 
that  I'd  spoken  to  anyone.  I  then  looked  through  all  my  pockets,  including 
my  raincoat,  and  finally  found  a  couple  of  stale  letters  to  reread,  one  from 
my  wife,  telling  me  how  the  service  at  Schrafft's  Eighty-eighth  Street  had 
fallen  off,  and  one  from  my  mother-in-law,  asking  me  to  please  send  her 
some  cashmere  yarn  first  chance  I  got  away  from  "camp." 

While  I  was  still  on  my  first  cup  of  tea,  the  young  lady  I  had  been  watch- 
ing and  listening  to  in  the  choir  came  into  the  tearoom.  Her  hair  was  soak- 
ing wet,  and  the  rims  of  both  ears  were  showing.  She  was  with  a  very 
small  boy,  unmistakably  her  brother,  whose  cap  she  removed  by  lifting  it 
off  his  head  with  two  fingers,  as  if  it  were  a  laboratory  specimen.  Bringing 
up  the  rear  was  an  efficient-looking  woman  in  a  limp  felt  hat— presumably 
their  governess.  The  choir  member,  taking  off  her  coat  as  she  walked  across 
the  floor,  made  the  table  selection-a  good  one,  from  my  point  of  view,  as 
it  was  just  eight  or  ten  feet  directly  in  front  of  me.  She  and  the  governess 


438 


THE   SHORT  STORY 


sat  down.  The  small  boy,  who  was  about  five,  wasn't  ready  to  sit  down  yet. 
He  slid  out  of  and  discarded  his  reefer;  then,  with  the  deadpan  expression 
of  a  born  heller,  he  methodically  went  about  annoying  his  governess  by 
pushing  in  and  pulling  out  his  chair  several  times,  watching  her  face.  The 
governess,  keeping  her  voice  down,  gave  him  two  or  three  orders  to  sit 
down,  and,  in  effect,  stop  the  monkey  business,  but  it  was  only  when  his 
sister  spoke  to  him  that  he  came  around  and  applied  the  small  of  his  back 
to  his  chair  seat.  He  immediately  picked  up  his  napkin  and  put  it  on  his 
head,  His  sister  removed  it,  opened  it,  and  spread  it  out  on  his  lap. 

About  the  time  their  tea  was  brought,  the  choir  member  caught  me 
staring  over  at  her  party.  She  stared  back  at  me,  with  those  house-counting 
eyes  of  hers,  then,  abruptly,  gave  me  a  small,  qualified  smile.  It  was  oddly 
radiant,  as  certain  small,  qualified  smiles  sometimes  are.  I  smiled  back, 
much  less  radiantly,  keeping  my  upper  lip  down  over  a  coal-black  G.I. 
temporary  filling  showing  between  two  of  my  front  teeth.  The  next  thing 
I  knew,  the  young  lady  was  standing,  with  enviable  poise,  beside  my  table. 
She  was  wearing  a  tartan  dress—a  Campbell  tartan,  I  believe.  It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  a  wonderful  dress  for  a  very  young  girl  to  be  wearing  on  a 
rainy,  rainy  day.  "I  thought  Americans  despised  tea,"  she  said. 

It  wasn't  the  observation  of  a  smart  aleck  but  that  of  a  truth-lover  or  a 
statistics-lover.  I  replied  that  some  of  us  never  drank  anything  but  tea. 
I  asked  her  if  she'd  care  to  join  me. 

"Thank  you/'  she  said.  "Perhaps  for  just  a  fraction  of  a  moment/' 

I  got  up  and  drew  a  chair  for  her,  the  one  opposite  me,  and  she  sat  down 
on  the  forward  quarter  of  it,  keeping  her  spine  easily  and  beautifully 
straight.  I  went  back— almost  hurried  back— to  my  own  chair,  more  than 
willing  to  hold  up  my  end  of  a  conversation.  When  I  was  seated,  I  couldn't 
think  of  anything  to  say,  though.  I  smiled  again,  still  keeping  my  coal- 
black  filling  under  concealment.  I  remarked  that  it  was  certainly  a  terrible 
day  out. 

"Yes;  quite/'  said  my  guest,  in  the  clear,  unmistakable  voice  of  a  small- 
talk  detester.  She  placed  her  fingers  flat  on  the  table  edge,  like  someone 
at  a  stance,  then,  almost  instantly,  closed  her  hands— her  nails  were  bitten 
down  to  the  quick.  She  was  wearing  a  wristwatch,  a  military-looking  one 
that  looked  rather  like  a  navigator's  chronograph.  Its  face  was  much  too 
large  for  her  slender  wrist.  "You  were  at  choir  practice,"  she  said  matter- 
of-factly.  "I  saw  you." 

I  said  I  certainly  had  been,  and  that  I  had  heard  her  voice  singing 
separately  from  the  others.  I  said  I  thought  she  had  a  very  fine  voice. 

She  nodded,  "I  know.  I'm  going  to  be  a  professional  singer/' 

FOR  ESM£-WITH  LOVE  AND  SQUALOR     439 


"Really?  Opera?" 

"Heavens,  no.  I'm  going  to  sing  jazz  on  the  radio  and  make  heaps  of 
money.  Then,  when  I'm  thirty,  I  shall  retire  and  live  on  a  ranch  in  Ohio." 
She  touched  the  top  of  her  soaking-wet  head  with  the  flat  of  her  hand.  "Do 
you  know  Ohio?"  she  asked. 

I  said  I'd  been  through  it  on  the  train  a  few  times  but  that  I  didn't  really 
know  it.  I  offered  her  a  piece  of  cinnamon  toast. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  eat  like  a  bird,  actually." 

I  bit  into  a  piece  of  toast  myself,  and  commented  that  there's  some 
mighty  rough  country  around  Ohio. 

"I  know.  An  American  I  met  told  me.  You're  the  eleventh  American 
I've  met." 

Her  governess  was  now  urgently  signalling  her  to  return  to  her  own 
table— in  effect,  to  stop  bothering  the  man.  My  guest,  however,  calmly 
moved  her  chair  an  inch  or  two  so  that  her  back  broke  all  possible  further 
communication  with  the  home  table.  "You  go  to  that  secret  Intelligence 
school  on  the  hill,  don't  you?"  she  inquired  coolly. 

As  security-minded  as  the  next  one,  I  replied  that  I  was  visiting  Devon- 
shire for  my  health. 

"Rea/ly,"  she  said,  "I  wasn't  quite  born  yesterday,  you  know." 

I  said  I'd  bet  she  hadn't  been,  at  that.  I  drank  my  tea  for  a  moment.  I 
was  getting  a  trifle  posture-conscious  and  I  sat  up  somewhat  straighter  in 
my  seat. 

"You  seem  quite  intelligent  for  an  American,"  my  guest  mused. 

I  told  her  that  was  a  pretty  snobbish  thing  to  say,  if  you  thought  about 
it  at  all,  and  that  I  hoped  it  was  unworthy  of  her. 

She  blushed—automatically  conferring  on  me  the  social  poise  I'd  been 
missing.  "Well.  Most  of  the  Americans  I've  seen  act  like  animals.  They're 
forever  punching  one  another  about,  and  insulting  everyone,  and— You 
know  what  one  of  them  did?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"One  of  them  threw  an  empty  whiskey  bottle  through  my  aunt's  window. 
Fortunately,  the  window  was  open.  But  does  that  sound  very  intelligent 
to  you?" 

It  didn't  especially,  but  I  didn't  say  so.  I  said  that  many  soldiers,  all  over 
the  world,  were  a  long  way  from  home,  and  that  few  of  them  had  had  many 
real  advantages  in  life.  I  said  I'd  thought  that  most  people  could  figure 
that  out  for  themselves. 

"Possibly,"  said  my  guest,  without  conviction.  She  raised  her  hand  to  her 
wet  head  again,  picked  at  a  few  limp  filaments  of  blond  hair,  trying  to 


440 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


cover  her  exposed  ear  rims.  "My  hair  is  soaking  wet,"  she  said.  "I  look  a 
fright."  She  looked  over  at  me.  "I  have  quite  wavy  hair  when  it's  dry." 

"I  can  see  that,  I  can  see  you  have." 

"Not  actually  curly,  but  quite  wavy,"  she  said.  "Are  you  married?" 

I  said  I  was. 

She  nodded.  "Are  you  very  deeply  in  love  with  your  wife?  Or  am  I  being 
too  personal?" 

I  said  that  when  she  was,  I'd  speak  up. 

She  put  her  hands  and  wrists  farther  forward  on  the  table,  and  I  remem- 
ber wanting  to  do  something  about  that  enormous-faced  wristwatch  she 
was  wearing— perhaps  suggest  that  she  try  wearing  it  around  her  waist. 

"Usually,  I'm  not  terribly  gregarious/'  she  said,  and  looked  over  at  me 
to  see  if  I  knew  the  meaning  of  the  word.  I  didn't  give  her  a  sign,  though, 
one  way  or  the  other.  "I  purely  came  over  because  I  thought  you  looked 
extremely  lonely.  You  have  an  extremely  sensitive  face." 

I  said  she  was  right,  that  I  had  been  feeling  lonely,  and  that  I  was  very 
glad  she'd  come  over. 

"I'm  training  myself  to  be  more  compassionate.  My  aunt  says  I'm  a  ter- 
ribly cold  person,"  she  said  and  felt  the  top  of  her  head  again.  "I  live  with 
my  aunt.  She's  an  extremely  kind  person.  Since  the  death  of  my  mother, 
she's  done  everything  within  her  power  to  make  Charles  and  me  feel 
adjusted." 

"I'm  glad." 

"Mother  was  an  extremely  intelligent  person.  Quite  sensuous,  in  many 
ways."  She  looked  at  me  with  a  kind  of  fresh  acuteness.  "Do  you  find  me 
terribly  cold?" 

I  told  her  absolutely  not— very  much  to  the  contrary,  in  fact.  I  told  her 
my  name  and  asked  for  hers. 

She  hesitated.  "My  first  name  is  Esme.  I  don't  think  I  shall  tell  you  my 
full  name,  for  the  moment.  I  have  a  title  and  you  may  just  be  impressed 
by  titles.  Americans  are,  you  know." 

I  said  I  didn't  think  I  would  be,  but  that  it  might  be  a  good  idea,  at  that, 
to  hold  onto  the  title  for  a  while. 

Just  then,  I  felt  someone's  warm  breath  on  the  back  of  my  neck.  I 
turned  around  and  just  missed  brushing  noses  with  Esme's  small  brother. 
Ignoring  me,  he  addressed  his  sister  in  a  piercing  treble:  "Miss  Megley 
said  you  must  come  and  finish  your  tea!"  His  message  delivered,  he  retired 
to  the  chair  between  his  sister  and  me,  on  my  right.  I  regarded  him  with 
high  interest.  He  was  looking  very  splendid  in  brown  Shetland  shorts,  a 
navy-blue  jersey,  white  shirt,  and  striped  necktie.  He  gazed  back  at  me 

FOR   ESME— WITH   LOVE   AND   SQUALOR        441 


with  immense  green  eyes.  "Why  do  people  in  films  kiss  sideways?"  he 
demanded. 

"Sideways?"  I  said.  It  was  a  problem  that  had  baffled  me  in  my  child- 
hood. I  said  I  guessed  it  was  because  actors'  noses  are  too  big  for  kissing 
anyone  head  on. 

"His  name  is  Charles/'  Esm6  said.  "He's  extremely  brilliant  for  his  age." 

"He  certainly  has  green  eyes.  Haven't  you,  Charles?" 

Charles  gave  me  the  fishy  look  my  question  deserved,  then  wriggled 
downward  and  forward  in  his  chair  till  all  of  his  body  was  under  the  table 
except  his  head,  which  he  left,  wrestler's-bridge  style,  on  the  chair  seat. 
"They're  orange,"  he  said  in  a  strained  voice,  addressing  the  ceiling.  He 
picked  up  a  corner  of  the  tablecloth  and  put  it  over  his  handsome,  dead- 
pan little  face. 

"Sometimes  he's  brilliant  and  sometimes  he's  not,"  Esme  said.  "Charles, 
do  sit  up!" 

Charles  stayed  right  where  he  was.  He  seemed  to  be  holding  his  breath. 

"He  misses  our  father  very  much.  He  was  s-1-a-i-n  in  North  Africa." 

I  expressed  regret  to  hear  it. 

Esme  nodded.  "Father  adored  him."  She  bit  reflectively  at  the  cuticle  of 
her  thumb.  "He  looks  very  much  like  my  mother— Charles,  I  mean.  I  look  ex- 
actly like  my  father."  She  went  on  biting  at  her  cuticle.  "My  mother  was  quite 
a  passionate  woman.  She  was  an  extrovert.  Father  was  an  introvert.  They 
were  quite  well  mated,  though,  in  a  superficial  way.  To  be  quite  candid, 
Father  really  needed  more  of  an  intellectual  companion  than  Mother  was. 
He  was  an  extremely  gifted  genius." 

I  waited,  receptively,  for  further  information,  but  none  came.  I  looked 
down  at  Charles,  who  was  now  resting  the  side  of  his  face  on  his  chair 
seat.  When  he  saw  that  I  was  looking  at  him,  he  closed  his  eyes,  sleepily, 
angelically,  then  stuck  out  his  tongue— an  appendage  of  startling  length— 
and  gave  out  what  in  my  country  would  have  been  a  glorious  tribute  to  a 
myopic  baseball  umpire.  It  fairly  shook  the  tearoom. 

"Stop  that,"  Esm6  said,  clearly  unshaken.  "He  saw  an  American  do  it  in 
a  fish-and-chips  queue,  and  now  he  does  it  whenever  he's  bored.  Just  stop 
it,  now,  or  I  shall  send  you  directly  to  Miss  Megley." 

Charles  opened  his  enormous  eyes,  as  sign  that  he'd  heard  his  sister's 
threat,  but  otherwise  didn't  look  especially  alerted.  He  closed  his  eyes 
again,  and  continued  to  rest  the  side  of  his  face  on  the  chair  seat. 

I  mentioned  that  maybe  he  ought  to  save  it— meaning  the  Bronx  cheer- 
till  he  started  using  his  title  regularly.  That  is,  if  he  had  a  title,  too. 

Esm6  gave  me  a  long,  faintly  clinical  look.  "You  have  a  dry  sense  of 


442 


THE  SHORT   STORY 


humor,  haven't  you?"  she  said— wistfully.  "Father  said  I  have  no  sense  of 
humor  at  all.  He  said  I  was  unequipped  to  meet  life  because  I  have  no 
sense  of  humor." 

Watching  her,  I  lit  a  cigarette  and  said  I  didn't  think  a  sense  of  humor 
was  of  any  use  in  a  real  pinch. 

"Father  said  it  was." 

This  was  a  statement  of  faith,  not  a  contradiction,  and  I  quickly  switched 
horses.  I  nodded  and  said  her  father  had  probably  taken  the  long  view, 
while  I  was  taking  the  short  (whatever  that  meant). 

"Charles  misses  him  exceedingly,"  Esme  said,  after  a  moment.  "He  was 
an  exceedingly  lovable  man.  He  was  extremely  handsome,  too.  Not  that 
one's  appearance  matters  greatly,  but  he  was.  He  had  terribly  penetrating 
eyes,  for  a  man  who  was  intransically  kind." 

I  nodded.  I  said  I  imagined  her  father  had  had  quite  an  extraordinary 
vocabulary. 

"Oh,  yes;  quite,"  said  Esme.  "He  was  an  archivist—amateur,  of  course." 

At  that  point,  I  felt  an  importunate  tap,  almost  a  punch,  on  my  upper 
arm,  from  Charles'  direction.  I  turned  to  him.  He  was  sitting  in  a  fairly 
normal  position  in  his  chair  now,  except  that  he  had  one  knee  tucked  under 
him.  "What  did  one  wall  say  to  the  other  wall?"  he  asked  shrilly.  "It's  a 
riddle!" 

I  rolled  my  eyes  reflectively  ceilingward  and  repeated  the  question 
aloud.  Then  I  looked  at  Charles  with  a  stumped  expression  and  said  I  gave 
up. 

"Meet  you  at  the  corner!"  came  the  punch  line,  at  top  volume. 

It  went  over  biggest  with  Charles  himself.  It  struck  him  as  unbearably 
funny.  In  fact,  Esme  had  to  come  around  and  pound  him  on  the  back,  as  if 
treating  him  for  a  coughing  spell.  "Now,  stop  that,"  she  said.  She  went 
back  to  her  own  seat.  "He  tells  that  same  riddle  to  everyone  he  meets  and 
has  a  fit  every  single  time.  Usually  he  drools  when  he  laughs.  Now,  just 
stop,  please." 

"It's  one  of  the  best  riddles  I've  heard,  though,"  I  said,  watching  Charles, 
who  was  very  gradually  coming  out  of  it.  In  response  to  this  compliment,  he 
sank  considerably  lower  in  his  chair  and  again  masked  his  face  up  to  the 
eyes  with  a  corner  of  the  tablecloth.  He  then  looked  at  me  with  his  exposed 
eyes,  which  were  full  of  slowly  subsiding  mirth  and  the  pride  of  someone 
who  knows  a  really  good  riddle  or  two. 

"May  I  inquire  how  you  were  employed  before  entering  the  Army?" 
Esm6  asked  me. 

I  said  I  hadn't  been  employed  at  all,  that  I'd  only  been  out  of  college  a 

FOR  ESM£— WITH  LOVE  AND  SQUALOR        443 


year  but  that  I  liked  to  think  of  myself  as  a  professional  short-story  writer. 

She  nodded  politely.  "Published?"  she  asked. 

It  was  a  familiar  but  always  touchy  question,  and  one  that  I  didn't 
answer  just  one,  two,  three.  I  started  to  explain  how  most  editors  in  Amer- 
ica were  a  bunch— 

"My  father  wrote  beautifully,"  Esme  interrupted,  "I'm  saving  a  number 
of  his  letters  for  posterity." 

I  said  that  sounded  like  a  very  good  idea.  I  happened  to  be  looking  at 
her  enormous-faced,  chronographic-looking  wristwatch  again.  I  asked  if  it 
had  belonged  to  her  father. 

She  looked  down  at  her  wrist  solemnly.  "Yes,  it  did,"  she  said.  "He  gave 
it  to  me  just  before  Charles  and  I  were  evacuated."  Self-consciously,  she 
took  her  hands  off  the  table,  saying,  "Purely  as  a  momento,  of  course."  She 
guided  the  conversation  in  a  different  direction.  "I'd  be  extremely  flattered 
if  you'd  write  a  story  exclusively  for  me  sometime.  I'm  an  avid  reader." 

I  told  her  I  certainly  would,  if  I  could.  I  said  that  I  wasn't  terribly  prolific. 

"It  doesn't  have  to  be  terribly  prolific!  Just  so  that  it  isn't  childish  and 
silly."  She  reflected.  "I  prefer  stories  about  squalor." 

"About  what?"  I  said,  leaning  forward. 

"Squalor.  I'm  extremely  interested  in  squalor." 

I  was  about  to  press  her  for  more  details,  but  I  felt  Charles  pinching  me, 
hard,  on  my  arm.  I  turned  to  him,  wincing  slightly.  He  was  standing  right 
next  to  me.  "What  did  one  wall  say  to  the  other  wall?"  he  asked,  not  un- 
familiarly. 

"You  asked  him  that,"  Esme  said.  "Now,  stop  it." 

Ignoring  his  sister,  and  stepping  up  on  one  side  of  my  feet,  Charles  re- 
peated the  key  question.  I  noticed  that  his  necktie  knot  wasn't  adjusted 
properly.  I  slid  it  up  into  place,  then,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eye,  sug- 
gested, "Meetcha  at  the  corner?" 

The  instant  I'd  said  it,  I  wished  I  hadn't.  Charles'  mouth  fell  open.  I  felt 
as  if  I'd  struck  it  open.  He  stepped  down  off  my  foot  and,  with  white-hot 
dignity,  walked  over  to  his  own  table,  without  looking  back. 

"He's  furious,"  Esme  said.  "He  has  a  violent  temper.  My  mother  had  a 
propensity  to  spoil  him.  My  father  was  the  only  one  who  didn't  spoil  him." 

I  kept  looking  over  at  Charles,  who  had  sat  down  and  started  to  drink  his 
tea,  using  both  hands  on  the  cup.  I  hoped  he'd  turn  around,  but  he  didn't. 

Esm6  stood  up.  "IZ  faut  que  je  parte  aussi,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh.  "Do 
you  know  French?" 

I  got  up  from  my  own  chair,  with  mixed  feelings  of  regret  and  confusion. 
Esme  and  I  shook  hands;  her  hand,  as  I'd  suspected,  was  a  nervous  hand, 


444 


THE  SHORT   STORY 


damp  at  the  palm.  I  told  her,  in  English,  how  very  much  I'd  enjoyed  her 
company. 

She  nodded.  "I  thought  you  might,"  she  said.  "I'm  quite  communicative 
for  my  age."  She  gave  her  hair  another  experimental  touch.  "I'm  dreadfully 
sorry  about  my  hair,"  she  said.  "I've  probably  been  hideous  to  look  at." 

"Not  at  all!  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  think  a  lot  of  the  wave  is  coming  back 
already." 

She  quickly  touched  her  hair  again.  "Do  you  think  you'll  be  coming  here 
again  in  the  immediate  future?"  she  asked.  "We  come  here  every  Saturday, 
after  choir  practice." 

I  answered  that  I'd  like  nothing  better  but  that,  unfortunately,  I  was 
pretty  sure  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  make  it  again. 

"In  other  words,  you  can't  discuss  troop  movements,"  said  Esme.  She  made 
no  move  to  leave  the  vicinity  of  the  table.  In  fact,  she  crossed  one  foot  over 
the  other  and,  looking  down,  aligned  the  toes  of  her  shoes.  It  was  a  pretty 
little  execution,  for  she  was  wearing  white  socks  and  her  ankles  and  feet 
were  lovely.  She  looked  up  at  me  abruptly.  "Would  you  like  me  to  write  to 
you?"  she  asked,  with  a  certain  amount  of  color  in  her  face.  "I  write  ex- 
tremely articulate  letters  for  a  person  my—" 

"I'd  love  it."  I  took  out  pencil  and  paper  and  wrote  down  my  name,  rank, 
serial  number,  and  A.P.O.  number. 

"I  shall  write  to  you  first,"  she  said,  accepting  it,  "so  that  you  don't  feel 
compromised  in  any  way."  She  put  the  address  into  a  pocket  of  her  dress. 
"Goodbye,"  she  said,  and  walked  back  to  her  table. 

I  ordered  another  pot  of  tea  and  sat  watching  the  two  of  them  till  they, 
and  the  harassed  Miss  Megley,  got  up  to  leave.  Charles  led  the  way  out, 
limping  tragically,  like  a  man  with  one  leg  several  inches  shorter  than  the 
other.  He  didn't  look  over  at  me.  Miss  Megley  went  next,  then  Esme,  who 
waved  to  me.  I  waved  back,  half  getting  up  from  my  chair.  It  was  a  strangely 
emotional  moment  for  me. 

Less  than  a  minute  later,  Esme  came  back  into  the  tearoom,  dragging 
Charles  behind  her  by  the  sleeve  of  his  reefer.  "Charles  would  like  to  kiss 
you  goodbye,"  she  said. 

I  immediately  put  down  my  cup,  and  said  that  was  very  nice,  but  was  she 
sure? 

"Yes,"  she  said,  a  trifle  grimly.  She  let  go  Charles'  sleeve  and  gave  him  a 
rather  vigorous  push  in  my  direction.  He  came  forward,  his  face  livid,  and 
gave  me  a  loud,  wet  smacker  just  below  the  right  ear.  Following  this  ordeal, 
he  started  to  make  a  beeline  for  the  door  and  a  less  sentimental  way  of  life, 

FOR  ESME— WITH  LOVE  AND  SQUALOR    445 


but  I  caught  the  half  belt  at  the  back  of  his  reefer,  held  on  to  it,  and  asked 
him,  "What  did  one  wall  say  to  the  other  wall?" 

His  face  lit  up.  "Meet  you  at  the  cornerl"  he  shrieked,  and  raced  out  of  the 
room,  possibly  in  hysterics. 

Esme  was  standing  with  crossed  ankles  again.  "You're  quite  sure  you 
won't  forget  to  write  that  story  for  me?"  she  asked.  "It  doesn't  have  to  be 
exc/ttfively  for  me,  It  can—" 

I  said  there  was  absolutely  no  chance  that  I'd  forget.  I  told  her  that  I'd 
never  written  a  story  for  anybody,  but  that  it  seemed  like  exactly  the  right 
time  to  get  down  to  it. 

She  nodded.  "Make  it  extremely  squalid  and  moving,"  she  suggested. 
"Are  you  at  all  acquainted  with  squalor?" 

I  said  not  exactly  but  that  I  was  getting  better  acquainted  with  it,  in  one 
form  or  another,  all  the  time,  and  that  I'd  do  my  best  to  come  up  to  her 
specifications.  We  shook  hands. 

"Isn't  it  a  pity  that  we  didn't  meet  under  less  extenuating  circumstances?" 

I  said  it  was,  I  said  it  certainly  was. 

"Goodbye,"  Esme  said.  "I  hope  you  return  from  the  war  with  all  your 
faculties  intact." 

I  thanked  her,  and  said  a  few  other  words,  and  then  watched  her  leave 
the  tearoom.  She  left  it  slowly,  reflectively,  testing  the  ends  of  her  hair  for 
dryness. 

This  is  the  squalid,  or  moving,  part  of  the  story,  and  the  scene  changes. 
The  people  change,  too.  I'm  still  around,  but  from  here  on  in,  for  reasons  I'm 
not  at  liberty  to  disclose,  I've  disguised  myself  so  cunningly  that  even  the 
cleverest  reader  will  fail  to  recognize  me. 

It  was  about  ten-thirty  at  night  in  Gaufurt,  Bavaria,  several  weeks  after 
V-E  Day.  Staff  Sergeant  X  was  in  his  room  on  the  second  floor  of  the  civilian 
home  in  which  he  and  nine  other  American  soldiers  had  been  quartered, 
even  before  the  armistice.  He  was  seated  on  a  folding  wooden  chair  at  a 
small,  messy-looking  writing  table,  with  a  paperback  overseas  novel  open 
before  him,  which  he  was  having  great  trouble  reading.  The  trouble  lay 
with  him,  not  the  novel.  Although  the  men  who  lived  on  the  first  floor  usu- 
ally had  first  grab  at  the  books  sent  each  month  by  Special  Services,  X 
usually  seemed  to  be  left  with  the  book  he  might  have  selected  himself. 
But*  he  was  a  young  man  who  had  not  come  through  the  war  with  all  his 
faculties  intact,  and  for  more  than  an  hour  he  had  been  triple-reading 
paragraphs,  and  now  he  was  doing  it  to  the  sentences.  He  suddenly  closed 
the  book,  without  marking  his  place.  With  his  hand,  he  shielded  his  eyes 

446        THE  SHORT  STORY 


for  a  moment  against  the  harsh,  watty  glare  from  the  naked  bulb  over 
the  table. 

He  took  a  cigarette  from  a  pack  on  the  table  and  lit  it  with  fingers  that 
bumped  gently  and  incessantly  against  one  another.  He  sat  back  a  trifle 
in  his  chair  and  smoked  without  any  sense  of  taste.  He  had  been  chain- 
smoking for  weeks.  His  gums  bled  at  the  slightest  pressure  of  the  tip  of  his 
tongue,  and  he  seldom  stopped  experimenting;  it  was  a  little  game  he 
played,  sometimes  by  the  hour.  He  sat  for  a  moment  smoking  and  experi- 
menting. Then,  abruptly,  familiarly,  and,  as  usual,  with  no  warning,  he 
thought  he  felt  his  mind  dislodge  itself  and  teeter,  like  insecure  luggage  on 
an  overhead  rack.  He  quickly  did  what  he  had  been  doing  for  weeks  to  set 
things  right:  he  pressed  his  hands  hard  against  his  temples.  He  held  on 
tight  for  a  moment.  His  hair  needed  cutting,  and  it  was  dirty.  He  had 
washed  it  three  or  four  times  during  his  two  weeks'  stay  at  the  hospital  in 
Frankfort  on  the  Main,  but  it  had  got  dirty  again  on  the  long,  dusty  jeep  ride 
back  to  Gaufurt.  Corporal  Z,  who  had  called  for  him  at  the  hospital,  still 
drove  a  jeep  combat-style,  with  the  windshield  down  on  the  hood,  armistice 
or  no  armistice.  There  were  thousands  of  new  troops  in  Germany.  By 
driving  with  his  windshield  down,  combat-style,  Corporal  Z  hoped  to  show 
that  he  was  not  one  of  them,  that  not  by  a  long  shot  was  he  some  new  son 
of  a  bitch  in  the  E.T.O. 

When  he  let  go  of  his  head,  X  began  to  stare  at  the  surface  of  the  writing 
table,  which  was  a  catchall  for  at  least  two  dozen  unopened  letters  and  at 
least  five  or  six  unopened  packages,  all  addressed  to  him.  He  reached 
behind  the  debris  and  picked  out  a  book  that  stood  against  the  wall.  It  was 
a  book  by  Goebbels,  entitled  "Die  Zeit  Ohne  Beispiel."  It  belonged  to  the 
thirty-eight-year-old  unmarried  daughter  of  the  family  that,  up  to  a  few 
weeks  earlier,  had  been  living  in  the  house.  She  had  been  a  low  official  in  the 
Nazi  Party,  but  high  enough,  by  Army  Regulations  standards,  to  fall  into  an 
automatic-arrest  category.  X  himself  had  arrested  her.  Now,  for  the  third  time 
since  he  had  returned  from  the  hospital  that  day,  he  opened  the  woman's 
book  and  read  the  brief  inscription  on  the  flyleaf.  Written  in  ink,  in  Ger- 
man, in  a  small,  hopelessly  sincere  handwriting,  were  the  words  "Dear  God, 
life  is  hell."  Nothing  led  up  to  or  away  from  it.  Alone  on  the  page,  and  in 
the  sickly  stillness  of  the  room,  the  words  appeared  to  have  the  stature 
of  an  uncontestable,  even  classic  indictment.  X  stared  at  the  page  for 
several  minutes,  trying,  against  heavy  odds,  not  to  be  taken  in.  Then,  with 
far  more  zeal  than  he  had  done  anything  in  weeks,  he  picked  up  a  pencil 
stub  and  wrote  down  under  the  inscription,  in  English,  "Fathers  and 
teachers,  I  ponder  'What  is  hell?'  I  maintain  that  it  is  the  suffering  of 

FOR  ESMi— WITH  LOVE  AND  SQUALOR   447 


being  unable  to  love."  He  started  to  write  Dostoevski's  name  under  the 
inscription,  but  saw— with  fright  that  ran  through  his  whole  body— that 
what  he  had  written  was  almost  entirely  illegible.  He  shut  the  book. 

He  quickly  picked  up  something  else  from  the  table,  a  letter  from  his 
older  brother  in  Albany.  It  had  been  on  his  table  even  before  he  had 
checked  into  the  hospital.  He  opened  the  envelope,  loosely  resolved  to  read 
the  letter  straight  through,  but  read  only  the  top  half  of  the  first  page.  He 
stopped  after  the  words  "Now  that  the  g.d.  war  is  over  and  you  probably 
have  a  lot  of  time  over  there,  how  about  sending  the  kids  a  couple  of 
bayonets  or  swastikas  .  .  ."  After  he'd  torn  it  up,  he  looked  down  at  the 
pieces  as  they  lay  in  the  wastebasket.  He  saw  that  he  had  overlooked  an 
enclosed  snapshot.  He  could  make  out  somebody's  feet  standing  on  a  lawn 
somewhere. 

He  put  his  arms  on  the  table  and  rested  his  head  on  them.  He  ached 
from  head  to  foot,  all  zones  of  pain  seemingly  interdependent.  He  was 
rather  like  a  Christmas  tree  whose  lights,  wired  in  series,  must  all  go  out  if 
even  one  bulb  is  defective. 

The  door  banged  open,  without  having  been  rapped  on.  X  raised  his 
head,  turned  it,  and  saw  Corporal  Z  standing  in  the  door.  Corporal  Z  had 
been  X's  jeep  partner  and  constant  companion  from  D  Day  straight  through 
five  campaigns  of  the  war.  He  lived  on  the  first  floor  and  he  usually  came 
up  to  see  X  when  he  had  a  few  rumors  or  gripes  to  unload.  He  was  a  huge, 
photogenic  young  man  of  twenty-four.  During  the  war,  a  national  magazine 
had  photographed  him  in  Hiirtgen  Forest;  he  had  posed,  more  than  just 
obligingly,  with  a  Thanksgiving  turkey  in  each  hand.  "Ya  writin'  letters?" 
he  asked  X.  "It's  spooky  in  here,  for  Chrissake."  He  preferred  always  to 
enter  a  room  that  had  the  overhead  light  on. 

X  turned  around  in  his  chair  and  asked  him  to  come  in,  and  to  be  careful 
not  to  step  on  the  dog. 

"The  what?" 

"Alvin.  He's  right  under  your  feet,  Clay.  How  'bout  turning  on  the  god- 
dam light?" 

Clay  found  the  overhead-light  switch,  flicked  it  on,  then  stepped  across 
the  puny,  servant's-size  room  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  facing 
his  host.  His  brick-red  hair,  just  combed,  was  dripping  with  the  amount  of 
water  he  required  for  satisfactory  grooming.  A  comb  with  a  fountain-pen 
clip  protruded,  familiarly,  from  the  right-hand  pocket  of  his  olive-drab 
shirt.  Over  the  left-hand  pocket  he  was  wearing  the  Combat  Infantry- 
men's Badge  (which,  technically,  he  wasn't  authorized  to  wear),  the 
European  Theatre  ribbon,  with  five  bronze  battle  stars  in  it  (instead  of  a 

448        THE  SHORT  STORY 


lone  silver  one,  which  was  the  equivalent  of  five  bronze  ones),  and  the 
pre-Pearl  Harbor  service  ribbon.  He  sighed  heavily  and  said,  'Christ  al- 
mighty." It  meant  nothing;  it  was  Army.  He  took  a  pack  of  cigarettes  from 
his  shirt  pocket,  tapped  one  out,  then  put  away  the  pack  and  rebuttoned 
the  pocket  flap.  Smoking,  he  looked  vacuously  around  the  room.  His  look 
finally  settled  on  the  radio.  "Hey,"  he  said.  "They  got  this  terrific  show 
comin'  on  the  radio  in  a  coupla  minutes.  Bob  Hope,  and  everybody." 

X,  opening  a  fresh  pack  of  cigarettes,  said  he  had  just  turned  the  radio 
off. 

Undarkened,  Clay  watched  X  trying  to  get  a  cigarette  lit.  "Jesus,"  he 
said,  with  spectator's  enthusiasm,  "you  oughta  see  your  goddam  hands. 
Boy,  have  you  got  the  shakes.  Ya  know  that?" 

X  got  his  cigarette  lit,  nodded,  and  said  Clay  had  a  real  eye  for  detail. 

"No  kidding,  hey.  I  goddam  near  fainted  when  I  saw  you  at  the  hospital. 
You  looked  like  a  goddam  corpse.  How  much  weight  ya  lose?  How  many 
pounds?  Ya  know?" 

"I  don't  know.  How  was  your  mail  when  I  was  gone?  You  heard  from 
Loretta?" 

Loretta  was  Clay's  girl.  They  intended  to  get  married  at  their  earliest 
convenience.  She  wrote  to  him  fairly  regularly,  from  a  paradise  of  triple 
exclamation  points  and  inaccurate  observations.  All  through  the  war,  Clay 
had  read  all  Loretta's  letters  aloud  to  X,  however  intimate  they  were— in 
fact,  the  more  intimate,  the  better.  It  was  his  custom,  after  each  reading, 
to  ask  X  to  plot  out  or  pad  out  the  letter  of  reply,  or  to  insert  a  few  im- 
pressive words  in  French  or  German. 

"Yeah,  I  had  a  letter  from  her  yesterday.  Down  in  my  room.  Show  it  to 
ya  later,"  Clay  said,  listlessly.  He  sat  up  straight  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
held  his  breath,  and  issued  a  long,  resonant  belch.  Looking  just  semi- 
pleased  with  the  achievement,  he  relaxed  again.  "Her  goddam  brother's 
gettin'  outa  the  Navy  on  account  of  his  hip,"  he  said.  "He's  got  this  hip,  the 
bastard."  He  sat  up  again  and  tried  for  another  belch,  but  with  below- 
par  results.  A  jot  of  alertness  came  into  his  face.  "Hey.  Before  I  forget.  We 
gotta  get  up  at  five  tomorrow  and  drive  to  Hamburg  or  someplace.  Pick  up 
Eisenhower  jackets  for  the  whole  detachment." 

X,  regarding  him  hostilely,  stated  that  he  didn't  want  an  Eisenhower 
jacket. 

Clay  looked  surprised,  almost  a  trifle  hurt.  "Oh,  they're  good!  They  look 
good.  How  come?" 

"No  reason.  Why  do  we  have  to  get  up  at  five?  The  war's  over,  for  God's 
sake." 

"I  don't  know—we  gotta  get  back  before  lunch.  They  got  some  new  forms 

FOR  ESME— WITH  LOVE  AND  SQUALOR    449 


in  we  gotta  fill  out  before  lunch.  ...  I  asked  Bulling  how  come  we 
couldn't  fill  'em  out  tonight— he's  got  the  goddam  forms  right  on  his  desk. 
He  don't  want  to  open  the  envelopes  yet,  the  son  of  a  bitch." 

The  two  sat  quiet  for  a  moment,  hating  Bulling. 

Clay  suddenly  looked  at  X  with  new—higher— interest  than  before. 
"Hey,"  he  said.  "Did  you  know  the  goddam  side  of  your  face  is  jumping 
all  over  the  place?" 

X  said  he  knew  all  about  it,  and  covered  his  tic  with  his  hand. 

Clay  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  said,  rather  vividly,  as  if  he  were 
the  bearer  of  exceptionally  good  news,  "I  wrote  Loretta  you  had  a  nervous 
breakdown/' 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah.  She's  interested  as  hell  in  all  that  stuff.  She's  majoring  in  psy- 
chology." Clay  stretched  himself  out  on  the  bed,  shoes  included.  "You 
know  what  she  said?  She  says  nobody  gets  a  nervous  breakdown  just  from 
the  war  and  all.  She  says  you  probably  were  unstable  like,  your  whole 
goddam  life." 

X  bridged  his  hand  over  his  eyes— the  light  over  the  bed  seemed  to  be 
blinding  him— and  said  that  Loretta's  insight  into  things  was  always  a  joy. 

Clay  glanced  over  at  him.  "Listen,  ya  bastard/'  he  said.  "She  knows  a 
goddam  sight  more  psychology  than  you  do." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  bring  yourself  to  take  your  stinking  feet  off  my 
bed?"  X  asked. 

Clay  left  his  feet  where  they  were  for  a  few  don't-tell-me-where-to-put- 
my-feet  seconds,  then  swung  them  around  to  the  floor  and  sat  up.  Tm 
goin'  downstairs  anyway.  They  got  the  radio  on  in  Walker's  room."  He 
didn't  get  up  from  the  bed,  though.  "Hey.  I  was  just  tellin'  that  new  son 
of  a  bitch,  Bernstein,  downstairs.  Remember  that  time  I  and  you  drove 
into  Valognes,  and  we  got  shelled  for  about  two  goddam  hours,  and  that 
goddam  cat  I  shot  that  jumped  up  on  the  hood  of  the  jeep  when  we  were 
layin'  in  that  hole?  Remember?" 

"Yes— don't  start  that  business  with  that  cat  again,  Clay,  God  damn  it. 
I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it." 

"No,  all  I  mean  is  I  wrote  Loretta  about  it,  She  and  the  whole  psychology 
class  discussed  it.  In  class  and  all.  The  goddam  professor  and  everybody." 

"That's  fine.  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it,  Clay." 

"No,  you  know  the  reason  I  took  a  pot  shot  at  it,  Loretta  says?  She  says 
I  was  temporarily  insane.  No  kidding.  From  the  shelling  and  all." 

X  threaded  his  fingers,  once,  through  his  dirty  hair,  then  shielded  his 
eyes  against  the  light  again.  "You  weren't  insane.  You  were  simply  doing 

450        THE   SHORT  STORY 


your  duty.  You  killed  that  pussycat  in  as  manly  a  way  as  anybody  couldVe, 
under  the  circumstances." 

Clay  looked  at  him  suspiciously.  "What  the  hell  are  you  talkin'  about?" 

"That  cat  was  a  spy.  You  had  to  take  a  pot  shot  at  it.  It  was  a  very  clever 
German  midget  dressed  up  in  a  cheap  fur  coat.  So  there  was  absolutely 
nothing  brutal,  or  cruel,  or  dirty,  or  even—" 

"God  damn  it!"  Clay  said,  his  lips  thinned.  "Can't  you  ever  be  sincere?" 

X  suddenly  felt  sick,  and  he  swung  around  in  his  chair  and  grabbed  the 
wastebasket— just  in  time. 

When  he  had  straightened  up  and  turned  toward  his  guest  again,  he  found 
him  standing,  embarrassed,  halfway  between  the  bed  and  the  door.  X  started 
to  apologize,  but  changed  his  mind  and  reached  for  his  cigarettes. 

"C'mon  down  and  listen  to  Hope  on  the  radio,  hey,"  Clay  said,  keeping  his 
distance  but  trying  to  be  friendly  over  it.  "It'll  do  ya  good.  I  mean  it." 

"You  go  ahead,  Clay.  .  .  .  I'll  look  at  my  stamp  collection." 

"Yeah?  You  got  a  stamp  collection?  I  didn't  know  you—" 

"I'm  only  kidding." 

Clay  took  a  couple  of  slow  steps  toward  the  door.  "I  may  drive  over  to 
Ehstadt  later,"  he  said.  "They  got  a  dance.  It'll  probably  last  till  around 
two.  Wanna  go?" 

"No,  thanks.  ...  I  may  practice  a  few  steps  in  the  room." 

"O.K.  G'night!  Take  it  easy,  now,  for  Chrissake."  The  door  slammed  shut, 
then  instantly  opened  again.  "Hey.  O.K.  if  I  leave  a  letter  to  Loretta  under 
your  door?  I  got  some  German  stuff  in  it.  Willya  fix  it  up  for  me?" 

"Yes.  Leave  me  alone  now,  God  damn  it." 

"Sure,"  said  Clay.  "You  know  what  my  mother  wrote  me?  She  wrote  me 
she's  glad  you  and  I  were  together  and  all  the  whole  war.  In  the  same  jeep 
and  all.  She  says  my  letters  are  a  helluva  lot  more  intelligent  since  we  been 
goin'  around  together." 

X  looked  up  and  over  at  him,  and  said,  with  great  effort,  "Thanks.  Tell  her 
thanks  for  me." 

"I  will.  G'nightl"  The  door  slammed  shut,  this  time  for  good. 

X  sat  looking  at  the  door  for  a  long  while,  then  turned  his  chair  around 
toward  the  writing  table  and  picked  up  his  portable  typewriter  from  the 
floor.  He  made  space  for  it  on  the  messy  table  surface,  pushing  aside  the 
collapsed  pile  of  unopened  letters  and  packages.  He  thought  if  he  wrote  a 
letter  to  an  old  friend  of  his  in  New  York  there  might  be  some  quick,  however 
slight,  therapy  in  it  for  him.  But  he  couldn't  insert  his  notepaper  into  the 
roller  properly,  his  fingers  were  shaking  so  violently  now.  He  put  his  hands 

FOR   ESME— WITH   LOVE  AND   SQUALOR        451 


down  at  his  sides  for  a  minute,  then  tried  again,  but  finally  crumpled  the 
notepaper  in  his  hand. 

He  was  aware  that  he  ought  to  get  the  wastebasket  out  of  the  room,  but 
instead  of  doing  anything  about  it,  he  put  his  arms  on  the  typewriter  and 
rested  his  head  again,  closing  his  eyes. 

A  few  throbbing  minutes  later,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  found  himself 
squinting  at  a  small,  unopened  package  wrapped  in  green  paper.  It  had 
probably  slipped  off  the  pile  when  he  had  made  space  for  the  typewriter. 
He  saw  that  it  had  been  readdressed  several  times.  He  could  make  out,  on 
just  one  side  of  the  package,  at  least  three  of  his  old  A.P.O.  numbers. 

He  opened  the  package  without  any  interest,  without  even  looking  at  the 
return  address.  He  opened  it  by  burning  the  string  with  a  lighted  match. 
He  was  more  interested  in  watching  the  string  burn  all  the  way  down  than 
in  opening  the  package,  but  he  opened  it,  finally. 

Inside  the  box,  a  note,  written  in  ink,  lay  on  top  of  a  small  object  wrapped 
in  tissue  paper.  He  picked  out  the  note  and  read  it. 

17,  Road, 

,  Devon 

June  7,  1944 
Dear  Sergeant  X, 

I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  having  taken  38  days  to  begin  our  correspondence 
but,  I  have  been  extremely  busy  as  my  aunt  has  undergone  streptococcus  of  the 
throat  and  nearly  perished  and  I  have  been  justifiably  saddled  with  one  responsi- 
bility after  another.  However  I  have  thought  of  you  frequently  and  of  the  ex- 
tremely pleasant  afternoon  we  spent  in  each  other's  company  on  April  30,  1944 
between  3:45  and  4:15  P.M.  in  case  it  slipped  your  mind. 

We  are  all  tremendously  excited  and  overawed  about  D  Day  and  only  hope 
that  it  will  bring  about  the  swift  termination  of  the  war  and  a  method  of  existence 
that  is  ridiculous  to  say  the  least.  Charles  and  I  are  both  quite  concerned  about 
you;  we  hope  you  were  not  among  those  who  made  the  first  initial  assault  upon 
the  Cotentin  Peninsula.  Were  you?  Please  reply  as  speedily  as  possible.  My 
warmest  regards  to  your  wife. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Esme 

P.S.  I  am  taking  the  liberty  of  enclosing  my  wristwatch  which  you  may  keep 
in  your  possession  for  the  duration  of  the  conflict.  I  did  not  observe  whether  you 
were  wearing  one  during  our  brief  association,  but  this  one  is  extremely  water- 
proof and  shock-proof  as  well  as  having  many  other  virtues  among  which  one  can 
tell  at  what  velocity  one  is  walking  if  one  wishes.  I  am  quite  certain  that  you  will 
use  it  to  greater  advantage  in  these  difficult  days  than  I  ever  can  and  that  you  will 
accept  it  as  a  lucky  talisman. 


452 


THE   SHORT   STORY 


Charles,  whom  I  am  teaching  to  read  and  write  and  whom  I  am  finding  an 
extremely  intelligent  novice,  wishes  to  add  a  few  words.  Please  write  as  soon  as 
you  have  the  time  and  inclination. 

HELLO  HELLO  HELLO  HELLO  HELLO 
HELLO  HELLO  HELLO  HELLO  HELLO 
LOVE  AND  KISSES  CHALES 

It  was  a  long  time  before  X  could  set  the  note  aside,  let  alone  lift  Esme's 
father's  wristwatch  out  of  the  box.  When  he  did  finally  lift  it  out,  he  saw  that 
its  crystal  had  been  broken  in  transit.  He  wondered  if  the  watch  was  other- 
wise undamaged,  but  he  hadn't  the  courage  to  wind  it  and  find  out.  He  just 
sat  with  it  in  his  hand  for  another  long  period.  Then,  suddenly,  almost 
ecstatically,  he  felt  sleepy. 

You  take  a  really  sleepy  man,  Esme,  and  he  aZways  stands  a  chance  of 
again  becoming  a  man  with  all  his  fac— with  all  his  f-a-c-u-1-t-i-e-s  intact. 

(1950) 


FOR  ESME— WITH  LOVE  AND  SQUALOR    453 


THE   DRAMA 


YOUR  study  of  literary  craftsmanship 
in  general  and  of  the  short  story  in 
particular  has  given  you  a  good  start 
toward  understanding  and  appreciat- 
ing dramas.  Plots  in  dramas  are  in  many 
respects  like  those  in  short  stories:  the 
overall  patterns  are  similar,  and  the 
relationships  between  happening  and 
happening,  or  between  characters  and 
actions,  are  similar.  Moreover,  much  of 
what  you  have  learned  about  setting, 
language,  tone,  meanings,  and  evalua- 
tions applies  to  the  reading  of  plays. 

Yet  dramatic  writing  has  peculiarities 
which  you  must  keep  in  mind  if  you 
are  to  read  it  well.  The  unique  purpose 
for  which  a  play  is  written  naturally 
influences  its  substance  and  form.  Al- 
ways you  will  find  it  useful  to  remem- 
ber that  a  dramatic  work— unless  it  is 
that  rare  thing,  a  "closet  drama"— is  a 
narrative  form  designed  to  be  inter- 
preted by  actors  on  a  stage  in  a  theater. 
Dramatists  as  a  result  write  primarily 
not  for  the  general  reader  but  for  peo- 
ple of  the  theater  likely  to  be  concerned 
with  stage  presentations— producers, 
scene  designers,  directors,  actors,  and 
the  like.  The  playwright  sets  down  only 
what  such  specialists  need— ordinarily 
mere  hints  about  the  scenery,  about  the 
appearance  of  characters,  about  the  ac- 
tors, plus  everything  the  characters  are 
to  say. 

When  theatrical  folk  read  dramas, 
they  try  to  imagine  exactly  how  such 
notations  may  be  translated  into  an 
actual  production.  When  we  read  a 
play,  we  should,  to  the  best  of  our  abil- 
ity, do  the  same  thing.  As  Schlegel,  a 


famed  critic  of  drama,  says,  "In  reading 
dramatic  works,  our  habitual  practice  is 
to  supply  the  representation."  Like  a 
producer  or  an  actor,  in  other  words, 
we  try  to  see  what  is  implied  by  every 
detail  which  the  author  has  given  us. 
We  form  mental  images  of  the  theater 
and  of  the  stage  settings,  and  of  the 
actors— their  appearance,  the  quality  of 
their  voices  and  intonations,  the  nature 
of  their  gestures  and  movements.  Fur- 
thermore, we  note  the  nature  of  the  mo- 
tivation, of  the  plot,  and  of  the  tone,  in 
ways  appropriate  for  the  reading  of 
plays. 

This  means  that  we  ask  and  answer 
—as  well  as  we  can— these  questions: 

(1)  How  has  the  nature  of  the  theater 
and  of  the  audience  shaped  this  play? 

(2)  What  are  the  implied  thoughts,  the 
feelings,  and  the  motives  of  the  charac- 
ters in  each  scene?   (3)   How  are  the 
parts— the  acts  and  scenes— important  in 
the   development   of   the   whole   play? 
(4)  Is  the  tone  that  of  tragedy,  that  of 
comedy,    that   of  melodrama,    that   of 
farce,  or  a  combination? 

Theater  and  audience 

How  has  the  nature  of  the  theater 
and  of  the  audience  shaped  this 
play? 

Every  drama  is  designed  for  per- 
formance at  a  certain  time  and  in  a  cer- 
tain place.  The  limitations  and  the  pos- 
sibilities of  the  theater  to  a  large  degree 
determine  the  substance  of  a  play  and 
shape  its  form.  Clearly,  for  instance, 
the  dramas  presented  under  the  open 
sky  in  the  orchestral  space  of  a  Greek 


454 


THE    DRAMA 


amphitheater  (see  p.  461)  will  differ 
greatly  from  those  produced  on  the 
curtained  and  lighted  stage  of  the  mod- 
ern playhouse.  The  scenic  representa- 
tion in  Greek  dramas,  for  one  thing, 
was  very  different  from  scenic  repre- 
sentation in  modern  productions.  In  the 
Greek  dramas,  it  was  simple  and  in- 
flexible; in  modern  plays,  it  may  be  as 
elaborate  as  is  necessary,  and  it  may  be 
completely  changed  one  or  more  times 
in  a  play. 

The  audience,  too,  wields  its  influ- 
ence. The  physical  position  of  the  audi- 
ence in  relationship  to  the  stage  is 
bound  to  be  important.  In  early  thea- 
ters, down  through  the  time  of  Shake- 
speare, the  stage  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
audience  or  it  at  least  projected  into  the 
audience.  From  that  position,  as  time 
passed,  it  gradually  receded  until  it 
came  to  be  on  the  rim  of  a  half  circle 
occupied  by  the  spectators.  The  result, 
naturally,  was  a  decrease  in  the  inti- 
macy of  the  relationship  between  actor 
and  spectator,  and  consequent  changes 
in  the  dramas.  In  addition,  audiences 
have  varied  from  period  to  period  in 
their  make-up:  sometimes  they  have 
been  a  cross  section  of  a  whole  popula- 
tion, again  they  have  been  drawn  from 
only  one  or  two  social  classes.  Since 
every  dramatist  wrote  to  please  a  par- 
ticular audience,  your  knowledge  of  the 
education,  the  beliefs,  and  the  psychol- 
ogy of  the  audience  for  which  any  play 
was  written  will  help  you  understand 
the  nature  of  the  appeals  of  the  play. 

J.  Dover  Wilson  affords  an  example 
of  the  importance  of  considering  the 
audience.  In  his  interesting  study,  What 
Happens  in  Hamlet,  he  suggests  that  it 
was  natural  for  Elizabethans  to  inter- 
pret what  happened  in  ancient  Den- 
mark into  Elizabethan  terms.  "A  trivial 
point,  it  may  be  said,"  he  remarks,  "yet 


it  is  one  of  far-reaching  importance.  Fo* 
if  Shakespeare  and  his  audience  thought 
of  the  constitution  of  Denmark  in  Eng- 
lish terms,  then  Hamlet  was  rightful 
heir  to  the  throne  and  Claudius  a 
usurper."  Understanding  this  point  is 
vital  to  the  understanding  of  the  whole 
play.  "The  usurpation,"  as  Wilson  says, 
"is  one  of  the  main  factors  in  the  plot 
of  Hamlet.  .  ,  ." 

Thoughts,  feelings,  motives 

WHAT  ARE  the  implied  thoughts, 
the  feelings,  and  the  motives  of 
the  characters  in  each  scene? 

Because  his  work  is  designed  not  to 
be  told  but  to  be  acted,  the  playwright, 
perforce,  ordinarily  uses  the  objective 
point  of  view  (see  p.  219).  In  some 
periods,  conventions  of  the  stage— un- 
derstandings, as  it  were,  between  the 
playwright  and  the  audience— allow  the 
actors  to  speak  their  thoughts  to  the 
spectators  in  soliloquies  and  asides.  In 
most  periods,  however,  these  are  used 
sparingly,  and  in  modern  times  they 
have  almost  entirely  disappeared.  Since 
the  playwright  cannot  open  the  heads 
and  breasts  of  living  men  and  women 
to  permit  us  to  peer  into  their  minds 
and  hearts,  he  is  forced  to  show  motives 
indirectly  by  means  of  speeches  and 
actions. 

Such  speeches  and  actions  must  be 
examined  by  the  alert  reader  for  impli- 
cations. What,  you  must  ask  yourself, 
lies  behind  that  speech,  that  deed? 
Granted  that  this  is  what  the  character 
says  and  does,  what  is  he  really  think- 
ing and  feeling?  To  answer  these  ques- 
tions, you  need,  obviously,  to  have  a 
clear  idea  about  the  nature  of  the  char- 
acter: you  need  to  know  what  his  traits 
are,  why  he  is  likely  to  act  as  he  does, 
how  likely  he  is  to  unfold  his  true 
thoughts,  how  articulate  he  will  be  In 


THE   DRAMA 


455 


analyzing  his  motives.  But  the  method 
of  snowing  characters  makes  this  fairly 
difficult:  you  come  to  know  the  char- 
acters in  a  play  only  gradually— speech 
by  speech,  happening  by  happening. 
This  means  that  you  should  make  an  ef- 
fort from  the  first  scene  to  draw  every 
possible  inference  about  each  character, 
and  that  you  should  keep  in  mind  your 
deductions  and  modify  them  or  supple- 
ment them  when  you  can.  Thus  only 
may  you  prepare  to  formulate  as  pre- 
cisely as  possible  the  thoughts,  the  feel- 
ings, and  the  motivations  of  each  char- 
acter in  every  scene  throughout  the 
drama. 

In  reading  Hamlet,  for  instance,  you 
first  encounter  Claudius,  the  usurping 
king,  as  he  holds  a  Council  Meeting  in 
Act  I,  Scene  ii.  You  read  his  words  as 
he  takes  up  a  series  of  problems.  You 
notice  his  way  of  talking  to  various  peo- 
ple. You  weigh  each  speech.  And  if  you 
are  as  discerning  as  possible,  you  note, 
with  Granville  Barker,  that  "his  tactless 
tact,  the  mellifluous  excess  of  speech, 
the  smiling  kindness  over  done— such 
falseness  shows  that  he  feels  his  posi- 
tion to  be  false."  Such  an  initial  percep- 
tion is  supplemented  by  others  as  you 
read  on  in  the  play,  and  when,  later, 
Claudius  tries  to  arrange  for  Hamlet's 
execution,  you  understand  the  reason. 

Scenes  related  to  the  play 

How  ARE  the  parts— the  acts  and 
scenes—important  in   the   devel- 
opment of  the  whole  play? 

You  recall  how  important  it  was,  in 
reading  the  short  story,  to  become 
aware  of  the  nature  of  the  whole  work. 
Similarly,  in  reading  a  drama,  you 
should  become  aware  of  the  general 
pattern  of  the  happenings,  and  of  the 
relationship  to  this  pattern  of  all  other 
elements.  After  reading  a  drama,  you 


should  be  able  to  see  whatever  fore- 
shadowings  there  are  of  the  events,  and 
to  comprehend  the  general  course  of  all 
the  happenings  from  the  beginning  to 
the  conclusion. 

Not  only  should  you  notice  the  course 
of  the  whole  play;  you  should  also 
notice  the  relationship  of  the  parts— the 
acts  and  scenes— to  the  whole  work.  The 
dramatist,  as  a  rule,  is  forced  to  divide 
his  story  into  acts  and  scenes.  A  contin- 
uous narrative  such  as  you  find  in  some 
short  stories  is  impossible,  and  sum- 
maries of  action  are  for  the  most  part 
impractical.  This  means  that  the  dram- 
atist must  leave  out  many  scenes 
which  a  fiction  writer  might  portray, 
that  he  must  be  content  with  brief  ref- 
erences to  others,  and  that  he  must 
select  and  fully  develop  only  those 
scenes  which  will  best  set  forth  the  pat- 
tern of  happenings  which  makes  up  the 
plot  of  his  drama.  Therefore,  you  will 
learn  much  by  considering  the  artistic 
justification  for  certain  omissions  and 
certain  summaries,  and,  above  all,  for 
the  complete  working  out  of  the  chosen 
scenes.  You  will  find  it  useful  to  notice 
exactly  what  each  scene  accomplishes 
—how,  for  instance,  the  opening  scene 
or  scenes  offer  an  exposition  (i.e.,  the 
details  the  audience  needs  to  under- 
stand the  initial  situation),  and  how 
scenes  and  acts,  in  order,  mark  stages 
in  the  advancement  of  the  plot  to  cli- 
mactic developments,  conflicts,  or 
changes.  To  notice  how  the  play  pro- 
gresses from  scene  to  scene  is  an  impor- 
tant step  toward  understanding  and 
appreciating  the  whole  work. 

Tone  in  drama 

Is  THE  TONE  that  of  tragedy,  that  of 
comedy,  that  of  melodrama,  that 
of  farce,  or  a  combination? 

The  playwright,  unlike  other  narra- 


456 


THE   DRAMA 


tive  writers,  cannot  lift  his  own  voice 
to  interpret  the  meanings  of  what  he 
sets  before  you:  the  drama  is  a  form  in 
which  explicit  interpretation  is  an  im- 
possibility. The  playwright  cannot  state 
directly  his  judgments  of  the  characters 
and  their  deeds;  nor  can  he  tell  you 
what  he  wants  his  play  to  signify.  How- 
ever, he  probably  will  choose  a  dra- 
matic form  which  will  give  you  im- 
portant clues  concerning  his  attitude 
toward  his  material  and  the  way  he 
wants  you  to  interpret  his  work.  Over 
the  years,  dramatists  in  general  have 
found  four  chief  forms  satisfactory  for 
this  purpose— tragedy,  comedy,  melo- 
drama, and  farce.1  When  you  discover 
what  choice  among  these  forms  an  au- 
thor has  made,  you  define  the  general 
tone  of  his  play. 

The  concepts  of  tragedy  differ  from 
period  to  period,  as  you  will  see  when 
you  read  Oedipus,  Macbeth,  and  Hedda 
Gabler.  Nevertheless,  certain  qualities 
of  tragedy  have  been  fairly  constant. 
One  thing  often  said  of  tragedies  is 
that  they  end  unhappily,  with  the 
death,  as  a  rule,  of  the  hero  or  the 
heroine.  Although  there  are  some  ex- 
ceptions, tragedies  usually  do  end  dis- 
astrously. A  playwright,  however,  can- 
not make  a  tragedy  simply  by  tacking 
on  an  unhappy  conclusion.  Other  things 
are  important,  indeed  more  important, 
notably  a  preparation  for  the  ending 
which  indicates  its  inevitability  and  a 
treatment  of  a  subject  which  in  the 


i  At  one  time  and  another,  dramatists  have 
used  other  forms — miracle  plays,  medieval 
mysteries,  tragicomedies,  chronicle  plays,  he- 
roic plays,  and  so  forth.  Each  type  was  writ- 
ten during  a  period  or  series  of  periods  during 
which  it  appealed  to  contemporary  audiences. 
The  four  forms  which  we  have  listed  are 
more  enduring.  Furthermore,  they  will  suffice 
for  our  present  purposes. 


minds  of  the  immediate  audience  is 
highly  serious.  The  conclusion  of  a 
tragedy,  in  other  words,  must  be  the 
logical  outcome  of  the  struggle  of  the 
protagonist  against  his  opponents  or 
against  himself  in  a  given  situation. 
And  the  central  conflict  must  be  a 
struggle  which  the  audience  believes 
is  significant— man  against  the  gods, 
say,  or  against  fate,  or  against  the 
promptings  of  his  own  character.  Fur- 
thermore, such  a  conflict  must  be 
treated,  not  playfully,  but  seriously. 

Since  it  treats  a  vital  conflict  seri- 
ously, a  tragedy  as  a  rule  is  found  to 
have  universal  significance.  You,  the 
reader,  note  that  the  plight  of  the  pro- 
tagonist is  similar  to  a  plight  in  which 
you  may  find  yourself— that  the  prob- 
lems of  the  play,  whether  ancient  or 
modern,  are  in  a  sense  your  problems, 
too.  As  a  result,  you  find  a  meaning  for 
yourself  in  the  inevitable  outcome.  Fur- 
thermore, you  probably  find  that  not 
only  the  meaning  but  also  the  emotional 
effect  is  universal:  you  pity  the  suffering 
protagonist  and  share  his  terror  of  the 
inescapable  catastrophe. 

Although,  like  tragedy,  comedy  has 
taken  many  forms  during  the  ages,  or- 
dinarily it  does  not  so  deeply  engage 
the  sympathies  of  the  audience  or  the 
reader  as  does  tragedy.  Some  comedies, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  do  not  arouse  much 
sympathy  or  much  dislike  for  the  char- 
acters: they  ridicule  or  satirize  their 
traits,  their  manners,  and  their  foibles. 
Therefore,  the  appeal  of  these  plays  is 
largely  an  intellectual  one— an  appeal 
to  the  audience's  or  the  reader's  sense  of 
the  incongruous.  Other  comedies  do, 
it  is  true,  arouse  sympathy  for  some 
characters,  dislike  for  others;  and  their 
author  hopes  that  after  sharing  the 
troubles  of  the  attractive  characters,  the 
audience  will  share  their  delight  in  a 


THE   DRAMA 


457 


happy  ending.  Even  in  such  comedies, 
though,  there  will  be  no  life  and  death 
struggles  such  as  tragedies  portray.  The 
ending,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  will  often 
show  that  the  difficulties  after  all  were 
not  nearly  so  serious  as  the  characters 
took  them  to  be.  The  mood  will  not  be 
desperate  and  grim  but  easy-going  and 
good-natured.  Most  comedies  will  not, 
however,  be  exclusively  intellectual  or 
emotional  in  appeal:  they  will  be  a 
combination  in  which  one  appeal  pre- 
dominates. Thus  the  intellectual  ele- 
ment predominates  in  Ben  Jonson's  The 
Alchemist  or  Noel  Coward's  Private 
Lives,  but  there  are  some  emotional 
elements  in  each;  and  the  emotional 
element  predominates  in  Shakespeare's 
As  You  Like  It  and  in  Philip  Barry's 
The  Philadelphia  Story,  though  not  to 
the  complete  exclusion  of  satire. 

Regardless  of  the  proportions  of  in- 
tellectual and  emotional  appeal,  a  com- 
edy (if  the  author  succeeds)  will  not 
very  deeply  stir  the  audience  which 
views  it.  The  audience  will  not  be 
moved  to  pity  and  terror  but— at  most— 
to  sympathy  mingled  with  amusement. 
It  will  be  amiable  and  tolerant  of  the 
sympathetic  characters,  rather  than  vio- 
lently partisan.  Nevertheless,  you  will 
find  that  the  best  comedies  have  their 
universal  qualities.  You  will  see  that, 
like  tragedies,  they  reveal  human  nature 
and  comment  upon  human  philosophy, 
human  values.  Although  they  portray 
man  in  his  lighter  moments,  they  often 
say  very  important  things  about  him. 

Melodrama  and  farce  are  counter- 
parts, respectively,  of  tragedy  and  com- 
edy—counterparts, however,  on  a  lower 
level.  The  lowness  of  the  level  is  evi- 
dent in  the  nature  of  the  conflicts  they 
portray,  the  emphasis  they  place  upon 
action,  their  lack  of  significant  commen- 


tary, and  their  appeal.  The  conflicts 
they  portray  are  external  rather  than  in- 
ternal, trivial  rather  than  important^ 
temporary  rather  than  universal.  Melo- 
dramas and  farces  are  crammed  with 
action,  action,  however,  which  is  often 
developed  at  the  expense  of  character- 
ization. Therefore,  they  contain  little 
serious  consideration  of  life  and  its 
problems,  and  they  appeal  in  rather 
obvious  ways  to  the  heart  and  to  the 
mind  of  the  audience  and  of  the  reader. 

Melodrama  does  deal,  to  be  sure, 
with  some  situations  which  at  the  time 
appear  to  be  serious  or  painful— passion, 
danger  of  death,  even  bad  fortune.  But 
the  characters  involved  tend  to  be  types 
who  may  be  quickly  classified  as  black- 
hearted and  white-souled,  and  if  you 
are  familiar  with  melodrama,  once  you 
have  so  classified  them,  you  will  have 
little  trouble  guessing  what  will  happen 
to  them.  These  figures— the  brave  hero, 
the  true-blue  heroine,  the  scheming  vil- 
lain, his  brutish  henchmen,  and  others 
—will  clash  in  scenes  which  are  chiefly 
designed  to  deliver  a  series  of  thrills 
and  (as  a  rule)  to  straighten  out  all  dif- 
ficulties in  a  final  scene.  If  the  charac- 
ters have  to  be  made  inconsistent  to 
make  some  of  these  thrills  possible,  the 
playwright  makes  them  inconsistent. 
The  plot  is  episodic  rather  than  unified 
—with  each  episode  delivering  a  punch. 
It  lacks  the  inevitability  one  finds  in 
tragedy:  if  a  wrenching  of  logic  is 
needed  to  provide  the  thrill  of  a  happy 
ending,  the  author  wrenches  away  with- 
out flinching.  Thus,  really,  the  author 
takes  neither  the  characters  nor  the 
happenings  very  seriously.  His  chief 
aim  is  to  provide  thrill  after  thrill  for 
the  paying  customers. 

Farce,  by  contrast,  is  built  not  for  a 
series  of  thrills  but  for  frequent  and  hi- 


458 


THE   DRAMA 


larious  laughs.  Like  melodrama,  farce 
dispenses  with  subtlety.  It  thrives  upon 
exaggeration— of  the  ridiculous  qualities 
of  its  characters,  of  broadly  comic  ac- 
tions. Its  characters  as  a  rule  are  not 
amalgams  of  several  traits:  they  are  ex- 
aggerated types  such  as  the  stuffy  busi- 
ness tycoon,  the  windy  politician,  the 
giggling  spinster  ruthlessly  trying  to  en- 
trap a  man,  the  haughty  society  dow- 
ager, and  the  like.  Such  figures  are 
placed  in  an  impossible  situation  or 
series  of  situations  and  then  are  manip- 
ulated through  an  episodic  series  of 
scenes  each  of  which  (so  the  author 
hopes)  builds  up  to  a  point  where  the 
audience  howls  with  laughter.  And,  of 
course,  neither  the  author  nor  the  audi- 
ence takes  the  characters  and  the  hap- 
penings very  seriously. 

At    times    melodramatic    or   farcical 
scenes  occur  in  tragedies  or  comedies. 


When  they  do,  you  should  note  the 
clash  of  tones,  the  shift  in  interest,  and 
the  effect  upon  the  drama  as  a  whole. 
Such  variations  are  not  necessarily  bad: 
witness  the  broadly  comic  scene  pro- 
vided by  the  drunken  porter  immedi- 
ately following  the  murder  of  the  king 
in  Macbeth. 

Of  course,  it  is  not  enough  simply  to 
classify  a  play  as  tragedy,  comedy, 
melodrama,  or  farce.  So  to  classify  a 
play  is  a  very  helpful  start,  but  it  is 
only  a  start.  It  is  necessary,  in  addition, 
to  see  exactly  what  the  nature  of  this 
particular  play  is— what  it  reveals  by  its 
characterization,  its  plot,  its  concern  or 
lack  of  concern  with  important  human 
problems.  If  "the  yardstick  of  insight" 
(see  p.  191)  is  important  to  you,  the 
consideration  of  such  matters  will  be 
highly  relevant  to  your  evaluation  of 
the  play. 


THE    DRAMA 


459 


SOPHOCLES 


Oedipus  the  King 


£*»  Sophocles  (?496  B.C.— 406  B.C.)  was 
one  of  the  great  trio  of  Greek  tragic 
authors;  the  other  two  wzre  Aeschylus 
(525  B.C.— 456  B.C.)  and  Euripides  (485 
B.C.— 406  B.C.).  The  plays  of  these  three 
were  produced  in  the  age  of  Pericles 
(490  B.c-429  B.C.)  or  shortly  after.  The 
masterpiece  of  Greek  drama,  by  gen- 
eral agreement,  Sophocles'  Oedipus 
Tyrannus  (425  B.C.),  though  outstand- 
ing, was  in  many  ways  a  typical  product 
of  the  Greek  period. 

Perhaps  the  most  important  fact  to 
keep  in  mind  about  Greek  drama  is  that 


it  was  always  closely  associated  with 
religious  ritual.  The  tragedies  were  per- 
formed at  annual  Feasts  of  Dionysus,  in 
a  structure  which  was  dedicated  to  the 
god  of  wine.  These  dramas  used  poetry, 
dancing,  and  music  to  recount  legends 
about  heroes  and  gods  who  were  the 
ancestors  of  the  people  of  Greece- 
legends  known  in  detail  by  playwrights 
and  audiences  alike.  Naturally,  there 
was  a  ritualistic  quality  about  plays 
which  unfolded  time-hallowed  stories. 
Although  the  theater  in  which  Oedi- 
pus and  other  tragedies  were  presented 


460 


THE    DRAMA 


l  petfrrmance  in,  -Ike  jk&tier 


was  a  temple  of  Dionysus,  it  differed 
greatly  from  any  temple  we  know  today. 
With  its  17,000  seats  arranged  in  semi- 
circular tiers  on  a  hillside,  it  somewhat 
resembled  a  present-day  football  sta- 
dium. From  the  seats,  the  spectators 
looked  down  on  a  circular  dancing 
place  about  sixty  feet  in  diameter— "the 
orchestra"— in  the  center  of  which  stood 
a  statue  of  Dionysus.  Beyond  this  cir- 
cular space,  they  saw  a  stage,  perhaps 
slightly  elevated,  sixty  feet  wide  but 
not  very  deep.  Beyond  the  stage,  finally, 


they  saw  a  "scene  building"— a  temple 
which  furnished  a  background  and 
which  also  served  as  the  actors'  dress- 
ing room. 

The  actors,  who  as  a  rule  appeared 
only  on  the  stage,  naturally  differed  a 
great  deal  from  the  actors  of  today  be- 
cause of  the  nature  of  the  dramas  and 
of  the  huge  open-air  theater  in  which 
they  performed.  By  padding  their  flow- 
ing robes  and  by  donning  shoes  which 
increased  their  stature,  they  made  them- 
selves both  visible  and  impressive.  The 


OEDIPUS   THE   KING 


461 


colors  of  their  robes  at  times  indicated 
their  station  (purple  for  royalty,  for  in- 
stance), and  at  times  symbolized  emo- 
tions to  be  associated  with  them  (dark 
or  dim  colors  for  mourning,  for  ex- 
ample). They  wore  masks  which  made 
their  features  distinctive  when  viewed 
at  a  distance  and  which  suggested  the 
emotions  of  the  characters.  The  masks 
also  increased  the  actors'  height  and, 
like  megaphones,  added  to  the  carrying 
power  of  their  voices.  The  tragedians 
did  not  strive,  as  modern  actors  do,  for 
lifelike  intonations:  instead,  they  de- 
claimed their  lines  somewhat  in  the 
fashion  of  an  old-time  orator,  and,  when 
they  came  to  highly  emotional  or  lyrical 
passages,  they  sang  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  flute.  In  some  ways,  there- 
fore, Greek  dramatic  presentation  was 
like  modern  operatic  presentation.  The 
method  of  production,  as  one  would  ex- 
pect, greatly  influenced  the  playwrights. 
Dramatists  characterized  not  complexly 
but  rather  simply,  not  with  subtle  de- 
tails but  with  broad  strokes.  They  gave 
the  figures  in  their  plays  lines  which 
were  majestic  in  diction,  formal  in 
movement— closer  to  oratory  or  to  op- 
eratic arias  than  to  lifelike  talk.  And 
they  kept  in  mind  the  kind  of  scenic 
background  against  which  all  plays  had 
to  be  presented. 

During  the  whole  course  of  every 
play,  a  "chorus"  of  from  twelve  to  fif- 
teen figures,  wearing  identical  costumes 
and  masks,  danced  and  sang  in  unison 


in  the  orchestra.  They  were  somewhat 
like  a  ballet  in  a  modern  musical  com- 
edy or  an  opera,  for  their  movements 
interpreted  the  action.  While  the  actors 
recited  their  lines,  the  chorus,  drawn 
up  in  two  rows,  faced  the  stage  and 
made  interpretive  gestures.  During  cho- 
ral odes,  the  chorus  faced  the  audience, 
sang,  and  danced  to  and  fro  about  the 
altar.  These  odes  at  times  were  explana- 
tory, at  times  narrative,  at  times  philo- 
sophical; always,  however,  the  dramatist 
made  them  an  integral  part  of  his  play. 
The  audience  which  viewed  these 
opera-like  plays  was  made  up  of  the 
free  population  of  Athens,  with  the  pos- 
sible exception  of  the  women  of  the 
city.  It  was  a  demonstrative  group 
which  loudly  expressed  its  approval  or 
disapproval  of  plays  and  actors,  but  it 
was  also,  evidently,  a  discriminating 
group  which  appreciated  the  best  plays. 
It  shared  the  religious  beliefs  incorpo- 
rated in  the  plays,  the  beliefs,  for  in- 
stance, that  overweening  pride  was  one 
of  the  greatest  of  sins,  and  that  sin 
(whether  deliberate  or  unintentional) 
inevitably  would  be  punished.  It  also 
shared  with  the  dramatist  a  knowledge 
of  the  story  which  he  was  dramatizing. 
Thus,  in  viewing  Oedipus,  when  the 
king  spoke  of  his  world-wide  renown, 
they  knew  not  only  that  retribution  was 
inevitable:  they  knew  precisely  what 
form  it  would  take—that  of  a  horrible 
discovery  toward  which  the  king  moved 
during  the  course  of  the  drama. 


462 


THE  DRAMA 


CHARACTERS 

OEDIPUS  the  King 

PRIEST 

CREON,  the  brother-in-law  of  OEDIPUS 

TEERESIAS 

JOCASTA,  the  wife  of  OEDIPUS 

HERDSMAN 
MESSENGER 
SECOND  MESSENGER 

ANTIGONE)    ,      ,.         r 

>  daughters  or  OEDIPUS 
ISMENE     J          & 

CHORUS 

Scene:  In  front  of  the  palace  of  OEDIPUS  at  Thebes.  To  the  right  of  the 
stage  near  the  altar  stands  the  PRIEST  with  a  crowd  of  children,  OEDIPUS 
emerges  from  the  central  door. 

OEDIPUS.  Children,  young  sons  and  daughters  of  old  Cadmus, 

why  do  you  sit  here  with  your  suppliant  crowns? 

The  town  is  heavy  with  a  mingled  burden 

of  sounds  and  smells,  of  groans  and  hymns  and  incense; 

I  did  not  think  it  fit  that  I  should  hear 

of  this  from  messengers  but  came  myself,— 

I  Oedipus  whom  all  men  call  the  Great.  (He  turns  to  the  PRIEST) 

You're  old  and  they  are  young;  come,  speak  for  them. 

What  do  you  fear  or  want,  that  you  sit  here 

suppliant?  Indeed  I'm  willing  to  give  all 

that  you  may  need;  I  would  be  very  hard 

should  I  not  pity  suppliants  like  these. 
PRIEST.  O  ruler  of  my  country,  Oedipus, 

you  see  our  company  around  the  altar; 

you  see  our  ages;  some  of  us,  like  these, 

who  cannot  yet  fly  far,  and  some  of  us 

heavy  with  age;  these  children  are  the  chosen 

among  the  young,  and  I  the  priest  of  Zeus. 

Within  the  market  place  sit  others  crowned 

with  suppliant  garlands,  at  the  double  shrine 


From  David  Grene,  Three  Greek  Tragedies  in  Translation.  Copyright  1942  by  The 
University  of  Chicago  Press.  Used  by  permission. 

OEDIPUS   THE   KING        463 


of  Pallas  and  the  temple  where  Ismenus 

gives  oracles  by  fire.  King,  you  yourself 

have  seen  our  city  reeling  like  a  wreck 

already;  it  can  scarcely  lift  its  prow 

out  of  the  depths,  out  of  the  bloody  surf. 

A  blight  is  on  the  fruitful  plants  of  the  earth, 

a  blight  is  on  the  cattle  in  the  fields, 

a  blight  is  on  our  women  that  no  children 

are  born  to  them;  a  God  that  carries  fire, 

a  deadly  pestilence,  is  on  our  town, 

strikes  us  and  spares  not,  and  the  house  of  Cadmus 

is  emptied  of  its  people  while  black  Death 

grows  rich  in  groaning  and  in  lamentation. 

We  have  not  come  as  suppliants  to  this  altar 

because  we  thought  of  you  as  of  a  God, 

but  rather  judging  you  the  first  of  men 

in  all  the  chances  of  this  life  and  when 

we  mortals  have  to  do  with  more  than  man. 

You  came  and  by  your  coming  saved  our  city, 

freed  us  from  tribute  which  we  paid  of  old 

to  the  Sphinx,  cruel  singer.  This  you  did 

in  virtue  of  no  knowledge  we  could  give  you, 

in  virtue  of  no  teaching;  it  was  God 

that  aided  you,  men  say,  and  you  are  held 

with  God's  assistance  to  have  saved  our  lives. 

Now,  Oedipus,  whom  all  men  call  the  Greatest, 

here  falling  at  your  feet  we  all  entreat  you, 

find  us  some  strength  for  rescue. 

Perhaps  you'll  hear  a  wise  word  from  some  God, 

perhaps  you  will  learn  something  from  a  man 

(for  I  have  seen  that  for  the  skilled  of  practice 

the  outcome  of  their  counsels  live  the  most). 

Noblest  of  men,  go,  and  raise  up  our  city, 

go,— and  give  heed.  For  now  this  land  of  ours 

calls  you  its  savior  since  you  saved  it  once. 

So,  let  us  never  speak  about  your  reign 

as  of  a  time  when  first  our  feet  were  set 

secure  on  high,  but  later  fell  to  ruin. 

Raise  up  our  city,  save  it  and  raise  it  up. 

Once  you  have  brought  us  luck  with  happy  omen; 

be  no  less  now  in  fortune. 

464         THE    DRAMA 


If  you  will  rule  this  land,  as  now  you  rule  it, 

better  to  rule  it  full  of  men  than  empty. 

For  neither  town  nor  ship  is  anything 

when  empty,  and  none  live  in  it  together. 
OEDIPUS.  Poor  children!  You  have  come  to  me  entreating, 

but  I  have  known  the  story  before  you  told  it 

only  too  well.  I  know  you  are  all  sick, 

yet  there  is  not  one  of  you,  sick  though  you  are, 

that  is  as  sick  as  I  myself. 

Your  several  sorrows  each  have  single  scope 

and  touch  but  one  of  you.  My  spirit  groans 

for  city  and  myself  and  you  at  once. 

You  have  not  roused  me  like  a  man  from  sleep; 

know  that  I  have  given  many  tears  to  this, 

gone  many  ways  wandering  in  thought, 

but  as  I  thought  I  found  only  one  remedy 

and  that  I  took.  I  sent  Menoeceus'  son 

Creon,  Jocasta's  brother,  to  Apollo, 

to  his  Pythian  temple, 

that  he  might  learn  there  by  what  act  or  word 

I  could  save  this  city.  As  I  count  the  days, 

it  vexes  me  what  ails  him;  he  is  gone 

far  longer  than  he  needed  for  the  journey. 

But  when  he  comes,  then,  may  I  prove  a  villain, 

if  I  shall  not  do  all  the  God  commands. 
PRIEST.  Thanks  for  your  gracious  words.  Your  servants  here 

signal  that  Creon  is  this  moment  coming. 
OEDIPUS.  His  face  is  bright.  O  holy  Lord  Apollo, 

grant  that  his  news  too  may  be  bright  for  us 

and  bring  us  safety. 
PRIEST.  It  is  happy  news, 

I  think,  for  else  his  head  would  not  be  crowned 

with  sprigs  of  fruitful  laurel. 
OEDIPUS.  We  will  know  soon, 

he's  within  hail.  Lord  Creon,  my  good  brother, 

what  is  the  word  you  bring  us  from  the  God? 
(CREON  enters) 
CREON.  A  good  word,— for  things  hard  to  bear  themselves 

if  in  the  final  issue  all  is  well 

I  count  complete  good  fortune. 
OEDIPUS.  What  do  you  mean? 


OEDIPUS   THE   KING        465 


What  you  have  said  so  far 

leaves  me  uncertain  whether  to  trust  or  fear. 
CREON.  If  you  will  hear  my  news  before  these  others 

I  am  ready  to  speak,  or  else  to  go  within. 
OEDIPUS.  Speak  it  to  all; 

the  grief  I  bear,  I  bear  it  more  for  these 

than  for  my  own  heart. 
CREON.  I  will  tell  you,  then, 

what  I  heard  from  the  God. 

King  Phoebus  in  plain  words  commanded  us 

to  drive  out  a  pollution  from  our  land, 

pollution  grown  ingrained  within  the  land; 

drive  it  out,  said  the  God,  not  cherish  it, 

till  it's  past  cure. 
OEDIPUS.  What  is  the  rite 

of  purification?  How  shall  it  be  done? 
CREON.  By  banishing  a  man,  or  expiation 

of  blood  by  blood,  since  it  is  murder  guilt 

which  holds  our  city  in  this  storm  of  death. 
OEDIPUS.  Who  is  this  man  whose  fate  the  God  pronounces? 
CREON.  My  Lord,  before  you  piloted  the  state 

we  had  a  king  called  Laius. 

OEDIPUS.  I  know  of  him  by  hearsay.  I  have  not  seen  him. 
CREON.  The  God  commanded  clearly:  let  some  one 

punish  with  force  this  dead  man's  murderers. 
OEDIPUS.  Where  are  they  in  the  world?  Where  would  a  trace 

of  this  old  crime  be  found?  It  would  be  hard 

to  guess  where. 
CREON.  The  clue  is  in  this  land; 

that  which  is  sought  is  found; 

the  unheeded  thing  escapes: 

so  said  the  God. 
OEDIPUS.  Was  it  at  home, 

or  in  the  country  that  death  came  upon  him, 

or  in  another  country  travelling? 
CREON.  He  went,  he  said  himself,  upon  an  embassy, 

but  never  returned  when  he  set  out  from  home. 
OEDIPUS.  Was  there  no  messenger,  no  fellow  traveller 

who  knew  what  happened?  Such  a  one  might  tell 

something  of  use. 
CREON.  They  were  all  killed  save  one.  He  fled  in  terror 


466 


THE    DRAMA 


and  he  could  tell  us  nothing  in  clear  terms 

of  what  he  knew,  nothing,  but  one  thing  only. 
OEDIPUS.  What  was  it? 

If  we  could  even  find  a  slim  beginning 

in  which  to  hope,  we  might  discover  much. 
CBEON.  This  man  said  that  the  robbers  they  encountered 

were  many  and  the  hands  that  did  the  murder 

were  many;  it  was  no  man's  single  power. 
OEDIPUS.  How  could  a  robber  dare  a  deed  like  this 

were  he  not  helped  with  money  from  the  city, 

money  and  treachery? 
CREON.  That  indeed  was  thought. 

But  Laius  was  dead  and  in  our  trouble 

there  was  none  to  help. 
OEDIPUS.  What  trouble  was  so  great  to  hinder  you 

inquiring  out  the  murder  of  your  king? 
CREON.  The  riddling  Sphinx  induced  us  to  neglect 

mysterious  crimes  and  rather  seek  solution 

of  troubles  at  our  feet. 
OEDIPUS.  I  will  bring  this  to  light  again.  King  Phoebus 

fittingly  took  this  care  about  the  dead, 

and  you  too  fittingly. 

And  justly  you  will  see  in  me  an  ally, 

a  champion  of  my  country  and  the  God. 

For  when  I  drive  pollution  from  the  land 

I  will  not  serve  a  distant  friend's  advantage, 

but  act  in  my  own  interest.  Whoever 

he  was  that  killed  the  king  may  readily 

wish  to  dispatch  me  with  his  murderous  hand; 

so  helping  the  dead  king  I  help  myself. 

Come  children,  take  your  suppliant  boughs  and  go; 
up  from  the  altars  now.  Call  the  assembly 
and  let  it  meet  upon  the  understanding 
that  I'll  do  everything.  God  will  decide 
whether  we  prosper  or  remain  in  sorrow. 

PRIEST.  Rise,  children—it  was  this  we  came  to  seek, 
which  of  himself  the  king  now  offers  us. 
May  Phoebus  who  gave  us  the  oracle 
come  to  our  rescue  and  stay  the  plague. 

(Exeunt  all  but  the  CHORUS) 


OEDIPUS  THE  KING        467 


CHORUS 

(Strophe) 

What  is  the  sweet  spoken  word  of  God  from  the  shrine  of  Pytho  rich  in 
gold 

that  has  come  to  glorious  Thebes? 

I  am  stretched  on  the  rack  of  doubt,  and  terror  and  trembling  hold 

my  heart,  O  Delian  Healer,  and  I  worship  full  of  fears 

for  what  doom  you  will  bring  to  pass,  new  or  renewed  in  the  revolving 
years. 

Speak  to  me,  immortal  voice, 

child  of  Golden  Hope. 
(Antistrophe) 

First  I  call  on  you,  Athene,  deathless  daughter  of  Zeus, 

and  Artemis,  Earth  Upholder, 

who  sits  in  the  midst  of  the  market  place  in  the  throne  which  men  call 
Fame, 

and  Phoebus,  the  Far  Shooter,  three  averters  of  Fate, 

come  to  us  now,  if  ever  before,  when  ruin  rushed  upon  the  state, 

you  drove  destruction's  flame  away 

out  of  our  land. 
(Strophe) 

Our  sorrows  defy  number; 

all  the  ship's  timbers  are  rotten; 

taking  of  thought  is  no  spear  for  the  driving  away  of  the  plague. 

There  are  no  growing  children  in  this  famous  land; 

there  are  no  women  staunchly  bearing  the  pangs  of  childbirth. 

You  may  see  them  one  with  another,  like  birds  swift  on  the  wing, 

quicker  than  fire  unmastered, 

speeding  away  to  the  coast  of  the  Western  God. 
(Antistrophe) 

In  the  unnumbered  deaths 

of  its  people  the  city  dies; 

those  children  that  are  born  lie  dead  on  the  naked  earth 

unpitied,   spreading  contagion  of  death;   and   grey  haired   mothers  and 
wives 

everywhere  stand  at  the  altar's  edge,  suppliant  moaning; 

the  hymn  to  the  healing  God  rings  out  but  with  it  the  wailing  voices  are 
blended. 

From  these  our  sufferings  grant  us,  O  golden  Daughter  of  Zeus, 

glad  faced  deliverance. 
(Strophe) 

There  is  no  clash  of  brazen  shields  but  our  fight  is  with  the  War  God, 

468        THE   DRAMA 


a  War  God  ringed  with  the  cries  of  men,  a  savage  God  who  burns  us; 

grant  that  he  turn  in  racing  course  backwards  out  of  our  country's  bounds 

to  the  great  palace  of  Amphitrite  or  where  the  waves  of  the  Thracian  sea 

deny  the  stranger  safe  anchorage. 

Whatsoever  escapes  the  night 

at  last  the  light  of  day  revisits; 

so  smite  the  War  God,  Father  Zeus, 

beneath  your  thunderbolt, 

for  you  are  the  Lord  of  the  lightning,  the  lightning  that 

carries  fire. 
(Antistrophe) 

And  your  unconquered  arrow  shafts,  winged  by  the  golden  corded  bow, 

Lycean  King,  I  beg  to  be  at  our  side  for  help; 

and  the  gleaming  torches  of  Artemis  with  which  she  scours  the  Lycean 
hills, 

and  I  call  on  the  God  with  the  turban  of  gold,  who  gave  his  name  to  this 
country  of  ours, 

the  Bacchic  God  with  the  wine  flushed  face, 

Evian  One,  who  travel 

with  the  Maenad  company, 

combat  the  God  that  burns  us 

with  your  torch  of  pine; 

for  the  God  that  is  our  enemy  is  a  God  unhonoured  among  the  Gods. 
(OEDIPUS  returns) 
OEDIPUS.  For  what  you  ask  me— if  you  will  hear  my  words, 

and  hearing  welcome  them  and  fight  the  plague, 

you  will  find  strength  and  lightening  of  your  load. 

Hark  to  me;  what  I  say  to  you,  I  say 
as  one  that  is  a  stranger  to  the  story 
as  stranger  to  the  deed.  For  I  would  not 
be  far  upon  the  track  if  I  alone 
were  tracing  it  without  a  clue.  But  now, 
since  after  all  was  finished,  I  became 
a  citizen  among  you,  citizens- 
new  I  proclaim  to  all  the  men  of  Thebes: 
who  so  among  you  knows  the  murderer 
by  whose  hand  Laius,  son  of  Labdacus, 
died—I  command  him  to  tell  everything 
to  me,— yes,  though  he  fears  himself  to  take  the  blame 
on  his  own  head;  for  bitter  punishment 
he  shall  have  none,  but  leave  this  land  unharmed. 

OEDIPUS   THE   XING         469 


Or  it  he  knows  the  murderer,  another, 
a  foreigner,  still  let  him  speak  the  truth. 
For  I  will  pay  him  and  be  grateful,  too. 
But  if  you  shall  keep  silence,  if  perhaps 
some  one  of  you,  to  shield  a  guilty  friend, 
or  for  his  own  sake  shall  reject  my  words- 
hear  what  I  shall  do  then: 
I  forbid  that  man,  whoever  he  be,  my  land, 
my  land  where  I  hold  sovereignty  and  throne; 
and  I  forbid  any  to  welcome  him 
or  cry  him  greeting  or  make  him  a  sharer 
in  sacrifice  or  offering  to  the  Gods, 
or  give  him  water  for  his  hands  to  wash. 
I  command  all  to  drive  him  from  their  homes, 
since  he  is  our  pollution,  as  the  oracle 
of  Pytho's  God  proclaimed  him  now  to  me. 
So  I  stand  forth  a  champion  of  the  God 
and  of  the  man  who  died. 
Upon  the  murderer  I  invoke  this  curse— 
whether  he  is  one  man  and  all  unknown, 
or  one  of  many— may  he  wear  out  his  life 
in  misery  to  miserable  dooml 
If  with  my  knowledge  he  lives  at  my  hearth 
I  pray  that  I  myself  may  feel  my  curse. 

Even  were  this  no  matter  of  God's  ordinance 

it  would  not  fit  you  so  to  leave  it  lie, 

unpurified,  since  a  good  man  is  dead 

and  one  that  was  a  king.  Search  it  out. 

Since  I  am  now  the  holder  of  his  office, 

and  have  his  bed  and  wife  that  once  was  his, 

and  had  his  line  not  been  unfortunate 

we  would  have  common  children— (fortune  leaped 

upon  his  head)— because  of  all  these  things, 

I  fight  in  his  defence  as  for  my  father, 

and  I  shall  try  all  means  to  take  the  murderer 

of  Laius  the  son  of  Labdacus 

the  son  of  Polydorus  and  before  him 

of  Cadmus  and  before  him  of  Agenor. 

Those  who  do  not  obey  me,  may  the  Gods 

grant  no  crops  springing  from  the  ground  they  plough 

470        THB  DRAMA 


nor  children  to  their  womenl  May  a  fate 

like  this,  or  one  still  worse  than  this  consume  theml 

For  you  who  these  words  please,  the  other  Thebans, 

may  Justice  as  your  ally  and  all  the  Gods 

live  with  you,  blessing  you  now  and  for  everl 
CHORUS.  As  you  have  held  me  to  my  oath,  I  speak: 

I  neither  killed  the  king  nor  can  declare 

the  killer;  but  since  Phoebus  set  the  quest 

it  is  his  part  to  tell  who  the  man  is. 
OEDIPUS.  Right;  but  to  put  compulsion  on  the  Gods 

against  their  will-no  man  has  strength  for  that, 
CHORUS.  May  I  then  say  what  I  think  second  best? 
OEDIPUS.  If  there's  a  third  best,  too,  spare  not  to  tell  it. 
CHORUS.  I  know  that  what  the  Lord  Teiresias 

sees,  is  most  often  what  the  Lord  Apollo 

sees.  If  you  should  inquire  of  this  from  him 

you  might  find  out  most  clearly. 
OEDIPUS.  Even  in  this  my  actions  have  not  been  sluggard. 

On  Creon's  word  I  have  sent  two  messengers. 

and  why  the  prophet  is  not  here  already 

I  have  been  wondering. 
CHORUS.  His  skill  apart 

there  is  besides  only  an  old  faint  story. 
OEDIPUS.  What  is  it? 

I  seize  on  every  story. 
CHORUS.  It  was  said 

that  he  was  killed  by  certain  wayfarers. 
OEDIPUS.  I  heard  that,  too,  but  no  one  saw  the  killer. 
CHORUS.  Yet  if  he  has  a  share  of  fear  at  all, 

his  courage  will  not  stand  firm,  hearing  your  curse. 
OEDIPUS.  The  man  who  in  the  doing  did  not  shrink 

will  fear  no  word. 
CHORUS.  Here  comes  his  prosecutor: 

led  by  your  men  the  godly  prophet  comes 

in  whom  alone  of  mankind  truth  is  native. 
(Enter  TEIRESIAS,  led  by  a  little  boy) 
OEDIPUS.  Teiresias,  you  are  versed  in  everything, 

things  teachable  and  things  not  to  be  spoken, 

things  of  the  heaven  and  earth-creeping  things. 

You  have  no  eyes  but  in  your  mind  you  know 

with  what  a  plague  our  city  is  afflicted. 


OEDIPUS  THE  XING 


My  lord,  in  you  alone  we  find  a  champion, 

in  you  alone  one  that  can  rescue  us. 

Perhaps  you  have  not  heard  the  messengers, 

but  Phoebus  sent  in  answer  to  our  sending 

an  oracle  declaring  that  our  freedom 

from  this  disease  would  only  come  when  we 

should  learn  the  names  of  those  who  killed  King  Laius, 

and  kill  them  or  expel  from  our  country. 

Do  not  begrudge  us  oracles  from  birds, 

or  any  other  way  of  prophecy 

within  your  skill;  save  yourself  and  the  city, 

save  me;  redeem  the  debt  of  our  pollution 

that  lies  on  us  because  of  this  dead  man. 

We  are  in  your  hands;  it  is  the  finest  task 

to  help  another  when  you  have  means  and  power. 
TEIRESIAS.  Alas,  how  terrible  is  wisdom  when 

it  brings  no  profit  to  the  man  that's  wise! 

This  I  knew  well,  but  had  forgotten  it. 

else  I  would  not  have  come  here. 
OEDIPUS.  What  is  this? 

How  sad  you  are  now  you  have  come! 
TEIRESIAS.  Let  me 

go  home.  It  will  be  easiest  for  us  both 

to  bear  our  several  destinies  to  the  end 

if  you  will  follow  my  advice. 
OEDIPUS.  You'd  rob  us 

of  this  your  gift  of  prophecy?  You  talk 

as  one  who  had  no  care  for  law  nor  love 

for  Thebes  who  reared  you. 
TEIRESIAS.  Yes,  but  I  see  that  even  your  own  words 

miss  the  mark;  therefore  I  must  fear  for  mine. 
OEDIPUS.  For  God's  sake  if  you  know  of  anything, 

do  not  turn  from  us;  all  of  us  kneel  to  you, 

all  of  us  here,  your  suppliants. 
TEIRESIAS.  All  of  you  here  know  nothing.  I  will  not 

bring  to  the  light  of  day  my  troubles,  mine- 
rather  than  call  them  yours. 
OEDIPUS.  What  do  you  mean? 

You  know  of  something  but  refuse  to  speak. 

Would  you  betray  us  and  destroy  the  city? 
TEIRESIAS.  I  will  not  bring  this  pain  upon  us  both, 

472        THE  DRAMA 


neither  on  you  nor  on  myself.  Why  is  it 

you  question  me  and  waste  your  labour?  I 

will  tell  you  nothing. 
OEDIPUS.  You  would  provoke  a  stone!  Tell  us,  you  villain, 

tell  us,  and  do  not  stand  there  quietly 

unmoved  and  balking  at  the  final  issue. 
TEIRESIAS.  You  blame  my  temper  but  you  do  not  see 

your  own  that  lives  within  you;  it  is  me 

you  chide. 
OEDIPUS.  Who  would  not  feel  his  temper  rise 

at  words  like  these  with  which  you  shame  our  city? 
TEIRESIAS.  Of  themselves  things  will  come,  although  I  hide  them 

and  breathe  no  word  of  them, 
OEDIPUS.  Since  they  will  come 

tell  them  to  me. 
TEIRESIAS.  I  will  say  nothing  further. 

Against  this  answer  let  your  temper  rage 

as  wildly  as  you  will. 
OEDIPUS.  Indeed  I  am 

so  angry  I  shall  not  hold  back  a  jot 

of  what  I  think.  For  I  would  have  you  know 

I  think  you  were  complotter  of  the  deed 

and  doer  of  the  deed  save  in  so  far 

as  for  the  actual  killing.  Had  you  had  eyes 

I  would  have  said  alone  you  murdered  him. 
TEIRESIAS.  Yes?  Then  I  warn  you  faithfully  to  keep 

the  letter  of  your  proclamation  and 

from  this  day  forth  to  speak  no  word  of  greeting 

to  these  nor  me;  you  are  the  land's  pollution. 
OEDIPUS.  How  shamelessly  you  started  up  this  tauntl 

How  do  you  think  you  will  escape? 
TEIRESIAS.  I  have. 

I  have  escaped;  the  truth  is  what  I  cherish 

and  that's  my  strength. 
OEDIPUS.  And  who  has  taught  you  truth? 

Not  your  profession  surelyl 
TEIRESIAS.  You  have  taught  me, 

for  you  have  made  me  speak  against  my  will. 
OEDIPUS.  Speak  what?  Tell  me  again  that  I  may  learn  it  better. 
TEIRESIAS.  Did  you  not  understand  before  or  would  you 

provoke  me  into  speaking? 

OEDIPUS  THE  KING        473 


OEDIPUS.  I  did  not  grasp  it, 

not  so  to  call  it  known.  Say  it  again. 
TEIRESIAS.  I  say  you  are  the  murderer  of  the  king 

whose  murderer  you  seek. 
OEDIPUS.  Not  twice  you  shall 

say  calumnies  like  this  and  stay  unpunished. 
TEIRESIAS.  Shall  I  say  more  to  tempt  your  anger  more? 
OEDIPUS.  As  much  as  you  desire;  it  will  be  said 

in  vain. 
TEIRESIAS.  I  say  that  with  those  you  love  best 

you  live  in  foulest  shame  unconsciously 

and  do  not  see  where  you  are  in  calamity. 
OEDIPUS.  Do  you  imagine  you  can  always  talk 

like  this,  and  live  to  laugh  at  it  hereafter? 
TEIRESIAS.  Yes,  if  the  truth  has  anything  of  strength. 
OEDIPUS.  It  has,  but  not  for  you;  it  has  no  strength 

for  you  because  you  are  blind  in  mind  and  ears 

as  well  as  in  your  eyes. 
TEIRESIAS.  You  are  a  poor  wretch 

to  taunt  me  with  the  very  insults  wHich 

every  one  soon  will  heap  upon  yourself. 
OEDIPUS.  Your  life  is  one  long  night  so  that  you  cannot 

hurt  me  or  any  other  who  sees  the  light. 
TEIRESIAS.  It  is  not  fate  that  I  should  be  your  ruin, 

Apollo  is  enough;  it  is  his  care 

to  work  this  out. 
OEDIPUS.  Was  this  your  own  design 

or  Creon's? 
TEIRESIAS.  Creon  is  no  hurt  to  you, 

but  you  are  to  yourself. 
OEDIPUS.  Wealth,  sovereignty  and  skill  outmatching  skill 

for  the  contrivance  of  an  envied  life, 

great  store  of  jealousy  fill  your  treasury  chests, 

if  my  friend  Creon,  friend  from  the  first  and  loyal, 

thus  secretly  attacks  me,  secretly 

desires  to  drive  me  out  and  secretly 

suborns  this  juggling,  trick  devising  quack, 

this  wily  beggar  who  has  only  eyes 

for  his  own  gains,  but  blindness  in  his  skill. 

For,  tell  me,  where  have  you  seen  clear,  Teiresias, 

with  your  prophetic  eyes?  When  the  dark  singer, 

474        THE  DRAMA 


the  sphinx,  was  in  your  country,  did  you  speak 

word  of  deliverance  to  its  citizens? 

And  yet  the  riddle's  answer  was  not  the  province 

of  a  chance  comer.  It  was  a  prophet's  task 

and  plainly  you  had  no  such  gift  of  prophecy 

from  birds  nor  otherwise  from  any  God 

to  glean  a  word  of  knowledge.  But  I  came, 

Oedipus,  who  knew  nothing,  and  I  stopped  her. 

I  solved  the  riddle  by  my  wit  alone. 

Mine  was  no  knowledge  got  from  birds.  And  now 

you  would  expel  me, 

because  you  think  that  you  will  find  a  place 

by  Creon's  throne.  I  think  you  will  be  sorry, 

both  you  and  your  accomplice,  for  your  plot 

to  drive  me  out.  And  did  I  not  regard  you 

as  an  old  man,  some  suffering  would  have  taught  you 

that  what  was  in  your  heart  was  treason. 

CHORUS.  We  look  at  this  man's  words  and  yours,  my  king, 
and  we  find  both  have  spoken  them  in  anger. 
We  need  no  angry  words  but  only  thought 
how  we  may  best  hit  the  God's  meaning  for  us. 

TEIRESIAS.  If  you  are  king,  at  least  I  have  the  right 
no  less  to  speak  in  my  defence  against  you. 
Of  that  much  I  am  master.  I  am  no  slave 
of  yours,  but  Loxias',  and  so  I  shall  not 
enroll  myself  with  Creon  for  my  patron. 
Since  you  have  taunted  me  with  being  blind, 
here  is  my  word  for  you. 
You  have  your  eyes  but  see  not  where  you  are 
in  sin,  nor  where  you  live,  nor  whom  you  live  with. 
Do  you  know  who  your  parents  are?  Unknowing 
you  are  an  enemy  to  kith  and  kin 
in  death,  beneath  the  earth,  and  in  this  life. 
A  deadly  footed,  double-striking  curse, 
from  father  and  mother  both,  shall  drive  you  forth 
out  of  this  land,  with  darkness  on  your  eyes, 
that  now  have  such  straight  vision.  Shall  there  be 
a  place  will  not  be  harbour  to  your  cries, 
a  corner  of  Cithaeron  will  not  ring 
in  echo  to  your  cries,  soon,  soon,— 
when  you  shall  learn  the  secret  of  your  marriage, 


OEDIPUS  THE  KING        475 


which  steered  you  to  a  haven  in  this  house,— 

haven  no  haven,  after  lucky  voyage? 

And  of  the  multitude  of  other  evils 

establishing  a  grim  equality 

between  you  and  your  children,  you  know  nothing. 

So,  muddy  with  contempt  my  words  and  Creon'sl 

there  is  no  man  shall  perish  as  you  shall. 
OEDIPUS.  Is  it  endurable  that  I  should  hear 

such  words  from  him?  Go  and  a  curse  go  with  you! 

Quick,  home  with  you!  Out  of  my  house  at  once! 
TEIRESIAS.  I  would  not  have  come  either  had  you  not  called  me. 
OEDIPUS.  I  did  not  know  then  you  would  talk  like  a  fool— 

or  it  would  have  been  long  before  I  called  you. 
TEIRESIAS.  I  am  a  fool  then,  as  it  seems  to  you— 

but  to  the  parents  who  have  bred  you,  wise. 
OEDIPUS.  What  parents?  Stop!  Who  are  they  of  all  the  world? 
TEIRESIAS.  This  day  will  show  your  birth  and  bring  your  ruin, 
OEDIPUS.  How  needlessly  your  riddles  darken  everything. 
TEIRESIAS.  But  it's  in  riddle  answering  you  are  strongest. 
OEDIPUS.  Yes.  Taunt  me  where  you  will  find  me  great. 
TEIRESIAS.  It  is  this  very  luck  that  has  destroyed  you. 
OEDIPUS.  I  do  not  care,  if  it  has  served  this  city. 
TEIRESIAS.  Well,  I  will  go.  Come,  boy,  lead  me  away. 
OEDIPUS.  Yes,  lead  him  off.  So  long  as  you  are  here, 

you'll  be  a  stumbling  block  and  a  vexation; 

once  gone,  you  will  not  trouble  me  again. 
TEIRESIAS.  I  have  said 

what  I  came  here  to  say  not  fearing  your 

countenance:  there  is  no  way  you  can  hurt  me. 

I  tell  you,  king,  this  man,  this  murderer 

(whom  you  have  long  declared  you  are  in  search  of, 

indicting  him  in  threatening  proclamation 

as  murderer  of  Laius)— he  is  here. 

In  name  he  is  a  stranger  among  citizens 

but  soon  he  will  be  shown  to  be  a  citizen 

true  native  Theban,  and  hell  have  no  joy 

of  the  discovery:  blindness  for  sight 

and  beggary  for  riches  his  exchange, 

he  shall  go  journeying  to  a  foreign  country 

tapping  his  way  before  him  with  a  stick. 

He  shall  be  proved  father  and  brother  both 

476        THE   DRAMA 


to  his  own  children  in  his  house;  to  her 

that  gave  him  birth,  a  son  and  husband  both; 

a  fellow  sower  in  his  father's  bed 

with  that  same  father  that  he  murdered. 

Go  within,  reckon  that  out,  and  if  you  find  me 

mistaken,  say  I  have  no  skill  in  prophecy. 
(Exeunt  separately  TEIRESIAS  and  OEDIPUS) 
CHORUS 
(Strophe) 

Who  is  the  man  proclaimed 

by  Delphi's  prophetic  rock 

as  the  bloody  handed  murderer, 

the  doer  of  deeds  that  none  dare  name? 

Now  is  the  time  for  him  to  run 

with  a  stronger  foot 

than  Pegasus 

for  the  child  of  Zeus  leaps  in  arms  upon  him 

with  fire  and  the  lightning  bolt, 

and  terribly  close  on  his  heels 

are  the  Fates  that  never  miss. 
(Antistrophe) 

Lately  from  snowy  Parnassus 

clearly  the  voice  flashed  forth, 

bidding  each  Theban  track  him  down, 

the  unknown  murderer. 

In  the  savage  forests  he  lurks  and  in 

the  caverns  like 

the  mountain  bull. 

He  is  sad  and  lonely,  and  lonely  his  feet 

that  carry  him  far  from  the  navel  of  earth; 

but  its  prophecies,  ever  living, 

flutter  around  his  head. 
(Strophe) 

The  augur  has  spread  confusion, 

terrible  confusion; 

I  do  not  approve  what  was  said 

nor  can  I  deny  it. 

I  do  not  know  what  to  say; 

I  am  in  a  flutter  of  foreboding; 

I  never  heard  in  the  present 

nor  past  of  a  quarrel  between 


OEDIPUS  THE  KINO       477 


the  sons  of  Labdacus  and  Polybus, 

that  I  might  bring  as  proof 

in  attacking  the  popular  fame 

of  Oedipus,  seeking 

to  take  vengeance  for  undiscovered 

death  in  the  line  of  Labdacus. 
(Antistrophe) 

Truly  Zeus  and  Apollo  are  wise 

and  in  human  things  all  knowing; 

but  amongst  men  there  is  no 

distinct  judgment,  between  the  prophet 

and  me— which  of  us  is  right. 

One  man  may  pass  another  in  wisdom 

but  I  would  never  agree 

with  those  that  find  fault  with  the  king 

till  I  should  see  the  word 

proved  right  beyond  doubt.  For  once 

in  visible  form  the  Sphinx 

came  on  him  and  all  of  us 

saw  his  wisdom  and  in  that  test 

he  saved  the  city.  So  he  will  not  be  condemned  by  my  mind. 
(Enter  CREON) 
CREON.  Citizens,  I  have  come  because  I  heard 

deadly  words  spread  about  me,  that  the  king 

accuses  me.  I  cannot  take  that  from  him. 

If  he  believes  that  in  these  present  troubles 

he  has  been  wronged  by  me  in  word  or  deed 

I  do  not  want  to  live  on  with  the  burden 

of  such  a  scandal  on  me.  The  report 

injures  me  doubly  and  most  vitally— 

for  111  be  called  a  traitor  to  my  city 

and  traitor  also  to  my  friends  and  you. 
CHORUS.  Perhaps  it  was  a  sudden  gust  of  anger 

that  forced  that  insult  from  him,  and  no  judgment. 
CREON.  But  did  he  say  that  it  was  in  compliance 

with  schemes  of  mine  that  the  seer  told  him  lies? 
CHORUS.  Yes,  he  said  that,  but  why,  I  do  not  know. 
CREON.  Were  his  eyes  straight  in  his  head?  Was  his  mind  right 

when  he  accused  me  in  this  fashion? 
CHORUS.  I  do  not  know;  I  have  no  eyes  to  see 

what  princes  do.  Here  comes  the  king  himself. 

478       THE  DRAMA 


(Enter  OEDIPUS) 

OEDIPUS.  You,  sir,  how  is  it  you  come  here?  Have  you  so  much 

brazen-faced  daring  that  you  venture  in 

my  house  although  you  are  proved  manifestly 

the  murder  of  that  man,  and  though  you  tried, 

openly,  highway  robbery  of  my  crown? 

For  God's  sake,  tell  me  what  you  saw  in  me, 

what  cowardice  or  what  stupidity, 

that  made  you  lay  a  plot  like  this  against  me? 

Did  you  imagine  I  should  not  observe 

the  crafty  scheme  that  stole  upon  me  or 

seeing  it,  take  no  means  to  counter  it? 

Was  it  not  stupid  of  you  to  make  the  attempt, 

to  try  to  hunt  down  royal  power  without 

the  people  at  your  back  or  friends?  For  only 

with  the  people  at  your  back  or  money  can 

the  hunt  end  in  the  capture  of  a  crown. 
CREON.  Do  you  know  what  you're  doing?  Will  you  listen 

to  words  to  answer  yours,  and  then  pass  judgment? 
OEDIPUS.  You're  quick  to  speak,  but  I  am  slow  to  grasp  you, 

for  I  have  found  you  dangerous,— and  my  foe. 
CREON.  First  of  all  hear  what  I  shall  say  to  that. 
OEDIPUS.  At  least  don't  tell  me  that  you  are  not  guilty. 
CREON.  If  you  believe  you  cherish  something  fine 

in  obstinacy  without  brains,  you're  wrong. 
OEDIPUS.  And  you  are  wrong  if  you  believe  that  one, 

a  criminal,  will  not  be  punished  only 

because  he  is  my  kinsman. 
CREON.  This  is  but  just 

but  tell  me,  then,  of  what  offense  I'm  guilty? 
OEDIPUS,  Did  you  or  did  you  not  urge  me  to  send 

to  this  prophetic  mumbler? 
CREON.  I  did  indeed, 

and  I  shall  stand  by  what  I  told  you. 
OEDIPUS.  How  long  ago  is  it  since  Laius  .... 
CREON.  What  about  Laius?  I  don't  understand. 
OEDIPUS.  Vanished— died— was  murdered? 
CREON.  It  is  long, 

a  long,  long  time  to  reckon. 
OEDIPUS.  Was  this  prophet 

in  the  profession  then? 

OKDIPU8  THE  KING       4' 


CREON.  He  was,  and  honoured 

as  highly  as  he  is  today. 

OEDIPUS.  At  that  time  did  he  say  a  word  about  me? 
CREON.  Never,  at  least  when  I  was  near  him. 
OEDIPUS.  You  never  made  a  search  for  the  dead  man? 
CREON.  We  searched,  indeed,  but  never  learned  of  anything. 
OEDIPUS.  Why  did  our  wise  old  friend  not  say  this  then? 
CREON.  I  don't  know;  and  when  I  know  nothing,  I 

usually  hold  my  tongue. 
OEDIPUS.  You  know  this  much, 

and  can  declare  this  much  if  you  are  loyal. 
CREON.  What  is  it?  If  I  know  I'll  not  deny  it. 
OEDIPUS.  That  he  would  not  have  said  that  I  killed  Laius 

had  he  not  met  you  first. 
CREON.  You  know  yourself 

whether  he  said  this,  but  I  demand  that  I 

should  hear  as  much  from  you  as  you  from  me. 
OEDIPUS.  Then  hear,— I'll  not  be  proved  a  murderer. 
CREON.  Well,  then.  You're  married  to  my  sister. 
OEDIPUS.  Yes, 

that  I  am  not  disposed  to  deny. 
CREON.  You  rule 

this  country  giving  her  an  equal  share 

in  the  government? 
OEDIPUS.  Yes,  everything  she  wants 

she  has  from  me. 
CREON.  And  I,  as  thirdsman  to  you, 

am  rated  as  the  equal  of  you  two? 

OEDIPUS.  Yes,  and  it's  there  you've  proved  yourself  false  friend. 
CREON.  Not  if  you  will  reflect  on  it  as  I  do. 

Consider,  first,  if  you  think  any  one 

would  choose  to  rule  and  fear  rather  than  rule 

and  sleep  untroubled  by  a  fear  if  power 

were  equal  in  both  cases.  I,  at  least, 

I  was  not  born  with  such  a  frantic  yearning 

to  be  a  king—but  to  do  what  kings  do. 

And  so  it  is  with  every  one  who  has  learned 

wisdom  and  self-control.  As  it  stands  now, 

the  prizes  are  all  mine— and  without  fear. 

But  if  I  were  the  king  myself,  I  must 

do  much  that  went  against  the  grain. 

How  should  despotic  rule  seem  sweeter  to  me 

480        THE   DRAMA 


than  painless  power  and  an  assured  authority? 

I  am  not  so  besotted  yet  that  I 

want  other  honours  than  those  that  come  with  profit. 

Now  every  man's  my  pleasure;  every  man  greets  me; 

now  those  who  are  your  suitors  fawn  on  me,— 

success  for  them  depends  upon  my  favour. 

Why  should  I  let  all  this  go  to  win  that? 

My  mind  would  not  be  traitor  if  it's  wise; 

I  am  no  treason  lover,  of  my  nature, 

nor  would  I  ever  dare  to  join  a  plot. 

Prove  what  I  say.  Go  to  the  oracle 

at  Pytho  and  inquire  about  the  answers, 

if  they  are  as  I  told  you.  For  the  rest, 

if  you  discover  I  laid  any  plot 

together  with  the  seer,  kill  me,  I  say, 

not  only  by  your  vote  but  by  my  own. 

But  do  not  charge  me  on  obscure  opinion 

without  some  proof  to  back  it.  It's  not  just 

lightly  to  count  your  knaves  as  honest  men, 

nor  honest  men  as  knaves.  To  throw  away 

an  honest  friend  is,  as  it  were,  to  throw 

your  life  away,  which  a  man  loves  the  best. 

In  time  you  will  know  all  with  certainty; 

time  is  the  only  test  of  honest  men, 

one  day  is  space  enough  to  know  a  rogue. 
CHORUS.  His  words  are  wise,  king,  if  one  fears  to  fall. 

Those  who  are  quick  of  temper  are  not  safe. 
OEDIPUS.  When  he  that  plots  against  me  secretly 

moves  quickly,  I  must  quickly  counterplot. 

If  I  wait  taking  no  decisive  measure 

his  business  will  be  done,  and  mine  be  spoiled. 
CREON.  What  do  you  want  to  do  then?  Banish  me? 
OEDIPUS.  No,  certainly;  kill  you,  not  banish  you. 
CREON.  I  do  not  think  that  you've  your  wits  about  you. 
OEDIPUS.  For  my  own  interests,  yes. 
CREON.  But  for  mine,  too, 

you  should  think  equally. 
OEDIPUS.  You  are  a  rogue. 

CREON.  Suppose  you  do  not  understand? 
OEDIPUS.  But  yet 

I  must  be  ruler. 
CREON.  Not  if  you  rule  badly. 


OBMFU8  THE  KING        481 


OEDIPUS.  O,  city,  cityl 

CREON.  I  too  have  some  share 

in  the  city;  it  is  not  yours  alone. 
CHORUS.  Stop,  my  lords!  Here— and  in  the  nick  of  time 

I  see  Jocasta  coming  from  the  house; 

with  her  help  lay  the  quarrel  that  now  stirs  you. 
(Enter  JOCASTA) 
JOCASTA.  For  shame!  Why  have  you  raised  this  foolish  squabbling 

brawl?  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  air  your  private 

griefs  when  the  country's  sick?  Go  in,  you,  Oedipus, 

and  you,  too,  Creon,  into  the  house.  Don't  magnify 

your  nothing  troubles. 
CREON.  Sister,  Oedipus, 

your  husband,  thinks  he  has  the  right  to  do 

terrible  wrongs— he  has  but  to  choose  between 

two  terrors:  banishing  or  killing  me. 
OEDIPUS.  He's  right,  Jocasta;  for  I  find  him  plotting 

with  knavish  tricks  against  my  person. 
CREON.  That  God  may  never  bless  me!  May  I  die 

accursed,  if  I  have  been  guilty  of 

one  tittle  of  the  charge  you  bring  against  mel 
JOCASTA.  I  beg  you,  Oedipus,  trust  him  in  this, 

spare  him  for  the  sake  of  this  his  oath  to  God, 

for  my  sake,  and  the  sake  of  those  who  stand  here. 
CHORUS.  Be  gracious,  be  merciful, 

we  beg  of  you. 

OEDIPUS.  In  what  would  you  have  me  yield? 
CHORUS.  He  has  been  no  silly  child  in  the  past 

He  is  strong  in  his  oath  now. 

Spare  him. 

OEDIPUS.  Do  you  know  what  you  ask? 
CHORUS.  Yes. 
OEDIPUS.  Tell  me  then. 
CHORUS.  He  has  been  your  friend  before  all  men's  eyes;  do  not  cast 

him  away  dishonoured  on  an  obscure  conjecture. 
OEDIPUS.  I  would  have  you  know  that  this  request  of  yours 

really  requests  my  death  or  banishment. 
CHORUS.  May  the  Sun  God,  king  of  Gods,  forbid!  May  I  die  without 

God's  blessing,  without  friends'  help,  if  I  had  any  such 

thought.  But  my  spirit  is  broken  by  my  unhappiness  for  my 

wasting  country;  and  this  would  but  add  troubles  amongst 

ourselves  to  the  other  troubles. 


THE   DRAMA 


OEDIPUS.  Well,  let  him  go  then— if  I  must  die  ten  times  for  it, 

or  be  sent  out  dishonoured  into  exile. 

It  is  your  lips  that  prayed  for  him  I  pitied, 

not  his;  wherever  he  is,  I  shall  hate  him. 
CREON.  I  see  you  sulk  in  yielding  and  you're  dangerous 

when  you  are  out  of  temper;  natures  like  yours 

are  justly  heaviest  for  themselves  to  bear. 
OEDIPUS.  Leave  me  alone!  Take  yourself  off,  I  tell  you. 
CREON.  I'll  go,  you  have  not  known  me,  but  they  have, 

and  they  have  known  my  innocence.  (Exit) 
CHORUS.  Won't  you  take  him  inside,  lady? 
JOCASTA.  Yes,  when  IVe  found  out  what  was  the  matter. 
CHORUS.  There  was  some  misconceived  suspicion  of  a  story,  and  on 

the  other  side  the  sting  of  injustice. 
JOCASTA.  So,  on  both  sides? 
CHORUS.  Yes. 

JOCASTA.  What  was  the  story? 
CHORUS.  I  think  it  best,  in  the  interests  of  the  country,  to  leave  it 

where  it  ended. 
OEDIPUS.  You  see  where  you  have  ended,  straight  of  judgment 

although  you  are,  by  softening  my  anger. 
CHORUS.  Sir,  I  have  said  before  and  I  say  again— be  sure  that  I  would 

have  been  proved  a  madman,  bankrupt  in  sane  council,  if  I 

should  put  you  away,  you  who  steered  the  country  I  love 

safely  when  she  was  crazed  with  troubles.  God  grant  that 

now,  too,  you  may  prove  a  fortunate  guide  for  us.  / 
JOCASTA.  Tell  me,  my  lord,  I  beg  of  you,  what  was  it 

that  roused  your  anger  so? 
OEDIPUS.  Yes,  I  will  tell  you. 

I  honour  you  more  than  I  honour  them. 

It  was  Creon  and  the  plots  he  laid  against  me, 
JOCASTA.  Tell  me— if  you  can  clearly  tell  the  quarrel— 
OEDIPUS.  Creon  says 

that  I'm  the  murderer  of  Laius. 
JOCASTA.  Of  his  own  knowledge  or  on  information? 
OEDIPUS.  He  sent  this  rascal  prophet  to  me,  since 

he  keeps  his  own  mouth  clean  of  any  guilt. 
JOCASTA.  Do  not  concern  yourself  about  the  matter; 

listen  to  me  and  learn  that  human  beings 

have  no  part  in  the  craft  of  prophecy. 

Of  that  111  show  you  a  short  proof. 

There  was  an  oracle  once  that  came  to  Laius,— 


483 


I  will  not  say  that  it  was  Phoebus'  own, 

but  it  was  from  his  servants— and  it  told  him 

that  it  was  fate  that  he  should  die  a  victim 

at  the  hands  of  his  own  son,  a  son  to  be  born 

of  Laius  and  me.  But,  see  now,  he, 

the  king,  was  killed  by  foreign  highway  robbers 

at  a  place  where  three  roads  meet— so  goes  the  story; 

and  for  the  son— before  three  days  were  out 

after  his  birth  King  Laius  pierced  his  ankles 

and  by  the  hands  of  others  cast  him  forth 

upon  a  pathless  hillside.  So  Apollo 

failed  to  fulfill  his  oracle  to  the  son, 

that  he  should  kill  his  father,  and  to  Laius 

also  proved  false  in  that  the  thing  he  feared, 

death  at  his  son's  hands,  never  came  to  pass. 

So  clear  in  this  case  were  the  oracles, 

so  clear  and  false.  Give  them  no  heed,  I  say; 

what  God  discovers  need  of,  easily 

he  shows  to  us  himself. 

OEDIPUS.  O  dear  Jocasta, 

as  I  hear  this  from  you,  there  comes  upon  me 
a  wandering  of  the  soul— I  could  run  mad. 

JOCASTA.  What  trouble  is  it,  that  you  turn  again 
and  speak  like  this? 

OEDIPUS.  I  thought  I  heard  you  say 

that  Laius  was  killed  at  a  crossroads. 

JOCASTA.  Yes,  that  was  how  the  story  went  and  still 
that  word  goes  round. 

OEDIPUS.  Where  is  this  place,  Jocasta, 

where  he  was  murdered? 

JOCASTA.  Phocis  is  the  country 

and  the  road  splits  there,  one  of  two  roads  from  Delphi, 
another  comes  from  Daulia. 

OEDIPUS.  How  long  ago  is  this? 

JOCASTA.  The  news  came  to  the  city  just  before 
you  became  king  and  all  men's  eyes  looked  to  you. 
What  is  it,  Oedipus,  that's  in  your  mind? 

OEDIPUS.  Don't  ask  me  yet—tell  me  of  Laius— 
how  did  he  look?  How  old  or  young  was  he? 

JOCASTA.  He  was  a  tall  man  and  his  hair  was  grizzled 
already— nearly  white— and  in  his  form 
not  unlike  you. 


484 


THE  DRAMA 


OEDIPUS.  O  God,  I  think  I  have 

called  curses  on  myself  in  ignorance. 
JOCASTA.  What  do  you  mean?  I  am  terrified 

when  I  look  at  you. 
OEDIPUS.  I  have  a  deadly  fear 

that  the  old  seer  had  eyes.  You'll  show  me  more 

if  you  can  tell  me  one  more  thing. 
JOCASTA.  I  will. 

I'm  frightened,— but  if  I  can  understand, 

I'll  tell  you  all  you  ask. 
OEDIPUS.  How  was  his  company? 

Had  he  few  with  him  when  he  went  this  journey, 

or  many  servants,  as  would  suit  a  prince? 
JOCASTA.  In  all  there  were  but  five,  and  among  them 

a  herald;  and  one  carriage  for  the  king. 
OEDIPUS.  It's  plain— it's  plain— who  was  it  told  you  this? 
JOCASTA.  The  only  servant  that  escaped  safe  home. 
OEDIPUS.  Is  he  at  home  now? 
JOCASTA.  No,  when  he  came  home  again 

and  saw  you  king  and  Laius  was  dead, 

he  came  to  me  and  touched  my  hand  and  begged 

that  I  should  send  him  to  the  fields  to  be 

my  shepherd  and  so  he  might  see  the  city 

as  far  off  as  he  might.  So  I 

sent  him  away.  He  was  an  honest  man, 

as  slaves  go,  and  was  worthy  of  far  more 

than  what  he  asked  of  me. 

OEDIPUS.  O,  how  I  wish  that  he  could  come  back  quicklyl 
JOCASTA.  He  can.  Why  is  your  heart  so  set  on  this? 
OEDIPUS.  O  dear  Jocasta,  I  am  full  of  fears 

that  I  have  spoken  far  too  much;  and  therefore 

I  wish  to  see  this  shepherd. 
JOCASTA.  He  will  come; 

but,  Oedipus,  I  think  I'm  worthy  too 

to  know  what  is  it  that  disquiets  you. 
OEDIPUS.  It  shall  not  be  kept  from  you,  since  my  mind 

has  gone  so  far  with  its  forebodings.  Whom 

should  I  confide  in  rather  than  you,  who  is  there 

of  more  importance  to  me  who  have  passed 

through  such  a  fortune? 

Polybus  was  my  father,  king  of  Corinth, 

and  Merope,  the  Dorian,  my  mother. 


OEDIPUS  THE  KING        485 


I  was  held  greatest  of  the  citizens 

in  Corinth  till  a  curious  chance  befell  me 

as  I  shall  tell  you— curious,  indeed, 

but  hardly  worth  the  store  I  set  upon  it. 

There  was  a  dinner  and  at  it  a  man, 

a  drunken  man,  accused  me  in  his  drink 

of  being  bastard.  I  was  furious 

but  held  my  temper  under  for  that  day. 

Next  day  I  went  and  taxed  my  parents  with  it; 

they  took  the  insult  very  ill  from  him, 

the  drunken  fellow  who  had  uttered  it. 

So  I  was  comforted  for  their  part,  but 

still  this  thing  rankled  always,  for  the  story 

crept  about  widely.  And  I  went  at  last 

To  Pytho,  though  my  parents  did  not  know. 

But  Phoebus  sent  me  home  again  unhonoured 

in  what  I  came  to  learn,  but  he  foretold 

other  and  desperate  horrors  to  befall  me, 

that  I  was  fated  to  lie  with  my  mother, 

and  show  to  daylight  an  accursed  breed 

which  men  would  not  endure,  and  I  was  doomed 

to  be  murderer  of  the  father  that  begot  me. 

When  I  heard  this  I  fled,  and  in  the  days 

that  followed  I  would  measure  from  the  stars 

the  whereabouts  of  Corinth— yes,  I  fled 

to  somewhere  where  I  should  not  see  fulfilled 

the  infamies  told  in  that  dreadful  oracle. 

And  as  I  journeyed  I  came  to  the  place 

where,  as  you  say,  this  king  met  with  his  death. 

Jocasta,  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth. 

When  I  was  near  the  branching  of  the  crossroads, 

going  on  foot,  I  was  encountered  by 

a  herald  and  a  carriage  with  a  man  in  it, 

just  as  you  tell  me.  He  that  led  the  way 

and  the  old  man  himself  wanted  to  thrust  me 

out  of  the  road  by  force.  I  became  angry 

and  struck  the  coachman  who  was  pushing  me. 

When  the  old  man  saw  this  he  watched  his  moment, 

and  as  I  passed  he  struck  me  from  his  carriage, 

full  on  the  head  with  his  two  pointed  goad. 

But  he  was  paid  in  full  and  presently 

486        THE  DRAMA 


my  stick  had  struck  him  backwards  from  the  car 

and  he  rolled  out  of  it.  And  then  I  killed  them 

all.  If  it  happened  there  was  any  tie 

of  kinship  twixt  this  man  and  Laius, 

who  is  then  now  more  miserable  than  I, 

what  man  on  earth  so  hated  by  the  Gods, 

since  neither  citizen  nor  foreigner 

may  welcome  me  at  home  or  even  greet  me, 

but  drive  me  out  of  doors?  And  it  is  I, 

I  and  no  other  have  so  cursed  myself. 

And  I  pollute  the  bed  of  him  I  killed 

by  the  hands  that  killed  him.  Was  I  not  born  evil? 

Am  I  not  utterly  unclean?  I  had  to  fly 

and  in  my  banishment  not  even  see 

my  kindred  nor  set  foot  in  my  own  country, 

or  otherwise  my  fate  was  to  be  yoked 

in  marriage  with  my  mother  and  kill  my  father, 

Polybus  who  begot  me  and  had  reared  me. 

Would  not  one  rightly  judge  and  say  that  on  me 

these  things  were  sent  by  some  malignant  God? 

0  no,  no,  no— O  holy  majesty 

of  God  on  high,  may  I  not  see  that  day! 
May  I  be  gone  out  of  men's  sight  before 

1  see  the  deadly  taint  of  this  disaster 
come  upon  me. 

CHORUS.  Sir,  we  too  fear  these  things.  But  until  you  see  this  man  face 
to  face  and  hear  his  story,  hope. 

OEDIPUS.  Yes,  I  have  just  this  much  of  hope— to  wait  until  the  herds- 
man comes. 

JOCASTA.  And  when  he  comes,  what  do  you  want  with  him? 

OEDIPUS.  I'll  tell  you;  if  I  find  that  his  story  is  the  same  as  yours,  I  at 
least  will  be  clear  of  this  guilt. 

JOCASTA.  Why  what  so  particularly  did  you  learn  from  my  story? 

OEDIPUS.  You  said  that  he  spoke  of  highway  robbers  who  killed  Laius.  Now 
if  he  uses  the  same  number,  it  was  not  I  who  killed  him.  One  man  cannot 
be  the  same  as  many.  But  if  he  speaks  of  a  man  travelling  alone,  then 
clearly  the  burden  of  the  guilt  inclines  towards  me. 

JOCASTA.  Be  sure,  at  least,  that  this  was  how  he  told  the  story.  He  cannot 
unsay  it  now,  for  every  one  in  the  city  heard  it— not  I  alone.  But,  Oedipus, 
even  if  he  diverges  from  what  he  said  then,  he  shall  never  prove  that  the 
murder  of  Laius  squares  rightly  with  the  prophecy— for  Loxias  declared 

OEDIPUS  THE  UNO     487 


that  the  king  should  be  killed  by  his  own  son.  And  that  poor  creature  did 

not  kill  him  surely,— for  he  died  himself  first.  So  as  far  as  prophecy  goes, 

henceforward  I  shall  not  look  to  the  right  hand  or  the  left. 
OEDIPUS.  Right.  But  yet,  send  some  one  for  the  peasant  to  bring  him  here; 

do  not  neglect  it. 
JOCASTA.  I  will  send  quickly.  Now  let  me  go  indoors.  I  will  do  nothing  except 

what  pleases  you.  (Exeunt) 
CHORUS. 
(Strophe) 

May  destiny  ever  find  me 

pious  in  word  and  deed 

prescribed  by  the  laws  that  live  on  high 

laws  begotten  in  the  clear  air  of  heaven, 

whose  only  father  is  Olympus; 

no  mortal  nature  brought  them  to  birth, 

no  forgetfulness  shall  lull  them  to  sleep; 

for  God  is  great  in  them  and  grows  not  old. 
(Antistrophe) 

Insolence  breeds  the  tyrant,  insolence 

if  it  is  glutted  with  a  surfeit,  unseasonable,  unprofitable, 

climbs  to  the  roof-top  and  plunges 

sheer  down  to  the  ruin  that  must  be, 

and  there  its  feet  are  no  service. 

But  I  pray  that  the  God  may  never 

abolish  the  eager  ambition  that  profits  the  state. 

For  I  shall  never  cease  to  hold  the  God  as  our  protector. 
(Strophe) 

If  a  man  walks  with  haughtiness 

of  hand  or  word  and  gives  no  heed 

to  Justice  and  the  shrines  of  Gods 

despises—may  an  evil  doom 

smite  him  for  his  ill-starred  pride  of  heart!— 

if  he  reaps  gains  without  justice 

and  will  not  hold  from  impiety 

and  his  fingers  itch  for  untouchable  things. 

When  such  things  are  done,  what  man  shall  contrive 

to  shield  his  soul  from  the  shafts  of  the  God? 

When  such  deeds  are  held  in  honour, 

why  should  I  honour  the  Gods  in  the  dance? 
(Antistrophe) 

No  longer  to  the  holy  place, 

to  the  navel  of  earth  I'll  go 

488        THE   DRAMA 


to  worship,  nor  to  Abac 

nor  to  Olympia, 

unless  the  oracles  are  proved  to  fit., 

for  all  men's  hands  to  point  at. 

O  Zeus,  if  you  are  rightly  called 

the  sovereign  lord,  all-mastering, 

let  this  not  escape  you  nor  your  ever-living  power! 

The  oracles  concerning  Laius 

are  old  and  dim  and  men  regard  them  not. 

Apollo  is  nowhere  clear  in  honour;  God's  service  perishes. 
(Enter  JOCASTA,  carrying  garlands) 
JOCASTA.  Princes  of  the  land,  I  have  had  the  thought  to  go 

to  the  Gods'  temples,  bringing  in  my  hand 

garlands  and  gifts  of  incense,  as  you  see. 

For  Oedipus  excites  himself  coo  much 

at  every  sort  of  trouble,  not  conjecturing, 

like  a  man  of  sense,  what  will  be  from  what  was, 

but  he  is  always  at  the  speaker's  mercy, 

when  he  speaks  terrors.  I  can  do  no  good 

by  my  advice,  and  so  1  came  as  suppliant 

to  you,  Lycaean  Apollo,  who  are  nearest. 

These  are  the  symbols  of  my  prayer  and  this 

my  prayer:  grant  us  escape  free  of  the  curse. 

Now  when  we  look  to  him  we  are  all  afraid; 

he's  pilot  of  our  ship  and  he  is  frightened. 
(Enter  a  MESSENGER) 
MESSENGER.  Might  I  learn  from  you,  sirs,  where  is  the  house  of  Oedipus? 

Or  best  of  all,  if  you  know,  where  is  the  king  himself? 
CHORUS.  This  is  his  house  and  he  is  within  doors.  This  lady  is  his  wife 

and  mother  of  his  children. 
MESSENGER.  God  bless  you,  lady,  and  God  bless  your  household!  God  bless 

Oedipus'  noble  wife! 
JOCASTA.  God  bless  you,  sir,  for  your  kind  greeting!  What  do  you  want  of 

us  that  you  have  come  here?  What  have  you  to  tell  us? 
MESSENGER.  Good  news,  lady.  Good  for  your  house  and  for  your  husband. 
JOCASTA.  What  is  your  news?  Who  sent  you  to  us? 
MESSENGER.  I  come  from  Corinth  and  the  news  I  bring  will  give  you  pleasure. 

Perhaps  a  little  pain  too. 

JOCASTA.  What  is  this  news  of  double  meaning? 
MESSENGER.  The  people  of  the  Isthmus  will  choose  Oedipus  to  be  their  king. 

That  is  the  rumour  there. 
JOCASTA.  But  isn't  their  king  still  old  Polybus? 

OEDIPUS   THE  KINO        489 


MESSENGER.  No.  He  is  in  his  grave.  Death  has  got  him. 

JOCASTA.  Is  that  the  truth?  Is  Oedipus'  father  dead? 

MESSENGER.  May  I  die  myself  if  it  be  otherwisel 

JOCASTA  (to  a  servant).  Be  quick  and  run  to  the  King  with  the  news.  O 

oracles  of  the  Gods,  where  are  you  now?  It  was  from  this  man  Oedipus 

fled,  lest  he  should  be  his  murderer!  And  now  he  is  dead,  in  the  course  of 

nature,  and  not  killed  by  Oedipus. 
(Enter  OEDIPUS) 

OEDIPUS.  Dearest  Jocasta,  why  have  you  sent  for  me? 
JOCASTA.  Listen  to  this  man  and  when  you  hear  reflect  what  is  the  outcome 

of  the  holy  oracles  of  the  Gods. 
OEDIPUS.  Who  is  he?  What  is  his  message  for  me? 
JOCASTA.  He  is  from  Corinth  and  he  tells  us  that  your  father  Polybus  is  dead 

and  gone. 

OEDIPUS.  What's  this  you  say,  sir?  Tell  me  yourself. 
MESSENGER.  Since  this  is  the  first  matter  you  want  clearly  told:  Polybus 

has  gone  down  to  death.  You  may  be  sure  of  it. 
OEDIPUS.  By  treachery  or  sickness? 
MESSENGER.  A  small  thing  will  put  old  bodies  asleep. 
OEDIPUS.  So  he  died  of  sickness,  it  seems,— poor  old  man! 
MESSENGER.  Yes,  and  of  age— the  long  years  he  had  measured. 
OEDIPUS.  Ha!  Ha!  O  dear  Jocasta,  why  should  one 

look  to  the  Pythian  hearth?  Why  should  one  look 

to  the  birds  screaming  overhead?  They  prophesied 

that  I  should  kill  my  father!  But  he's  dead, 

and  hidden  deep  in  earth,  and  I  stand  here 

who  never  laid  a  hand  on  spear  against  him,— 

unless  perhaps  he  died  of  longing  for  me, 

and  thus  I  am  his  murderer.  But  they, 

the  oracles,  as  they  stand— he's  taken  them 

away  with  him,  they're  dead  as  he  himself  is, 

and  worthless. 

JOCASTA.  That  I  told  you  before  now. 

OEDIPUS.  You  did,  but  I  was  misled  by  my  fear. 
JOCASTA.  Then  lay  no  more  of  them  to  heart,  not  one. 
OEDIPUS.  But  surely  I  must  fear  my  mother's  bed? 
JOCASTA.  Why  should  man  fear  since  chance  is  all  in  all 

for  him,  and  he  can  clearly  foreknow  nothing? 

Best  to  live  lightly,  as  one  can,  unthinkingly, 

As  to  your  mother's  marriage  bed,— don't  fear  it. 

Before  this,  in  dreams  too,  as  well  as  oracles, 

490        THE  DRAMA 


many  a  man  has  lain  with  his  own  mother. 

But  he  to  whom  such  things  are  nothing  bears 

his  life  most  easily. 
OEDIPUS.  All  that  you  say  would  be  said  perfectly 

if  she  were  dead;  but  since  she  lives  I  must 

still  fear,  although  you  talk  so  well,  Jocasta. 
JOCASTA.  Still  in  your  father's  death  there's  light  of  comfort? 
OEDIPUS.  Great  light  of  comfort;  but  I  fear  the  living. 
MESSENGER.  Who  is  the  woman  that  makes  you  afraid? 
OEDIPUS.  Merope,  old  man,  Polybus'  wife. 
MESSENGER.  What  about  her  frightens  the  queen  and  you? 
OEDIPUS.  A  terrible  oracle,  stranger,  from  the  Gods. 
MESSENGER.  Can  it  be  told?  Or  does  the  sacred  law 

forbid  another  to  have  knowledge  of  it? 
OEDIPUS.  O  no!  Once  on  a  time  Loxias  said 

that  I  should  lie  with  my  own  mother  and 

take  on  my  hands  the  blood  of  my  own  father. 

And  so  for  these  long  years  I've  lived  away 

from  Corinth;  it  has  been  to  my  great  happiness; 

but  yet  it's  sweet  to  see  the  face  of  parents. 
MESSENGER.  This  was  the  fear  which  drove  you  out  of  Corinth? 
OEDIPUS.  Old  man,  I  did  not  wish  to  kill  my  father. 
MESSENGER.  Why  should  I  not  free  you  from  this  fear,  sir, 

since  I  have  come  to  you  in  all  goodwill? 
OEDIPUS.  You  would  not  find  me  thankless  if  you  did. 
MESSENGER.  Why,  it  was  just  for  this  I  brought  the  news,— 

to  earn  your  thanks  when  you  had  come  safe  home. 
OEDIPUS.  No,  I  will  never  come  near  my  parents 

MESSENGER.  Son, 

it's  very  plain  you  don't  know  what  you're  doing. 
OEDIPUS.  What  do  you  mean,  old  man?  For  God's  sake,  tell  me. 
MESSENGER.  If  your  homecoming  is  checked  by  fears  like  these. 
OEDIPUS.  Yes,  I'm  afraid  that  Phoebus  may  prove  right. 
MESSENGER.  The  murder  and  the  incest? 
OEDIPUS.  Yes,  old  man; 

that  is  my  constant  terror, 
MESSENGER.  Do  you  know 

that  all  your  fears  are  empty? 
OEDIPUS.  How  is  that, 

if  they  are  father  and  mother  and  I  their  son? 
MESSENGER.  Because  Polybus  was  no  kin  to  you  in  blood. 


491 


OEDIPUS.  What,  was  not  Polybus  my  father? 

MESSENGER.  No  more  than  I  but  just  so  much. 

OEDIPUS.  How  can 

my  father  be  my  father  as  much  as  one 

that's  nothing  to  me? 
MESSENGEH.  Neither  he  nor  I 

begat  you. 

OEDIPUS.  Why  then  did  he  call  me  son? 
MESSENGER.  A  gift  he  took  you  from  these  hands  of  mine. 
OEDIPUS.  Did  he  love  so  much  what  he  took  from  another's  hand? 
MESSENGER.  His  childlessness  before  persuaded  him. 
OEDIPUS.  Was  I  a  child  you  bought  or  found  when  I 

was  given  to  him? 
MESSENGER.  On  Cithaeron's  slopes 

in  the  twisting  thickets  you  were  found. 
OEDIPUS.  And  why 

were  you  a  traveller  in  those  parts? 

MESSENGER.  I  Was 

in  charge  of  mountain  flocks. 
OEDIPUS.  You  were  a  shepherd? 

A  hireling  vagrant? 
MESSENGER.  Yes,  but  at  least  at  that  time 

the  man  that  saved  your  life,  son. 

OEDIPUS.  What  ailed  me  when  you  took  me  in  your  arms? 
MESSENGER.  In  that  your  ankles  should  be  witnesses. 
OEDIPUS.  Why  do  you  speak  of  that  old  pain? 
MESSENGER.  I  loosed  you; 

the  tendons  of  your  feet  were  pierced  and  fettered,— 
OEDIPUS.  My  swaddling  clothes  brought  me  a  rare  disgrace. 
MESSENGER.  So  that  from  this  you're  called  your  present  name. 
OEDIPUS.  Was  this  my  father's  doing  or  my  mother's? 

For  God's  sake,  tell  me. 
MESSENGER.  I  don't  know,  but  he 

who  gave  you  to  me  has  more  knowledge  than  I. 
OEDIPUS.  You  yourself  did  not  find  me  then?  You  took  me 

from  someone  else? 

MESSENGER.  Yes,  from  another  shepherd. 

OEDIPUS.  Who  was  he?  Do  you  know  him  well  enough 

to  tell? 

MESSENGER.  He  was  called  Laius'  man. 
OEDIPUS.  You  mean  the  king  who  reigned  here  in  the  old  days? 

492        THX   DRAM* 


MESSENGER.  Yes,  he  was  that  man's  shepherd. 

OEDIPUS.  Is  he  alive 

still,  so  that  I  could  see  him? 
MESSENGER.  You  who  live  here 

would  know  that  best. 
OEDIPUS.  Do  any  of  you  here 

know  of  this  shepherd  whom  he  speaks  about 

in  town  or  in  the  fields?  Tell  me.  It's  time 

that  this  was  found  out  once  for  all. 
CHORUS.  I  think  he  is  none  other  than  the  peasant 

whom  you  have  sought  to  see  already;  but 

Jocasta  here  can  tell  us  best  of  that. 
OEDIPUS.  Jocasta,  do  you  know  about  this  man 

whom  we  have  sent  for?  Is  he  the  man  he  mentions? 
JOCASTA.  Why  ask  of  whom  he  spoke?  Don't  give  it  heed; 

nor  try  to  keep  in  mind  what  has  been  said. 

It  will  be  wasted  labour. 
OEDIPUS.  With  such  clues 

I  could  not  fail  to  bring  my  birth  to  light. 
JOCASTA.  I  beg  you—do  not  hunt  this  out—I  beg  you, 

if  you  have  any  care  for  your  own  life. 

What  I  am  suffering  is  enough. 
OEDIPUS.  Keep  up 

your  heart,  Jocasta.  Though  I'm  proved  a  slave, 

thrice  slave,  and  though  my  mother  is  thrice  slave, 

you'll  not  be  shown  to  be  of  lowly  lineage. 
JOCASTA.  O  be  persuaded  by  me,  I  entreat  you; 

do  not  do  this. 
OEDIPUS.  I  will  not  be  persuaded  to  let  be 

the  chance  of  finding  out  the  whole  thing  clearly. 
JOCASTA.  It  is  because  I  wish  you  well  that  I 

give  you  this  counsel— and  it's  the  best  counsel. 
OEDIPUS.  Then  the  best  counsel  vexes  me,  and  has 

for  some  while  since. 
JOCASTA.  O  Oedipus,  God  help  you! 

God  keep  you  from  the  knowledge  of  who  you  are! 
OEDIPUS.  Here,  some  one,  go  and  fetch  the  shepherd  for  me; 

and  let  her  find  her  joy  in  her  rich  family! 
JOCASTA.  O  Oedipus,  unhappy  Oedipus! 

that  is  all  I  can  call  you,  and  the  last  thing 

that  I  shall  ever  call  you.  (Exit) 


OEDIPUS  THE   BWO        493 


CHORUS.  Why  has  the  queen  gone,  Oedipus,  in  wild 

grief  rushing  from  us?  I  am  afraid  that  trouble 

will  break  out  of  this  silence. 
OEDIPUS.  Break  out  what  willl  I  at  least  shall  be 

willing  to  see  my  ancestry,  though  humble. 

Perhaps  she  is  ashamed  of  my  low  birth, 

for  she  has  all  a  woman's  high-flown  pride. 

But  I  account  myself  a  child  of  Fortune, 

beneficent  Fortune,  and  I  shall  not  be 

dishonoured.  She's  the  mother  from  whom  I  spring; 

the  months,  my  brothers,  marked  me,  now  as  small, 

and  now  again  as  mighty.  Such  is  my  breeding, 

and  I  shall  never  prove  so  false  to  it, 

as  not  to  find  the  secret  of  my  birth. 
CHORUS. 
(Strophe) 
If  I  am  a  prophet  and  wise  of  heart 

you  shall  not  fail,  Cithaeron, 

by  the  limitless  sky,  you  shall  not!— 

to  know  at  tomorrow's  full  moon 

that  Oedipus  honours  you, 

as  native  to  him  and  mother  and  nurse  at  once; 

and  that  you  are  honoured  in  dancing  by  us,  as  finding  favour  in  sight 
of  our  king. 

Apollo,  to  whom  we  cry,  find  these  things  pleasing! 
(Antistrophe) 

Who  was  it  bore  you,  child?  One  of 

the  long-lived  nymphs  who  lay  with  Pan— 

the  father  who  treads  the  hills? 

Or  was  she  a  bride  of  Loxias,  your  mother?  The  grassy  slopes 

are  all  of  them  dear  to  him.  Or  perhaps  Cyllene's  king 

or  the  Bacchants'  God  that  lives  on  the  tops 

of  the  hills  received  you  a  gift  from  some 

one  of  the  Helicon  Nymphs,  with  whom  he  mostly  plays? 
(Enter  an  OLD  MAN,  led  by  OEDIPUS'  servants) 
OEDIPUS.  If  some  one  like  myself  who  never  met  him 

may  make  a  guess,— I  think  this  is  the  herdsman, 

whom  we  were  seeking.  His  old  age  is  consonant 

with  the  other.  And  besides,  the  men  who  bring  him 

I  recognize  as  my  own  servants.  You 

perhaps  may  better  me  in  knowledge  since 

you've  seen  the  man  before. 

494        THE  DRAMA 


CHORUS.  You  can  be  sure 

1  recognize  him.  For  if  Laius 

had  ever  an  honest  shepherd,  this  was  he. 
OEDIPUS.  You,  sir,  from  Corinth,  I  must  ask  you  first, 

is  this  the  man  you  spoke  of? 
MESSENGER.  This  is  he 

before  your  eyes. 
OEDIPUS.  Old  man,  look  here  at  me 

and  tell  me  what  I  ask  you.  Were  you  ever 

a  servant  of  King  Laius? 

HERDSMAN.  I  Was,— 

no  slave  he  bought  but  reared  in  his  own  house. 
OEDIPUS.  What  did  you  do  as  work?  How  did  you  live? 
HERDSMAN.  Most  of  my  life  was  spent  among  the  flocks. 
OEDIPUS.  In  what  part  of  the  country  did  you  live? 
HERDSMAN.  Cithaeron  and  the  places  near  to  it. 
OEDIPUS.  And  somewhere  there  perhaps  you  knew  this  man? 
HERDSMAN.  What  was  his  occupation?  Who? 
OEDIPUS.  This  man  here, 

have  you  had  any  dealings  with  him? 

HERDSMAN.  No— 

not  such  that  I  can  quickly  call  to  mind. 

MESSENGER.  That  is  no  wonder,  master.  But  I'll  make  him  remember  what 
he  does  not  know.  For  I  know,  that  he  well  knows  the  country  of 
Cithaeron,  how  he  with  two  flocks,  I  with  one  kept  company  for  three 
years— each  year  half  a  year— from  spring  till  autumn  time  and  then  when 
winter  came  I  drove  my  flocks  to  our  fold  home  again  and  he  to  Laius' 
steadings.  Well— am  I  right  or  not  in  what  I  said  we  did? 

HERDSMAN.  You're  right—although  it's  a  long  time  ago. 

MESSENGER.  Do  you  remember  giving  me  a  child 
to  bring  up  as  my  foster  child? 

HERDSMAN.  What's  this? 

Why  do  you  ask  this  question? 

MESSENGER.  Look,  old  man, 

here  he  is— here's  the  man  who  was  that  childl 

HERDSMAN.  Death  take  you!  Won't  you  hold  your  tongue? 

OEDIPUS.  No,  no, 

do  not  find  fault  with  him,  old  man.  Your  words 
are  more  at  fault  than  his. 

HERDSMAN.  O  best  of  masters, 

how  do  I  give  offense? 

OEDIPUS.  When  you  refuse 

OBD1PU8   THE   KING        495 


to  speak  about  the  child  of  whom  he  asks  you. 
HERDSMAN.  He  speaks  out  of  his  ignorance,  without  meaning. 
OEDIPUS.  If  you'll  not  talk  to  gratify  me,  you 

will  talk  with  pain  to  urge  you. 
HERDSMAN.  O  please,  sir, 

don't  hurt  an  old  man,  sir. 
OEDIPUS  (to  the  SERVANTS).  Here,  one  of  you, 

twist  his  hands  behind  him. 
HERDSMAN.  Why,  God  help  me,  why? 

What  do  you  want  to  know? 
OEDIPUS.  You  gave  a  child 

to  him,— the  child  he  asked  you  of? 

HERDSMAN.  I  did. 

I  wish  I'd  died  the  day  I  did. 
OEDIPUS.  You  will 

unless  you  tell  me  truly. 
HERDSMAN.  And  I'll  die 

far  worse  if  I  should  tell  you. 
OEDIPUS.  This  fellow 

is  bent  on  more  delays,  as  it  would  seem. 
HERDSMAN.  O  no,  no!  I  have  told  you  that  I  gave  it. 
OEDIPUS.  Where  did  you  get  this  child  from?  Was  it  your  own 

or  did  you  get  it  from  another? 

HERDSMAN.  Not 

my  own  at  all;  I  had  it  from  some  one. 
OEDIPUS.  One  of  these  citizens?  or  from  what  house? 
HERDSMAN.  O  master,  please—I  beg  of  you,  master,  please 

don't  ask  me  more. 
OEDIPUS.  You're  *a  dead  man  if  I 

ask  you  again. 
HERDSMAN.  It  was  one  of  the  children 

of  Laius. 

OEDIPUS.  A  slave?  Or  born  in  wedlock? 
HERDSMAN.  O  God,  I  am  on  the  brink  of  frightful  speech. 
OEDIPUS.  And  I  of  frightful  hearing.  But  I  must  hear. 
HERDSMAN.  The  child  was  called  his  child;  but  she  within, 

your  wife  would  tell  you  best  how  all  this  was. 
OEDIPUS.  She  gave  it  to  you? 

HERDSMAN.  Yes,  she  did,  my  lord. 

OEDIPUS.  To  do  what  with  it? 
HERDSMAN.  Make  away  with  it. 

496        THE  DRAMA 


OEDIPUS.  She  was  so  hard— its  mother? 

HERDSMAN.  Aye,  through  fear 

of  evil  oracles. 
OEDIPUS.  Which? 

HERDSMAN.  They  said  that  he 

should  kill  his  parents. 
OEDIPUS.  How  was  it  that  you 

gave  it  away  to  this  old  man? 
HERDSMAN.  O  master, 

I  pitied  it,  and  thought  that  I  could  send  it 

off  to  another  country  and  this  man 

was  from  another  country.  But  he  saved  it 

for  the  most  terrible  troubles.  It  you  are 

the  man  he  says  you  are,  you're  bred  to  misery. 
OEDIPUS.  O,  O,  O,  they  will  all  come, 

all  come  out  clearly!  Light  of  the  sun,  let  me 

look  upon  you  no  more  after  todayl 

I  who  first  saw  the  light  bred  of  a  match 

accursed,  and  accursed  in  my  living 

with  them  I  lived  with,  cursed  in  my  killing. 
(Exeunt  all  but  the  CHORUS) 
CHORUS. 
(Strophe) 

g)  generations  of  men,  how  I 

count_you  as  equal  with  those  who  live 

not  at^  all! 

whaFman,  what  man  on  earth  wins  more 

of  happiness  than  a  seeming 

and  after  that  turning  away? 

Oedipus,  you  are  my  pattern  of  this, 

Oedipus,  you  and  your  fate! 

Luckless  Oedipus,  whom  of  all  men 

I  envy  not  at  all. 
Antistrophe) 

In  as  much  as  he  shot  his  bolt 

beyond  the  others  and  won  the  prize 

of  happiness  complete— 

0  Zeus—and  killed  and  reduced  to  nought 

the  hooked  taloned  maid  of  the  riddling  speech, 

standing  a  tower  against  death  for  my  land: 

hence  he  was  called  my  king  and  hence 


OEDIPUS   THE   KING        497 


was  honoured  the  highest  of  all 

honours;  and  hence  he  ruled 

in  the  great  city  of  Thebes. 
(Strophe) 

But  now  whose  tale  is  more  miserable? 

Who  is  there  lives  with  a  savager  fate? 

Whose  troubles  so  reverse  his  life  as  his? 

O  Oedipus,  the  famous  prince 

for  whom  a  great  haven 

the  same  both  as  father  and  son 

sufficed  for  generation, 

how,  O  how,  have  the  furrows  ploughed 

by  your  father  endured  to  bear  you,  poor  wretch, 

and  hold  their  peace  so  long? 
(Antistrophe) 

Time  who  sees  all  has  found  you  out 

against  your  will;  judges  your  marriage  accursed, 

begetter  and  begot  at  one  in  it. 

0  child  of  Laius, 

would  I  had  never  seen  you, 

1  weep  for  you  and  cry 
a  dirge  of  lamentation. 

To  speak  directly,  I  drew  my  breath 

from  you  at  the  first  and  so  now  I  lull 

my  mouth  to  sleep  with  your  name. 
(Enter  a  SECOND  MESSENGER,) 
SECOND  MESSENGER.  O  Princes  always  honoured  by  our  country, 

what  deeds  you'll  hear  of  and  what  horrors  see 

what  grief  you'll  feel,  if  you  as  true  born  Thebans 

care  for  the  house  of  Labdacus's  sons. 

Phasis  nor  Ister  cannot  purge  this  house, 

I  think,  with  all  their  streams,  such  things 

it  hides,  such  evils  shortly  will  bring  forth 

into  the  light,  whether  they  will  or  not; 

and  troubles  hurt  the  most 

when  they  prove  self-inflicted. 
CHORUS.  What  we  had  known  before  did  not  fall  short 

of  bitter  groaning's  worth;  what's  more  to  tell? 
SECOND  MESSENGER.  Shortest  to  hear  and  tell— our  glorious  queen 

Jocasta's  dead. 

498         THE    DRAMA 


CHORUS.  Unhappy  woman!   How? 

SECOND  MESSENGER.  By  her  own  hand.  The  worst  of  what  was  done 

you  cannot  know.  You  did  not  see  the  sight. 

Yet  in  so  far  as  I  remember  it 

you'll  hear  the  end  of  our  unlucky  queen. 

When  she  came  raging  into  the  house  she  went 

straight  to  her  marriage  bed,  tearing  her  hair 

with  both  her  hands,  and  crying  upon  Laius 

long  dead— Do  you  remember,  Laius, 

that  night  long  past  which  bred  a  child  for  us 

to  send  you  to  your  death  and  leave 

a  mother  making  children  with  her  son? 

And  then  she  groaned  and  cursed  the  bed  in  which 

she  brought  forth  husband  by  her  husband,  children 

by  her  own  child,  an  infamous  double  bond. 

How  after  that  she  died  I  do  not  know,— 

for  Oedipus  distracted  us  from  seeing. 

He  burst  upon  us  shouting  and  we  looked 

to  him  as  he  paced  frantically  around, 

begging  us  always:  Give  me  a  sword,  I  say, 

to  find  this  wife  no  wife,  this  mother's  womb, 

this  field  of  double  sowing  whence  I  sprang 

and  where  I  sowed  my  children!  As  he  raved 

some  god  showed  him  the  way— none  of  us  there. 

Bellowing  terribly  and  led  by  some 

invisible  guide  he  rushed  on  the  two  doors,— 

wrenching  the  hollow  bolts  out  of  their  sockets, 

he  charged  inside.  There,  there,  we  saw  his  wife 

hanging,  the  twisted  rope  around  her  neck. 

When  he  saw  her,  he  cried  out  fearfully 

and  cut  the  dangling  noose.  Then,  as  she  lay, 

poor  woman,  on  the  ground,  what  happened  after, 

was  terrible  to  see.  He  tore  the  brooches— 

the  gold  chased  brooches  fastening  her  robe- 
away  from  her  and  lifting  them  up  high 

dashed  them  on  his  own  eyeballs,  shrieking  out 

such  things  as:  they  will  never  see  the  crime 

I  have  committed  or  had  done  upon  me! 

Dark  eyes,  now  in  the  days  to  come  look  on 

forbidden  faces,  do  not  recognize 

those  whom  you  long  for— with  such  imprecations 

he  struck  his  eyes  again  and  yet  again 

OEDIPUS  THE  KING        499 


\sdth  the  brooches.  And  the  bleeding  eyeballs  gushed 
and  stained  his  beard— no  sluggish  oozing  drops 
but  a  black  rain  and  bloody  hail  poured  down. 

So  it  has  broken— and  not  on  one  head 
but  troubles  mixed  for  husband  and  for  wife. 
The  fortune  of  the  days  gone  by  was  true 
good  fortune— but  today  groans  and  destruction 
and  death  and  shame— of  all  ills  can  be  named 
not  one  is  missing. 
CHOBUS.  Is  he  now  in  any  ease  from  pain? 

SECOND  MESSENGER.  He  shouts 

for  some  one  to  unbar  the  doors  and  show  him 

to  all  the  men  of  Thebes,  his  father's  killer, 

his  mother's— no  I  cannot  say  the  word, 

it  is  unholy— for  he'll  cast  himself, 

out  of  the  land,  he  says,  and  not  remain 

to  bring  a  curse  upon  his  house,  the  curse 

he  called  upon  it  in  his  proclamation.  But 

he  wants  for  strength,  aye,  and  some  one  to  guide  him; 

his  sickness  is  too  great  to  bear.  You,  too, 

will  be  shown  that.  The  bolts  are  opening. 

Soon  you  will  see  a  sight  to  waken  pity 

even  in  the  horror  of  it. 
(Enter  the  blinded  OEDIPUS) 
CHORUS.  This  is  a  terrible  sight  for  men  to  seel 

I  never  found  a  worse! 

Poor  wretch,  what  madness  came  upon  you! 

What  evil  spirit  leaped  upon  your  life 

to  your  ill-luck— a  leap  beyond  man's  strength! 

Indeed  I  pity  you,  but  I  cannot 

look  at  you,  though  there's  much  I  want  to  ask 

and  much  to  learn  and  much  to  see. 

I  shudder  at  the  sight  of  you. 
OEDIPUS.  O,  O, 

where  am  I  going?  Where  is  my  voice 

borne  on  the  wind  to  and  fro? 

Spirit,  how  far  have  you  sprung? 
CHORUS.  To  a  terrible  place  whereof  men's  ears 

may  not  hear,  nor  their  eyes  behold  it. 


500 


THE   DRAMA 


OEDIPUS.  Darkness! 

Horror  of  darkness  enfolding,  resistless,  unspeakable  visitant  sped  by  an 
ill  wind  in  haste! 

madness  and  stabbing  pain  and  memory 

of  evil  deeds  I  have  done! 
CHORUS.  In  such  misfortunes  it's  no  wonder 

if  double  weighs  the  burden  of  your  grief. 
OEDIPUS.  My  friend, 

you  are  the  only  one  steadfast,  the  only  one  that  attends  on  me; 

you  still  stay  nursing  the  blind  man. 

Your  care  is  not  unnoticed.  I  can  know 

your  voice,  although  this  darkness  is  my  world. 
CHORUS.  Doer  of  dreadful  deeds,  how  did  you  dare 

so  far  to  do  despite  to  your  own  eyes? 

what  spirit  urged  you  to  it? 
OEDIPUS.  It  was  Apollo,  friends,  Apollo, 

that  brought  this  bitter  bitterness,  my  sorrows  to  completion. 

But  the  hand  that  struck  me 

was  none  but  my  own. 

Why  should  I  see 

whose  vision  showed  me  nothing  sweet  to  see? 
CHORUS.  These  things  are  as  you  say. 
OEDIPUS.  What  can  I  see  to  love? 

What  greeting  can  touch  my  ears  with  joy? 

Take  me  away,  and  haste— to  a  place  out  of  the  wayl 

Take  me  away,  my  friends,  the  greatly  miserable, 

the  most  accursed,  whom  God  too  hates 

above  all  men  on  earth! 
CHORUS.  Unhappy  in  your  mind  and  your  misfortune, 

would  I  had  never  known  you! 
OEDIPUS.  Curse  on  the  man  who  took 

the  cruel  bonds  from  off  my  legs,  as  I  lay  in  the  field. 

He  stole  me  from  death  and  saved  me, 

no  kindly  service. 

Had  I  died  then 

I  would  not  be  so  burdensome  to  friends. 
CHORUS.  I,  too,  could  have  wished  it  had  been  so. 
OEDIPUS.  Then  I  would  not  have  come 

to  kill  my  father  and  marry  my  mother  infamously. 

Now  I  am  godless  and  child  of  impurity, 

OEDIPUS   THE  KING        501 


begetter  in  the  same  seed  that  created  my  wretched  self. 

If  there  is  any  ill  worse  than  ill, 

that  is  the  lot  of  Oedipus. 
CHORUS.  I  cannot  say  your  remedy  was  good; 

you  would  be  better  dead  than  blind  and  living. 
OEDIPUS.  What  I  have  done  here  was  best  done— don't  tell  me 

otherwise,  do  not  give  me  further  counsel. 

I  do  not  know  with  what  eyes  I  could  look 

upon  my  father  when  I  die  and  go 

under  the  earth,  nor  yet  my  wretched  mother— 

those  two  to  whom  I  have  done  things  deserving 

worse  punishment  than  hanging.  Would  the  sight 

of  children,  bred  as  mine  are,  gladden  me? 

No,  not  these  eyes,  never.  And  my  city, 

its  towers  and  sacred  places  of  the  Gods, 

of  these  I  robbed  my  miserable  self 

when  I  commanded  all  to  drive  him  out, 

the  criminal  since  proved  by  God  impure 

and  of  the  race  of  Laius. 

To  this  guilt  I  bore  witness  against  myself— 

with  what  eyes  shall  I  look  upon  my  people? 

No.  If  there  were  a  means  to  choke  the  fountain 

of  hearing  I  would  not  have  stayed  my  hand 

from  locking  up  my  miserable  carcase, 

seeing  and  hearing  nothing;  it  is  sweet 

to  keep  our  thoughts  out  of  the  range  of  hurt. 

Cithaeron,  why  did  you  receive  me?  why 
having  received  me  did  you  not  kill  me  straight? 
And  so  I  had  not  shown  to  men  my  birth. 

O  Polybus  and  Corinth  and  the  house, 
the  old  house  that  I  used  to  call  my  father's— 
what  fairness  you  were  nurse  to,  and  what  foulness 
festered  beneathl  Now  I  am  found  to  be 
a  sinner  and  a  son  of  sinners.  Crossroads, 
and  hidden  glade,  oak  and  the  narrow  way 
at  the  crossroads,  that  drank  my  father's  blood 
offered  you  by  my  hands,  do  you  remember 
still  what  I  did  as  you  looked  on,  and  what 

502        THE  DRAMA 


I  did  when  I  came  here?  O  marriage,  marriagel 
you  bred  me  and  again  when  you  had  bred 
bred  children  of  your  child  and  showed  to  men 
brides,  wives  and  mothers  and  the  foulest  deeds 
that  can  be  in  this  world  of  ours. 

Come— it's  unfit  to  say  what  is  unfit 

to  do.— I  beg  of  you  in  God's  name  hide  me 

somewhere  outside  your  country,  yes,  or  kill  me, 

or  throw  me  into  the  sea,  to  be  forever 

out  of  your  sight.  Approach  and  deign  to  touch  me 

for  all  my  wretchedness,  and  do  not  fear. 

No  man  but  I  can  bear  my  evil  doom. 

CHORUS.  Here  Creon  comes  in  fit  time  to  perform 
or  give  advice  in  what  you  ask  of  us. 
Creon  is  left  sole  ruler  in  your  stead. 

OEDIPUS.  Creon!  Creon!  What  shall  I  say  to  him? 
How  can  I  justly  hope  that  he  will  trust  me? 
In  what  is  past  I  have  been  proved  towards  him 
an  utter  liar. 

(Enter  CREON,) 

CREON.  Oedipus,  I've  come 

not  so  that  I  might  laugh  at  you  nor  taunt  you 
with  evil  of  the  past.  But  if  you  still 
are  without  shame  before  the  face  of  men 
reverence  at  least  the  flame  that  gives  all  life, 
our  Lord  the  Sun,  and  do  not  show  unveiled 
to  him  pollution  such  that  neither  land 
nor  holy  rain  nor  light  of  day  can  welcome. 

(To  a  SERVANT)  Be  quick  and  take  him  in.  It  is  most  decent 
that  only  kin  should  see  and  hear  the  troubles 
of  kin. 

OEDIPUS.  I  beg  you,  since  youVe  torn  me  from 
my  dreadful  expectations  and  have  come 
in  a  most  noble  spirit  to  a  man 
that  has  used  you  vilely— do  a  thing  for  me. 
I  shall  speak  for  your  own  good,  not  for  my  own. 

CREON.  What  do  you  need  that  you  would  ask  of  me? 

OEDIPUS.  Drive  me  from  here  with  all  the  speed  you  can 
to  where  I  may  not  hear  a  human  voice. 


OEDIPUS   THE  KING        503 


CREON.  Be  sure,  I  would  have  done  this  had  not  I 
•wished  first  of  all  to  learn  from  God  the  course 
of  action  I  should  follow. 

OEDIPUS.  But  his  word 

has  been  quite  clear  to  let  the  parricide, 
the  sinner,  die. 

CREON.  Yes,  that  indeed  was  said. 

But  in  the  present  need  we  had  best  discover 
what  we  should  do. 

OEDIPUS.  And  will  you  ask  about 

a  man  so  wretched? 

CREON.  Now  even  you  will  trust 

the  God. 

OEDIPUS.  So.  I  command  you — and  will  beseech  you — 
to  her  that  lies  inside  that  house  give  burial 
as  you  would  have  it;  she  is  yours  and  rightly 
you  will  perform  the  rites  for  her.  For  me — 
never  let  this  my  father's  city  have  me 
living  a  dweller  in  it.  Leave  me  live 
in  the  mountains  where  Cithaeron  is,  that's  called 
my  mountain,  which  my  mother  and  my  father 
while  they  were  living  would  have  made  my  tomb. 
So  I  may  die  by  their  decree  who  sought 
indeed  to  kill  me.  Yet  I  know  this  much: 
no  sickness  and  no  other  thing  will  kill  me. 
I  would  not  have  been  saved  from  death  if  not 
for  some  strange  evil  fate.  Well,  let  my  fate 
go  where  it  will. 

Creoii,  you  need  not  care 
about  my  sons;  they're  men  and  so  wherever 
they  are,  they  will  not  lack  a  livelihood. 
But  my  two  girls — so  sad  and  pitiful — 
whose  table  never  stood  apart  from  mine, 
and  everything  I  touched  they  always  shared— 

0  Creon,  have  a  thought  for  them!  And  most 

1  wish  that  you  might  suffer  me  to  touch  them 
and  sorrow  with  them. 

(Enter  ANTIGONE  and  ISMENE,  OEDIPUS*  two  daughters) 
O  my  lord!  O  true  noble  Creon!  Can  I 
really  be  touching  them,  as  when  I  saw? 
What  shall  I  say? 

504         THE    DRAMA 


Yes,  I  can  hear  them  sobbing— my  two  darlings! 
and  Creon  has  had  pity  and  has  sent  me 
what  I  loved  most? 
Am  I  right? 

CREON.  You're  right:  it  was  I  gave  you  this 
because  I  knew  from  old  days  how  you  loved  them 
as  I  see  now. 

OEDIPUS.  God  bless  you  for  it,  Creon, 
and  may  God  guard  you  better  on  your  road 
than  he  did  me! 

O  children, 

where  are  you?  Come  here,  come  to  my  hands, 
a  brother's  hands  which  turned  your  father's  eyes, 
those  bright  eyes  you  knew  once,  to  what  you  see, 
a  father  seeing  nothing,  knowing  nothing, 
begetting  you  from  his  own  source  of  life, 
I  weep  for  you—I  cannot  see  your  faces— 
I  weep  when  I  think  of  the  bitterness 
there  will  be  in  your  lives,  how  you  must  live 
before  the  world.  At  what  assemblages 
of  citizens  will  you  make  one?  to  what 
gay  company  will  you  go  and  not  come  home 
in  tears  instead  of  sharing  in  the  holiday? 
And  when  you're  ripe  for  marriage,  who  will  he  be, 
the  man  who'll  risk  to  take  such  infamy 
as  shall  cling  to  my  children,  to  bring  hurt 
on  them  and  those  that  marry  with  them?  What 
curse  is  not  there?  "Your  father  killed  his  father 
and  sowed  the  seed  where  he  had  sprung  himself 
and  begot  you  out  of  the  womb  that  held  him." 
These  insults  you  will  hear.  Then  who  will  marry  you? 
No  one,  my  children;  clearly  you  are  doomed 
to  waste  away  in  barrenness  unmarried. 
Son  of  Menoeceus,  since  you  are  all  the  father 
left  these  two  girls,  and  we,  their  parents,  both 
are  dead  to  them— do  not  allow  them  wander 
like  beggars,  poor  and  husbandless. 
They  are  of  your  own  blood. 
And  do  not  make  them  equal  with  myself 
in  wretchedness;  for  you  can  see  them  now 
so  young,  so  utterly  alone,  save  for  you  only. 


OEDIPUS  THE  KING        505 


Touch  my  hand,  noble  Creon,  and  say  yes. 
If  you  were  older,  children,  and  were  wiser, 
there's  much  advice  I'd  give  you.  But  as  it  is, 
let  this  be  what  you  pray:  give  me  a  life 
wherever  there  is  opportunity 
to  live,  and  better  Ufe  than  was  my  father's. 

CREON.  Your  tears  have  had  enough  of  scope;  now  go  within  the 
house. 

OEDIPUS.  I  must  obey,  though  bitter  of  heart. 

CREON.  In  season,  all  is  good. 

OEDIPUS.  Do  you  know  on  what  conditions  I  obey? 

CREON.  You  tell  me  them, 

and  I  shall  know  them  when  I  hear. 

OEDIPUS.  That  you  shall  send  me  out 

to  live  away  from  Thebes. 

CREON.  That  gift  you  must  ask  of  the  God. 

OEDIPUS.  But  I'm  now  hated  by  the  Gods. 

CREON.  So  quickly  you'll  obtain  your  prayer. 

OEDIPUS.  You  consent  then? 

CREON.  What  I  do  not  mean,  I  do  not  use  to  say. 

OEDIPUS.  Now  lead  me  away  from  here. 

CREON.  Let  go  the  children,  then,  and  come. 

OEDIPUS.  Do  not  take  them  from  me. 

CREON.  Do  not  seek  to  be  master  in  everything, 

for  the  things  you  mastered  did  not  follow  you  throughout  your  life. 

(As  CREON  and  OEDIPUS  go  out) 

CHORUS.  You  that  live  in  my  ancestral  Thebes,  behold  this  Oedipus,— 
him  who  knew  the  famous  riddles  and  was  a  man  most  masterful; 
not  a  citizen  who  did  not  look  with  envy  on  his  lot- 
See  him  now  and  see  the  breakers  of  misfortune  swallow  himl 
Look  upon  that  last  day  always.  Count  no  mortal  happy  till 
he  has  passed  the  final  limit  of  his  life  secure  from  pain. 


506 


THE  DRAMA 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE 


Macbeth 


«<§§  The  Elizabethan  theater,  in  which 
the  plays  of  Shakespeare  and  his  great 
contemporaries  were  produced,  con- 
trasted  strikingly  with  the  Greek  thea- 
ter. A  reason  for  this  was  that  the  clas- 
sic tradition,  which  might  have  related 
the  ancient  amphitheaters  to  the  Lon- 
don playhouses,  had  been  broken,  and 
the  English  theater  as  an  institution 
had  evolved  from  its  own  beginnings 
and  in  its  independent  way.  The  Thea- 
tre, the  first  permanent  playhouse  built 
in  or  near  London,  was  set  up  in  1576. 
As  a  structure  it  followed  the  patterns 
of  the  innyards  in  which  during  recent 
times  dramatic  works  had  been  per- 
formed: it  was  unroofed;  its  pit  recalled 
an  innyard,  its  galleries  the  porches  of 
an  inn  from  which  performances  had 
been  watched;  and  its  stage  was  like 
the  temporary  platforms  with  dressing 
rooms  behind  them  which  had  been  im- 
provised, as  it  were,  for  innyard  pro- 
ductions. 

In  1599,  because  of  trouble  about 
the  lease  of  the  land  on  which  the 
Theatre  stood,  the  sons  of  its  builder 
tore  down  the  structure  and,  using  its 
old  materials,  rebuilt  it  on  a  new  site 
on  the  Southwark  side  of  the  Thames. 
Shakespeare  had  a  financial  interest  in 
the  rebuilt  and  refurbished  structure, 
the  famous  Globe  Theatre.  Here,  like 
others  of  his  masterpieces,  Macbeth  was 
first  presented  to  the  public;  the  date 
was  probably  1606. 

Though  it  was  considered  the  hand- 
somest theater  in  London,  the  Globe, 
architecturally,  probably  was  not  pre- 
possessing. The  plain  wooden  and  plas- 
ter walls  of  the  circular  structure  were 
dotted  with  playbills  and  topped  with  a 
rough  thatch,  and  experts  guess  that  be- 


cause of  its  small  height,  the  building 
must  have  been  rather  heavy  and  thick 
in  appearance.  From  the  river  stairs 
opposite  Old  St.  Paul's,  however,  Lon- 
doners could  look  to  the  top  of  its  tur- 
ret and  see  whether  a  flag  was  unfurled 
to  announce  that  a  performance  was  to 
be  given  that  afternoon.  Playgoers  were 
carried  by  boat  across  the  Thames  to 
the  Bankside. 

A  typical  audience  was  likely  to  be 
a  heterogeneous  assemblage  ranging 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  ranks. 
Ben  Jonson  spoke  of  the  audience  as 

Composed  of  gamester,  captain,  knight, 

knight's  man, 
Lady  or  pucelle,  that  wears  mask  or 

fan, 

Velvet  or  taffeta  cap,  rank'd  in  the  dark, 
With  the  shop's  foreman,  or  some  such 

brave  spark.  .  .  . 

"Groundlings"  paid  a  penny  for  stand- 
ing space  in  the  pit;  others  paid  a 
higher  price— sometimes  as  high  as  half 
a  crown— for  comfortable  cushioned 
seats  in  the  three  tiers  of  galleries  or 
for  stools  on  the  stage.  Such  an  audi- 
ence, if  it  was  to  be  pleased,  had  to  be 
given  a  variety  of  fare.  As  Professor 
Holzknecht  says,  "Some  in  that  assembly 
expected  philosophical  speculation,  some 
wanted  rough-and-tumble  comedy, 
some  liked  music  and  dancing,  some 
loved  a  good  knockabout  fight  with 
plenty  of  sword-play,  some  made  sure 
that  the  play  had  a  clown  in  it  before 
they  paid  the  admission  price,  many 
were  incapable  of  enjoying  anything 
but  inexplicable  dumb-shows  and  noise, 
and  some  were  for  a  jig  or  a  tale  of 
bawdry  or  they  slept.  In  the  modern 


MACBETH        507 


theater,  separate  types  of  entertainment 
cater  to  this  variety  of  tastes.  Hamlet 
and  Romeo  and  Juliet  supplied  them 
all" 

So,  one  might  add,  did  Macbeth. 
Royalty  and  the  nobles  enjoyed  the 
compliments  paid  in  the  play  to  King 
James  and  his  ancestors.  ( There  is  some 
evidence  that  the  drama  was  presented 
—perhaps  even  first  presented— at  court.) 
Intellectuals  must  have  found  the  char- 
acterization, the  philosophical  speeches, 
and  the  poetic  lines  appealing.  Though 
the  play  had  no  clown,  those  who  liked 
broad  comedy  at  least  had  the  drunken 
porter  to  amuse  them;  and  the  witches, 
the  apparitions,  and  the  scenes  of  physi- 
cal conflict  were  such  'stuff  as  the 
groundlings  are  believed  to  have  found 
delightful.  One  sign  of  Shakespeare's 
marvelous  skill  was  the  way  he  amalga- 
mated such  varied  elements  into  a  mean- 
ingful and  well-wrought  play. 

The  theater  as  well  as  the  audience 
was  likely  to  shape  any  Elizabethan 
play.  One  must  remember  that  the  al- 
cove or  picture  stage  of  modern  times 
was  jar  in  the  future.  The  main  Eliza- 
bethan stage  was  a  rectangular  or 
wedge-shaped  platform,  probably  about 
43  feet  in  greatest  width  and  25  feet 
on  a  side,  which  jutted  out  into  the 
circular  pit.  In  addition,  there  were  a 
lower  inner  stage  (probably  about  23 
feet  by  eight  feet)  directly  back  of  this 
platform,  and  an  upper  inner  stage  at 
the  same  height  as  the  second  gallery. 
Unlike  the  platform,  or  "outer"  stage, 
the  latter  stages  could  be  shut  off  by 
a  curtain  or  tapestry  when  not  in  use. 
From  the  dressing  rooms  back  of  these 
three  stages,  actors  had  access  to  all  of 
them.  Most  of  the  action  took  place  on 
the  platform  stage,  surrounded  on  three 
sides  by  the  audience  in  the  pit.  Little 
scenery  was  possible  here,  though  prop- 


erties such  as  trees,  furniture  or  witches 
cauldrons  might  be  brought  up  through 
trap  doors  or  lowered  from  the  canopy 
above  the  stage.  Similar  properties  or 
even  more  elaborate  ones  could,  of 
course,  be  placed  on  either  of  the  inner 
stages  while  the  curtains  were  drawn. 
The  lower  inner  stage  could  be  used  in 
several  ways:  its  curtains  might  serve 
as  an  arras  for  a  room  represented  by 
the  outer  stage;  or  the  curtains  might 
be  drawn  to  reveal  a  character  seated 
in  a  chair,  lying  on  a  couch,  or  moving 
about  a  room  or  a  small  stage.  The 
upper  inner  stage  might  be  used  to 
represent  a  balcony  or  an  upstairs  cham- 
ber. (Seep.  90.) 

Such  a  theater  had  both  disadvan- 
tages and  advantages  for  the  playwright. 
Nonexistent  or  sparse  settings  made  it 
necessary  for  him  to  place  most  of  his 
scenes  against  neutral  or  vague  back- 
grounds (e.g.,  a  public  place,  a  street, 
the  hall  of  a  castle,  a  heath)  or  to  de- 
note their  nature  and  atmosphere  in 
dialog.  But  since  the  play  did  not 
have  to  be  interrupted  while  scenes 
were  changed,  and  since  the  three  stages 
might  be  used  alternatively,  the  action 
might  be  continuous.  The  mood  or 
mounting  tension  of  a  dramatic  pres- 
entation, therefore,  was  not  dispelled 
during  long  halts  during  which  the  au- 
dience wandered  out  to  a  lobby  to 
chatter  and  smoke. 

The  text  of  Macbeth  which  has  come 
down  to  us,  unfortunately,  gives  us  the 
play  not  as  it  was  first  produced  but  in 
an  abbreviated  and  contaminated  form. 
Some  of  Shakespeare's  scenes  have  been 
lost,  others  (e.g.,  Ill,  v;  IV,  i,  39-43, 
125-132)  have  been  wholly  or  in  part 
replaced  by  a  later  dramatist,  possibly 
Thomas  Middleton.  Nevertheless,  what 
remains  is  one  of  the  greatest  plays  of 
the  world's  finest  dramatist. 


508 


THE   DRAMA 


CHARACTERS 

DUNCAN,  king  of  Scotland 

MALCOLM,      I    ,  . 

>  his  sons 

DONALBAIN 

MACBETH, 

BANQUO, 

MACDUFF, 

LENNOX, 

'  I  noblemen  of  Scotland 

MENTEITH,    (  ' 

ANGUS, 

CAITHNESS, 

FLEANCE,  SOn  tO  BANQUO 

SIWARD,  Earl  of  Northumberland,  general  of  the  English  forces 

Young  SIWARD,  his  son 

SEYTON,  an  officer  attending  on  MACBETH 

Boy,  son  to  MACDUFF 

An  English  Doctor 

A  Scotch  Doctor 

A  Soldier 

A  Porter 

An  Old  Man 

LADY  MACBETH 
LADY  MACDUFF 

Gentlewoman  attending  on  LADY  MACBETH 

HECATE 

Three  Witches 
Apparitions 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Officers,  Soldiers,  Murderers,  Attendants,  and  Mes- 
sengers 

SCENE:  Scotland:  England 


MACBETH        509 


ACT  I 

Scene  I:  A  desert  place. 
Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  three  Witches. 

FIRST  WITCH.  When  shall  we  three  meet  again 

In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain? 
SECOND  WITCH.  When  the  hurlyburly  's  done, 

When  the  battle  's  lost  and  won. 

THIRD  WITCH.  That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun.  5 

FIRST  WITCH.  Where  the  place? 
SECOND  WITCH.  Upon  the  heath. 

THIRD  WITCH.  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 
FIRST  WITCH.  I  come,  Graymalkinl 
SECOND  WITCH.  Paddock  calls. 

THIRD  WITCH.  Anon.  10 

ALL.  Fair  is  foul,  and  fouFis  fair: 

Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air.  (Exeunt ) 

Scene  II:  A  camp  near  Forres. 

Alarum  within.  Enter  DUNCAN,  MALCOM,  DONALBAIN,  LENNOX,  with  Attend- 
ants, meeting  a  bleeding  Sergeant. 

DUNCAN.  What  bloody  man  is  that?  He  can  report, 

As  seemeth  by  his  plight,  of  the  revolt 

The  newest  state. 
MALCOLM.  This  is  the  sergeant 

Who  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier  fought 

'Gainst  my  captivity.  Hail,  brave  friend!  5 

Say  to  the  king  the  knowledge  of  the  broil 

As  thou  didst  leave  it. 
SERGEANT.  Doubtful  it  stood; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together 

And  choke  their  art.  The  merciless  Macdonwald— 

Worthy  to  be  a  rebel,  for  to  that  10 

The  multiplying  villanies  of  nature 


Text  and  abridged  footnotes  from  The  Complete  Works  of  Shakespeare,  edited  by 
Hardin  Craig,  Scott,  Foresman,  1951.  Used  with  the  kind  permission  of  Mr.  Craig. 

ACT  i,  SCENE  i.  3.  hurlyburly,  tumult.  8.  Graymalkin,  gray  cat,  name  of  the  witch's 
familiar  spirit.  9.  Paddock,  toad;  also,  a  familiar.  SCENE  n.  Stage  direction:  Alarum, 
noise  of  battle.  6.  broil,  battle.  9.  choke  their  art,  render  their  skill  useless.  10.  to  that, 
in  addition  to. 

510        THX   DRAMA 


Do  swarm  upon  him— from  the  western  isles 

Of  kerns  and  gallowglasses  is  supplied; 

And  fortune,  on  his  damned  quarrel  smiling, 

Show'd  like  a  rebel's  whore:  but  all's  too  weak:  *5 

For  brave  Macbeth— well  he  deserves  that  name- 
Disdaining  fortune,  with  his  brandish'd  steel, 

Which  smoked  with  bloody  execution, 

Like  valour's  minion  carved  out  his  passage 

Till  he  faced  the  slave;  20 

Which  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him, 

Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave  to  the  chaps, 

And  fix'd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 
DUNCAN.  O  valiant  cousin!  worthy  gentleman! 
SERGEANT.  As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflection  25 

Shipwrecking  storms  and  direful  thunders  break, 

So  from  that  spring  whence  comfort  seem'd  to  corne 

Discomfort  swells.  Mark,  king  of  Scotland,  mark: 

No  sooner  justice  had  with  valour  arm'd 

Compeird  these  skipping  kerns  to  trust  their  heels,  30 

But  the  Norweyan  lord  surveying  vantage, 

With  f urbish'd  arms  and  new  supplies  of  men 

Began  a  fresh  assault. 
DUNCAN.  Dismay'd  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo? 

SERGEANT.  YeS; 

As  sparrows  eagles,  or  the  hare  the  lion.  35 

If  I  say  sooth,  I  must  report  they  were 
As  cannons  overcharged  with  double  cracks,  so  they 
Doubly  redoubled  strokes  upon  the  foe: 
Except  they  meant  to  bathe  in  reeking  wounds, 

Or  memorize  another  Golgotha,  4° 

I  cannot  tell. 

But  I  am  faint,  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 
DUNCAN.  So  well  thy  words  become  thee  as  thy  wounds; 
They  smack  of  honour  both.  Go  get  him  surgeons. 

(Exit  Sergeant,  attended) 
Who  comes  here? 


13.  kerns,  light-armed  Irish  foot  soldiers,  gallowglasses,  retainers  of  Irish  chiefs, 
armed  with  axes.  21.  Which,  who,  i.e.,  Macbeth.  22.  nave,  navel,  chaps,  jaws.  28.  Mark, 
listen,  take  heed.  37.  cracks,  discharges  of  cannon.  40.  memorize,  make  memorable  or 
famous.  Golgotha,  "place  of  a  skull,"  where  the  Saviour  was  crucified  (Mark  15:22). 


MACBETH   ACT   I:    SC    II 


511 


(Enter  ROSS  ) 

MALCOLM.  The  worthy  thane  of  Ross.  45 

LENNOX.  What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes!  So  should  he  look 

That  seems  to  speak  things  strange. 
ROSS.  God  Save  the  king! 

DUNCAN.  Whence  earnest  thou,  worthy  thane? 
ROSS.  From  Fife,  great  king; 

Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 

And  fan  our  people  cold.  Norway  himself,  50 

With  terrible  numbers, 

Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor 

The  thane  of  Cawdor,  began  a  dismal  conflict; 

Till  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,  lapp'd  in  proof, 

Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons,  55 

Point  against  point  rebellious,  arm  'gainst  arm, 

Curbing  his  lavish  spirit:  and,  to  conclude, 

The  victory  fell  on  us. 
DUNCAN.  Great  happiness! 

ROSS.  That  now 

Sweno,  the  Norways'  king,  craves  composition; 

Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men  60 

Till  he  disbursed  at  Saint  Colme's  inch 

Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 
DUNCAN.  No  more  that  thane  of  Cawdor  shall  deceive 

Our  bosom  interest:  go  pronounce  his  present  death, 

And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth.  65 

ROSS.  I'll  see  it  done. 
DUNCAN.  What  he  hath  lost  noble  Macbeth  hath  won.     (Exeunt) 

Scene  HI:  A  heath  near  Forres. 
Thunder.  Enter  the  three  Witches. 

FIRST  WITCH.  Where  hast  thou  been,  sister? 
SECOND  WITCH.  Killing  swine. 
THIRD  WITCH.  Sister,  where  thou? 


45.  thane,  Scottish  title  of  honor,  roughly  equivalent  to  earl.  47.  seems  to  speak, 
probably,  "is  about  to  speak."  53.  dismal,  disastrous,  calamitous.  54.  Bellona's  bride- 
groom, i.e.,  Macbeth.  Bellona  was  the  Roman  goddess  of  war.  55.  self -comparisons, 
comparisons  between  their  two  selves.  57.  lavish,  insolent,  unrestrained.  59.  Norways', 
Norwegians',  composition,  agreement,  treaty  of  peace.  61.  Saint  Colme's  inch,  Incholm, 
the  Isle  of  St.  Columba  in  the  Firth  of  Forth.  62.  general,  public.  64.  bosom,  close  and 
affectionate. 

512         THE   DRAMA 


FIRST  WITCH.  A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap, 

And  munch'd,  and  munch'd,  and  munch'd:—  "Give  me,"  quoth  I:  5 

"Aroint  thee,  witch!"  the  rump-fed  ronyon  cries. 

Her  husband  's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o'  the  Tiger: 

But  in  a  sieve  I'll  thither  sail, 

And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail, 

I'll  do,  111  do,  and  111  do.  10 

SECOND  WITCH.  I'll  give  thee  a  wind. 
FIRST  WITCH.  Thou  'rt  kind. 
THIRD  WITCH.  And  I  another. 
FIRST  WITCH.  I  myself  have  all  the  other, 

And  the  very  ports  they  blow,  15 

All  the  quarters  that  they  know 

I'  the  shipman's  card. 

I  will  drain  him  dry  as  hay: 

Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 

Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid;  20 

He  shall  live  a  man  forbid: 

Weary  se'nnights  nine  times  nine 

Shall  he  dwindle,  peak  and  pine: 

Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost, 

Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-tost.  25 

Look  what  I  have. 
SECOND  WITCH.  Show  me,  show  me. 
FIRST  WITCH.  Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb, 

Wreck'd  as  homeward  he  did  come.  (Drum  within) 
THIRD  WITCH.  A  drum,  a  drum!  30 

Macbeth  doth  come. 
ALL.  The  weird  sisters,  hand  in  hand, 

Posters  of  the  sea  and  land, 

Thus  do  go  about,  about: 

Thrice  to  thine  and  thrice  to  mine  35 

And  thrice  again,  to  make  up  nine. 

Peace!  the  charm  's  wound  up. 
(Enter  MACBETH  and  BANQUO) 
MACBETH.  So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 
BANQUO.  How  far  is  't  call'd  to  Forres?  What  are  these 


5.  munch'd,  chewed  with  closed  lips.  6.  Aroint  thee,  avaunt,  begone,  rump-fed,  fed 
on  refuse,  or  fat-rumped.  ronyon,  mangy  creature;  a  term  of  contempt.  7.  Tiger,  a  ship's 
name.  15.  blow,  blow  upon.  17.  shipmans  card,  compass  card,  or  a  chart.  20.  pent-house 
lid,  eyelid.  21.  forbid,  accursed.  22.  se'nnights,  weeks.  32.  weird,  connected  with  fate. 
33.  Posters  of,  travelers  over. 

MACBETH   ACT  I:    SC   III        513 


So  withered  and  so  wild  in  their  attire,  40 

That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  o'  the  earth, 

And  yet  are  on  't?  Live  you?  or  are  you  aught 

That  man  may  question?  You  seem  to  understand  me, 

By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 

Upon  her  skinny  lips:  you  should  be  women,  45 

And  yet  your  beards  forbid  me  to  interpret 

That  you  are  so. 

MACBETH.  Speak,  if  you  can:  what  are  you? 

FIRST  WITCH.  All  hail,  Macbeth!  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Glamis! 
SECOND  WITCH.  All  hail,  Macbethl  hail  to  thee,  thane  of  Cawdor! 
THIRD  WITCH.  All  hail,  Macbeth,  that  shalt  be  king  hereafter!  50 

BANQUO.  Good  sir,  why  do  you  start;  and  seem  to  fear 

Things  that  do  sound  so  fair?  T  the  name  of  truth, 

Are  ye  fantastical,  or  that  indeed 

Which  outwardly  ye  show?  My  noble  partner 

You  greet  with  present  grace  and  great  prediction  55 

Of  noble  having  and  of  royal  hope, 

That  he  seems  rapt  withal:  to  me  you  speak  not. 

If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time, 

And  say  which  grain  will  grow  and  which  will  not, 

Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg  nor  fear  60 

Your  favours  nor  your  hate. 
FIRST  WITCH.  Hail! 
SECOND  WITCH.  Hail! 
THIRD  WITCH.  Hail! 

FIRST  WITCH.  Lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater.  65 

SECOND  WITCH.  Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 
THIRD  WITCH.  Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  thou  be  none: 

So  all  hail,  Macbeth  and  Banquol 
FIRST  WITCH.  Banquo  and  Macbeth,  all  hail! 
MACBETH.  Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more:  70 

By  Sinel's  death  I  know  I  am  thane  of  Glamis; 

But  how  of  Cawdor?  the  thane  of  Cawdor  lives, 

A  prosperous  gentleman;  and  to  be  king 

Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 

No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.  Say  from  whence  75 

You  owe  this  strange  intelligence?  or  why 

Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 


53.  fantastical,  creatures  of  fantasy  or  imagination.  54.  show,  appear.  71.  Sinel's.  Sinel 
was  Macbeth's  father.  Glamis,  now  a  village  near  Perth;  pronounced  by  the  Scotch  as  a 
monosyllable  rhyming  with  "alms." 

514        THE  DRAMA 


With  such  prophetic  greeting?  Speak,  I  charge  you.  (Witches  vanish) 
BANQUO.  The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has, 

And  these  are  of  them.  Whither  are  they  vanish'd?  80 

MACBETH.  Into  the  air;  and  what  seem'd  corporal  melted 

As  breath  into  the  wind.  Would  they  had  stay'd! 
BANQUO.  Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak  about? 

Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root 

That  takes  the  reason  prisoner?  85 

MACBETH.  Your  children  shall  be  kings. 
BANQUO.  You  shall  be  king. 

MACBETH.  And  thane  of  Cawdor  too:  went  it  not  so? 
BANQUO.  To  the  selfsame  tune  and  words.  Who  's  here? 
(Enter  ROSS  and  ANGUS  ) 
ROSS.  The  king  hath  happily  received,  Macbeth, 

The  news  of  thy  success;  and  when  he  reads  90 

Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 

His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend 

Which  should  be  thine  or  his:  silenced  with  that, 

In  view  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  selfsame  day, 

He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks,  95 

Nothing  afeard  of  what  thyself  didst  make, 

Strange  images  of  death.  As  thick  as  hail 

Came  post  with  post;  and  every  one  did  bear 

Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defence, 

And  pour'd  them  down  before  him. 
ANGUS.  We  are  sent  100 

To  give  thee  from  our  royal  master  thanks; 

Only  to  herald  thee  into  his  sight, 

Not  pay  thee. 
ROSS.  And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  greater  honour, 

He  bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  thane  of  Cawdor:  105 

In  which  addition,  hail,  most  worthy  thane! 

For  it  is  thine. 

BANQUO.  What,  can  the  devil  speak  true? 

MACBETH.  The  thane  of  Cawdor  lives :  why  do  you  dress  me 

In  borrow'd  robes? 
ANGUS.  Who  was  the  thane  lives  yet; 

But  under  heavy  judgement  bears  that  life  no 

Which  he  deserves  to  lose.  Whether  he  was  combined 

With  those  of  Norway,  or  did  line  the  rebel 


81.  corporal,  bodily.  84.  insane  root,  root  causing  insanity.  112.  line,  strengthen. 

MACBETH  ACT  I:    SC  Dtt        515 


With  hidden  help  and  vantage,  or  that  with  both 

He  laboured  in  his  country's  wreck,  I  know  not; 

But  treasons  capital,  confess'd  and  proved,  115 

Have  overthrown  him. 
MACBETH  (aside).  Glamis,  and  thane  of  Cawdor! 

The  greatest  is  behind.  ( To  ROSS  and  ANGUS  )  Thanks  for  your  pains. 

(To  BANQUO)  Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings, 

When  those  that  gave  the  thane  of  Cawdor  to  me 

Promised  no  less  to  them? 
BANQUO.  That  trusted  home  120 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  the  crown, 

Besides  the  thane  of  Cawdor.  But  'tis  strange: 

And  oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 

The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths, 

Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  's  125 

In  deepest  consequence. 

Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 
MACBETH  (aside).  Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 

Of  the  imperial  theme,— I  thank  you,  gentlemen. 

(Aside)  This  supernatural  soliciting  130 

Cannot  be  ill,  cannot  be  good:  if  ill, 

Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success, 

Commencing  in  a  truth?  I  am  thane  of  Cawdor: 

If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 

Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair  135 

And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 

Against  the  use  of  nature?  Present  fears 

Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings: 

My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical, 

Shakes  so  my  single  state  of  man  that  function  140 

Is  smother'd  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is 

But  what  is  not. 

BANQUO.  Look,  how  our  partner 's  rapt. 

MACBETH  (aside).  If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why,  chance  may  crown  me, 

Without  my  stir. 


126.  deepest  consequence,  matters  of  the  greatest  importance.  129.  imperial  theme, 
theme  of  empire.  130.  supernatural  soliciting,  temptation  by  supernatural  beings. 
135.  unfix  my  hair,  make  it  stand  on  end.  140.  single  state  of  man,  whole  being;  an  ob- 
vious allusion  to  the  doctrine  of  the  microcosm,  according  to  which  the  being  of  man  is 
a  counterpart  of  the  macrocosm,  or  universe.  144.  stir,  bestirring  (myself). 

516         THE   DRAMA 


BANQUO.  New  honours  come  upon  him, 

Like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  not  to  their  mould  145 

But  with  the  aid  of  use. 
MACBETH  (aside).  Come  what  come  may, 

Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day. 
BANQUO.  Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your  leisure. 
MACBETH.  Give  me  your  favour:  my  dull  brain  was  wrought 

With  things  forgotten.  Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains  150 

Are  registered  where  every  day  I  turn 

The  leaf  to  read  them.  Let  us  toward  the  king. 

Think  upon  what  hath  chanced,  and,  at  more  time, 

The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,  let  us  speak 

Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

BANQUO.  Very  gladly.  155 

MACBETH.  Till  then,  enough.  Come,  friends.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  IV:  Forres.  The  palace. 
Flourish.  Enter  DUNCAN,  MALCOLM,  DONALBAIN,  LENNOX,  and  Attendants. 

DUNCAN.  Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor?  Are  not 

Those  in  commission  yet  return'd? 
MALCOLM.  My  liege, 

They  are  not  yet  come  back.  But  I  have  spoke 

With  one  that  saw  him  die:  who  did  report 

That  very  frankly  he  confess'd  his  treasons,  5 

Implor'd  your  highness'  pardon  and  set  forth 

A  deep  repentance:  nothing  in  his  life 

Became  him  like  the  leaving  it;  he  died 

As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death 

To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  owed,  10 

As  'twere  a  careless  trifle. 
DUNCAN.  There  's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face: 

He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 

An  absolute  trust. 

(Enter  MACBETH,  BANQUO,  ROSS,  and  ANGUS) 
O  worthiest  cousin! 


144.  come,  i.e.,  which  have  come.  153.  at  more  time,  at  a  time  of  greater  leisure.  155. 
our  free  hearts,  our  hearts  freely.  SCENE  iv.  2.  commission,  those  having  warrant  to  see 
to  the  execution  of  Cawdor.  11.  careless,  uncared  for. 

MACBETH   ACT   I:    SC    W         517 


The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now  15 

Was  heavy  on  me:  thou  art  so  far  before 

That  swiftest  wing  of  recompense  is  slow 

To  overtake  thee.  Would  thou  hadst  less  deserved, 

That  the  proportion  both  of  thanks  and  payment 

Might  have  been  minel  only  I  have  left  to  say,  20 

More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 
MACBETH.  The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe, 

In  doing  it,  pays  itself.  Your  highness'  part 

Is  to  receive  our  duties;  and  our  duties 

Are  to  your  throne  and  state  children  and  servants,  25 

Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  every  thing 

Safe  toward  your  love  and  honour. 
DUNCAN.  Welcome  hither: 

I  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labour 

To  make  thee  full  of  growing.  Noble  Banquo, 

That  hast  no  less  deserved,  nor  must  be  known  30 

No  less  to  have  done  so,  let  me  infold  thee 

And  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 
BANQUO.  There  if  I  grow, 

The  harvest  is  your  own. 
DUNCAN.  My  plenteous  joys, 

Wanton  in  fulness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 

In  drops  of  sorrow.  Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes,  35 

And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know 

We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 

Our  eldest,  Malcolm,  whom  we  name  hereafter 

The  Prince  of  Cumberland;  which  honour  must 

Not  unaccompanied  invest  him  only,  40 

But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 

On  all  deservers.  From  hence  to  Inverness, 

And  bind  us  further  to  you. 
MACBETH.  The  rest  is  labour,  which  is  not  used  for  you: 

I'll  be  myself  the  harbinger  and  make  joyful  45 

The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  your  approach; 

So  humbly  take  my  leave. 

DUNCAN.  My  worthy  Cawdorl 

MACBETH  (aside).  The  Prince  of  Cumberland!  that  is  a  step 

On  which  I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'erleap, 

27.  Safe  toward,  securely  directed  toward.  37.  establish  our  estate,  fix  the  succession 
of  our  state.  42.  Inverness,  the  seat  of  Macbeth's  castle. 

518        THE   DRAMA 


For  in  my  way  it  lies.  Stars,  hide  your  fires;  50 

Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires: 
The  eye  wink  at  the  hand;  yet  let  that  be, 
Which  the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see.  (Exit) 
DUNCAN.  True,  worthy  Banquo;  he  is  full  so  valiant, 

And  in  his  commendations  I  am  fed;  55 

It  is  a  banquet  to  me.  Let 's  after  him, 
Whose  care  is  gone  before  to  bid  us  welcome: 
It  is  a  peerless  kinsman.  (Flourish.  Exeunt) 

Scene  V:  Inverness.  MACBETH^  castle. 
Enter  LADY  MACBETH,  reading  a  letter. 

LADY  MACBETH.  "They  met  me  in  the  day  of  success;  and  I  have  learned  by 
the  perfectest  report,  they  have  more  in  them  than  mortal  knowledge. 
When  I  burned  in  desire  to  question  them  further,  they  made  themselves 
air,  into  which  they  vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt  in  wonder  of  it,  came 
missives  from  the  king,  who  all-hailed  me  'Thane  of  Cawdor;'  by  which 
title,  before,  these  weird  sisters  saluted  me,  and  referred  me  to  the  coming 
on  of  time,  with  'Hail,  king  that  shalt  bel'  This  have  I  thought  good  to 
deliver  thee,  my  dearest  partner  of  greatness,  that  thou  mightst  not  lose 
the  dues  of  rejoicing,  by  being  ignorant  of  what  greatness  is  promised 
thee.  Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  farewell/' 
Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor;  and  shalt  be 
What  thou  art  promised:  yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature; 
It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
To  catch  the  nearest  way:  thou  wouldst  be  great; 

Art  not  without  ambition,  but  without  20 

The  illness  should  attend  it:  what  thou  wouldst  highly, 
That  wouldst  thou  holily;  wouldst  not  play  false, 
And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win:  thou  'Idst  have,  great  Glamis, 
That  which  cries  "Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it; 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do  25 

Than  wishest  should  be  undone."  Hie  thee  hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear; 


50.  in  my  way  it  lies.  Prince  of  Cumberland  was  the  title  of  the  heir  apparent  to 
Duncan's  throne.  The  monarchy  was  not  hereditary,  and  Macbeth  had  a  right  to  be- 
lieve that  he  himself  might  be  chosen  as  Duncan's  successor;  he  here  states  the  issue  as 
to  whether  or  not  he  will  interfere  with  the  course  of  circumstance.  SCENE  v.  7.  mis- 
sives, messengers.  18.  milk  of  human  kindness,  gentleness  of  human  nature.  21.  illness, 
evil. 

MACBETH   ACT   It    SC   V        519 


And  chastise  with  the  valour  of  my  tongue 

All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round, 

Which  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  doth  seem  30 

To  have  thee  crown'd  withal. 
(Enter  a  Messenger) 

What  is  your  tidings? 
MESSENGER.  The  king  comes  here  to-night. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Thou  'rt  mad  to  say  it: 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him?  who,  were  't  so, 

Would  have  inform'd  for  preparation. 
MESSENGER.  So  please  you,  it  is  true:  our  thane  is  coming:  35 

One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him, 

Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 

Than  would  make  up  his  message. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Give  him  tending; 

He  brings  great  news.  (Exit  Messenger) 

The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 

That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan  40 

Under  my  battlements.  Come,  you  spirits 

That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here, 

And  fill  me  from  the  crown  to  the  toe  top-full 

Of  direst  cruelty!  make  thick  my  blood; 

Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse,  45 

That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 

Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 

The  effect  and  it!  Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 

And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering  ministers, 

Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances  5° 

You  wait  on  nature's  mischief!  Come,  thick  night, 

And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 

That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 

Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 

To  cry  "Hold,  hold!" 
(Enter  MACBETH) 

Great  Glamis!  worthy  Cawdor!  55 


29.  golden  round,  the  crown.  30.  metaphysical,  supernatural.  36.  had  the  speed  of, 
outstripped.  42.  tend  .  .  .  thoughts,  are  the  instruments  of  deadly  or  murderous 
thoughts.  The  spirits  conveying  various  passions  were  the  tools  of  thought.  44—45.  make 
.  .  .  remorse.  By  making  the  blood  thick  it  would  be  less  able  to  flow  out  in  generous 
passions  and  thus  awaken  remorse  or  pity.  46.  compunctious  .  .  .  nature,  natural  feel- 
ings of  pity  and  conscience.  49.  murdering  ministers,  evil  angels.  50.  sightless,  invisible. 
52.  pall,  envelop,  dunnest,  darkest. 

520        THE  DRAMA 


Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereaf terl 

Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 

This  ignorant  present,  and  I  feel  now 

The  future  in  the  instant. 
MACBETH.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

LADY  MACBETH.  And  when  goes  hence?  60 

MACBETH.  To-morrow,  as  he  purposes. 

LADY  MACBETH.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see! 

Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 

May  read  strange  matters.  To  beguile  the  time, 

Look  like  the  time;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye,  65 

Your  hand,  your  tongue:  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 

But  be  the  serpent  under 't.  He  that 's  coming 

Must  be  provided  for:  and  you  shall  put 

This  night's  great  business  into  my  dispatch; 

Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come  7« 

Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  master dom. 
MACBETH.  We  will  speak  further. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Only  look  up  clear; 

To  alter  favour  ever  is  to  fear: 

Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  VI:  Before  MACBETH^  castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.  Enter  DUNCAN,  MALCOLM,  DONALBAIN,  BANQUO,  LEN- 
NOX, MACDUFF,  ROSS,  ANGUS,  and  Attendants. 

DUNCAN.  This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat;  the  air 

Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 

Unto  our  gentle  senses. 
BANQUO.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet,  does  approve, 

By  his  loved  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath  5 

Smells  wooingly  here:  no  jutty,  frieze, 

Buttress,  nor  coign  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 

Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle: 

Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observed, 

The  air  is  delicate. 


72.  clear,  serenely.  73.  To  .  .  .  fear,  to  change  the  aspect  of  one's  face  is  always  to 
feel  fear.  SCENE  vi.  6.  jutty,  projection  of  wall  or  building.  7.  coign  of  vantage,  con- 
venient corner,  i.e.,  for  nesting.  10.  delicate,  delicious. 

MACBETH   ACT   I:    SC   VI        521 


(Enter  LADY  MACBETH) 

DUNCAN.  See,  see,  our  honour'd  hostess  I  10 

The  love  that  follows  us  sometime  is  our  trouble, 

Which  still  we  thank  as  love.  Herein  I  teach  you 

How  you  shall  bid  God  'ild  us  for  your  pains, 

And  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 
LADY  MACBETH.  All  our  service 

In  every  point  twice  done  and  then  done  double  15 

Were  poor  and  single  business  to  contend 

Against  those  honours  deep  and  broad  wherewith 

Your  majesty  loads  our  house:  for  those  of  old, 

And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them, 

We  rest  your  hermits. 
DUNCAN.  Where 's  the  thane  of  Cawdor?  20 

We  coursed  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 

To  be  his  purveyor:  but  he  rides  well; 

And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp  him 

To  his  home  before  us.  Fair  and  noble  hostess, 

We  are  your  guest  to-night. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Your  servants  ever  25 

Have  theirs,  themselves  and  what  is  theirs,  in  compt, 

To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure, 

Still  to  return  your  own. 
DUNCAN.  Give  me  your  hand; 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host:  we  love  him  highly, 

And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him.  30 

By  your  leave,  hostess.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  VII:  MACBETH'S  castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.  Enter  a  Sewer,  and  divers  Servants  with  dishes  and 
service,  and  pass  over  the  stage.  Then  enter  MACBETH. 

MACBETH.  If  it  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well 
It  were  done  quickly:  if  the  assassination 

11.  follows,  attends.  13.  God  'ild  us,  God  reward  us,  i.e.,  thank  us.  Duncan  means 
that,  since  he  is  there  because  he  loves  them,  they  should  thank  him  even  for  the  trouble 
he  causes  them.  16.  single,  small,  inconsiderable.  16-17.  contend  Against,  vie  with. 
20.  rest,  remain,  hermits,  i.e.,  those  who  will  pray  for  you  like  hermits  or  beadsmen. 
22.  purveyor,  an  officer  sent  ahead  of  the  king  to  provide  for  his  entertainment;  here, 
forerunner.  26.  in  compt,  under  obligation  (to  serve  the  king).  SCENE  vn.  Stage  direction: 
Hautboys,  wooden  double-reed  musical  instruments.  Sewer,  chief  servant  who  directed 
the  placing  of  dishes  on  the  table,  or  the  servant  who  acted  as  taster  and  guard  against 
poison. 

522        THE  DRAMA 


Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch 

With  his  surcease  success;  that  but  this  blow 

Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here, 

But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, 

We  Id  jump  the  life  to  come.  But  in  these  cases 

We  still  have  judgement  here;  that  we  but  teach 

Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 

To  plague  the  inventor:  this  even-handed  justice  xo 

Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chalice 

To  our  own  lips.  He 's  here  in  double  trust; 

First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject, 

Strong  both  against  the  deed;  then,  as  his  host, 

Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door,  15 

Not  bear  the  knife  myself.  Besides,  this  Duncan 

Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 

So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 

Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongued,  against 

The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking-off;  20 

And  pity,  like  a  naked  new-born  babe, 

Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,  horsed 

Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air, 

Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye, 

That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.  I  have  no  spur  25 

To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 

Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself 

And  falls  on  the  other. 
(Enter  LADY  MACBETH) 

How  now!  what  news? 

LADY  MACBETH.  He  has  almost  supp'd:  why  have  you  left  the  chamber? 
MACBETH.  Hath  he  ask'd  for  me? 

LADY  MACBETH.  Know  you  not  he  has?  30 

MACBETH.  We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business: 

He  hath  honoured  me  of  late;  and  I  have  bought 

Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 

Which  would  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 

Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Was  the  hope  drunk  35 

Wherein  you  dress'd  yourself?  hath  it  slept  since? 

And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 

At  what  it  did  so  freely?  From  this  time 

3.  trammel  up,  entangle  in  a  net,  prevent.  4.  surcease,  cessation.  17.  faculties,  pre- 
rogatives. 20.  taking-off,  murder.  28.  other,  i.e.,  the  other  side  of  my  intent. 

MACBETH  ACT  I:    SC  VH        523 


Such  I  account  thy  love.  Art  thou  afeard 

To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valour  40 

As  thou  art  in  desire?  Wouldst  thou  have  that 

Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life, 

And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem, 

Letting  "I  dare  not"  wait  upon  "I  would/' 

Like  the  poor  cat  i*  the  adage? 
MACBETH.  Prithee,  peace:  45 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man; 

Who  dares  do  more  is  none. 
LADY  MACBETH.  What  beast  was  't,  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me? 

When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man; 

And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would  50 

»Be  so  much  more  the  man.  Nor  time  nor  place 

Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both: 

They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 

Does  unmake  you.  I  have  given  suck,  and  know 

How  tender  'tis  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me:  55 

I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 

Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 

And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn  as  you 

Have  done  to  this. 
MACBETH.  If  we  should  fail? 

LADY  MACBETH.  We  fail! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking-place,  60 

And  we'll  not  fail.  When  Duncan  is  asleep— 

Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 

Soundly  invite  him— his  two  chamberlains 

Will  I  with  wine  and  wassail  so  convince 

That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain,  65 

Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  of  reason 

A  limbeck  only:  when  in  swinish  sleep 

Their  drenched  natures  lie  as  in  a  death, 


45.  adage,  "The  cate  would  eate  fyshe,  and  would  not  wet  her  feete"  (Heywood). 
47-51.  beast  .  .  .  man,  if  you  are  a  man,  it  must  have  been  a  beast  that  prompted  you 
to  break  (disclose)  this  enterprise  to  me;  if  it  is  unmanly  to  do  the  deed,  it  was  un- 
manly to  suggest  it.  52.  adhere,  agree,  suit.  60.  sticking-place,  probably  a  metaphor  from 
the  tightening  of  the  strings  of  a  musical  instrument.  64.  wassail,  carousal,  drink,  con- 
vince, overpower.  65-67.  warder  .  .  .  only.  The  brain  was  divided  into  three  ventricles, 
imagination  in  front,  memory  at  the  back,  and  between  them  the  seat  of  reason.  The 
fumes  of  wine  would  deaden  memory  and  judgment.  67.  limbeck,  alembic,  still. 


524 


THE   DRAMA 


What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 

The  unguarded  Duncan?  what  not  put  upon  70 

His  spongy  officers,  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 

Of  our  great  quell? 
MACBETH.  Bring  forth  men-children  only; 

For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 

Nothing  but  males.  Will  it  not  be  received, 

When  we  have  mark'd  with  blood  those  sleepy  two  75 

Of  his  own  chamber  and  used  their  very  daggers, 

That  they  have  done  't? 
LADY  MACBETH.  Who  dares  receive  it  other, 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamour  roar 

Upon  his  death? 
MACBETH.  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat.  80 

Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show: 

False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know,  (Exeunt) 

ACT  II 

Scene  I:  Court  of  MACBETH'S  castle. 
Enter  BANQUO,  and  FLEANCE  bearing  a  torch  before  him. 

BANQUO.  How  goes  the  night,  boy? 

FLEANCE.  The  moon  is  down;  I  have  not  heard  the  clock. 

BANQUO.  And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 

FLEANCE.  I  take  't,  'tis  later,  sir. 

BANQUO.  Hold,  take  my  sword.  There 's  husbandry  in  heaven; 

Their  candles  are  all  out.  Take  thee  that  too.  5 

A  heavy  summons  lies  like  lead  upon  me, 

And  yet  I  would  not  sleep:  merciful  powers, 

Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts  that  nature 

Gives  way  to  in  repose! 
(Enter  MACBETH,  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch ) 

Give  me  my  sword. 

Who  's  there?  10 

MACBETH.  A  friend. 
BANQUO.  What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest?  The  king's  a-bed: 

He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 


70.  put  upon,  attribute  to.  71.  spongy,  drunken.  72.  quell,  murder.  74.  received,  as 
truth.  79.  settled,  determined. 

ACT  n,  SCENE  i.  4.  husbandry,  economy. 

MACBETH  ACT  H:    SC   I        525 


Sent  forth  great  largess  to  your  offices. 

This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal,  *5 

By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess;  and  shut  up 

In  measureless  content. 
MACBETH.  Being  unprepared, 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect; 

Which  else  should  free  have  wrought. 
BANQUO.  All 's  well. 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters:  20 

To  you  they  have  show'd  some  truth. 
MACBETH.  I  think  not  of  them: 

Yet,  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve, 

We  would  spend  it  in  some  words  upon  that  business, 

If  you  would  grant  the  time. 

BANQUO.  At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

MACBETH.  If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent,  when  'tis,  25 

It  shall  make  honour  for  you. 
BANQUO.  So  I  lose  none 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 

My  bosom  franchised  and  allegiance  clear, 

I  shall  be  counselled. 

MACBETH.  Good  repose  the  while! 

BANQUO.  Thanks,  sir:  the  like  to  you!  (Exeunt  BANQUO  and  FLEANCE)         30 
MACBETH.  Go  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready, 

She  strike  upon  the  bell.  Get  thee  to  bed.  (Exit  Servant) 

Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 

The  handle  toward  my  hand?  Come,  let  me  clutch  thee. 

I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still.  35 

Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 

To  feeling  as  to  sight?  or  art  thou  but 

A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation, 

Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain? 

I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable  40 

As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshall'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going; 

And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o'  the  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest;  I  see  thee  still,  45 

And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood, 

14.  offices,  servants*  quarters.  25.  //  .  .  .  'tis.  If  you  give  me  your  support  when  the 
fulfillment  occurs.  28.  franchised,  free  (from  guilt),  clear,  unstained.  46.  dudgeon,  hilt 
of  a  dagger,  gouts,  drops. 


526 


THE  DRAMA 


Which  was  not  so  before.  There's  no  such  thing: 

It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes.  Now  o'er  the  one  half -world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse  50 

The  curtain'd  sleep;  witchcraft  celebrates 

Pale  Hecate's  offerings,  and  wither'd  murder, 

Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 

Whose  howl 's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  towards  his  design  55 

Moves  like  a  ghost.  Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 

Which  now  suits  with  it.  Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives :  60 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives.  (A  bell  rings) 

I  go,  and  it  is  done;  the  bell  invites  me. 

Hear  it  not,  Duncan;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell.  (Exit) 

Scene  II:  The  same. 
Enter  LADY  MACBETH. 

LADY  MACBETH.  That  which  hath  made  them  drunk  hath  made  me  bold; 

What  hath  quench'd  them  hath  given  me  fire.  Hark!  Peace! 

It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman, 

Which  gives  the  stern'st  good-night.  He  is  about  it: 

The  doors  are  open;  and  the  surfeited  grooms  5 

Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores:  I  have  drugg'd  their  possets, 

That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 

Whether  they  live  or  die. 
MACBETH  ( within ) .  Who  's  there?  what,  ho! 
LADY  MACBETH.  Alack,  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked,  10 

And  'tis  not  done.  The  attempt  and  not  the  deed 

Confounds  us.  Hark!  I  laid  their  daggers  ready; 

He  could  not  miss  'em.  Had  he  not  resembled 

My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done 't. 
(Enter  MACBETH) 

My  husbandl 
MACBETH.  I  have  done  the  deed.  Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise?  15 


52.  Hecate's.  Hecate  was  the  goddess  of  witchcraft.  SCENE  n.  5.  grooms,  servants. 
6.  possets,  hot  milk  poured  on  ale  or  wine  and  spiced,  a  bedtime  drink  common  at  the 
time. 

MACBETH   ACT   II:    SC   O         527 


LADY  MACBETH.  I  heard  the  owl  scream  and  the  crickets  cry. 

Did  not  you  speak? 
MACBETH.  When? 

LADY  MACBETH.  NOW. 

MACBETH.  As  I  descended? 

LADY  MACBETH.  Ay. 

MACBETH.  Hark! 

Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber? 

LADY  MACBETH.  Donalbain.  20 

MACBETH.  This  is  a  sorry  sight.  (Looking  on  his  hands) 
LADY  MACBETH.  A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 
MACBETH.  There 's  one  did  laugh  in 's  sleep,  and  one  cried  "Murder!" 

That  they  did  wake  each  other:  I  stood  and  heard  them: 

But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address'd  them  25 

Again  to  sleep. 

LADY  MACBETH.       There  are  two  lodged  together. 
MACBETH.  One  cried  "God  bless  us!"  and  "Amen"  the  other; 

As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands. 

Listening  their  fear,  I  could  not  say  "Amen," 

When  they  did  say  "God  bless  us!" 

LADY  MACBETH.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply.  3° 

MACBETH.  But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce  "Amen"? 

I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  "Amen" 

Stuck  in  my  throat. 
LADY  MACBETH.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 

After  these  ways;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 
MACBETH.  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry  "Sleep  no  more!  35 

Macbeth  does  murder  sleep,"  the  innocent  sleep, 

Sleep  that  knits  up  the  raveird  sleave  of  care, 

The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labour's  bath, 

Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  course, 

Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast,— 

LADY  MACBETH.  What  do  you  mean?  40 

MACBETH.  Still  it  cried  "Sleep  no  more!"  to  all  the  house: 

"Glamis  hath  murder'd  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 

Shall  sleep  no  more;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more." 
LADY  MACBETH.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried?  Why,  worthy  thane, 


25.  addressed  them,  settled  themselves.  26.  two,  possibly,  Malcolm  and  Donalbain 
thus  half-awakened  by  their  father's  murder.  29.  Listening,  listening  to.  37.  ravell'd 
sleave,  tangled  unwrought  silk.  39.  second  course.  Ordinary  feasts  had  two  courses;  only 
the  more  elaborate  ones  had  three;  hence,  the  second  course  was  the  chief  nourisher  and 
the  conclusion  of  the  feast. 

528         THE    DRAMA 


You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think  45 

So  brainsickly  of  things.  Go  get  some  water, 

And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. 

Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place? 

They  must  lie  there:  go  carry  them;  and  smear 

The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 
MACBETH.  I'll  go  no  more:  5° 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done; 

Look  on  't  again  I  dare  not. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Infirm  of  purpose! 

Give  me  the  daggers:  the  sleeping  and  the  dead 

Are  but  as  pictures:  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 

That  fears  a  painted  devil.  If  he  do  bleed,  55 

I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal; 

For  it  must  seem  their  guilt.  ( Exit.  Knocking  within ) 
MACBETH.  Whence  is  that  knocking? 

How  is 't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me? 

What  hands  are  here?  ha!  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes. 

Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood  60 

Clean  from  my  hand?  No,  this  my  hand  will  rather 

The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine, 

Making  the  green  one  red. 
(Re-enter  LADY  MACBETH  ) 
LADY  MACBETH.  My  hands  are  of  your  colour;  but  I  shame 

To  wear  a  heart  so  white.  ( Knocking  within )  I  hear  a  knocking  65 

At  the  south  entry:  retire  we  to  our  chamber: 

A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed: 

How  easy  is  it,  then!  Your  constancy 

Hath  left  you  unattended.  ( Knocking  within )  Hark!  more  knocking. 

Get  on  your  nightgown,  lest  occasion  call  us,  70 

And  show  us  to  be  watchers.  Be  not  lost 

So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 
MACBETH.  To  know  my  deed,  'twere  best  not  know  myself.  (Knocking  within) 

Wake  Duncan  with  thy  knocking!  I  would  thou  couldst!  (Exeunt) 

Scene  HI:  The  same. 
Knocking  within.  Enter  a  Porter. 


46.  brainsickly,  insanely,  madly.  56-57.  gild  .  .  .  guilt.  The  pun  would  be  more 
obvious  to  Shakespeare's  audience  than  to  us,  for  gold  was  ordinarily  thought  of  as  red. 
64.  shame,  am  ashamed.  68-69.  Your  .  .  .  unattended,  your  firmness  has  deserted  you* 
70.  nightgown,  dressing  gown.  72.  poorly,  dejectedly.  73.  To  .  .  .  deed.  It  were  better 
to  be  lost  in  my  thoughts  than  to  have  consciousness  of  my  deed. 

MACBETH   ACT   II:    SC    III         529 


PORTER.  Here  's  a  knocking  indeed!  If  a  man  were  porter  of  hell-gate,  he 
should  have  old  turning  the  key.  ( Knocking  within )  Knock,  knock,  knock! 
Who  's  there,  i'  the  name  of  Beelzebub?  Here  *s  a  farmer,  that  hanged  him- 
self on  the  expectation  of  plenty:  come  in  time;  have  napkins  enow  about 
you;  here  you'll  sweat  for  't  (Knocking  within)  Knock,  knockl  Who  's 
there,  in  the  other  devil's  name?  Faith,  here 's  an  equivocator,  that  could 
swear  in  both  the  scales  against  either  scale;  who  committed  treason 
enough  for  God's  sake,  yet  could  not  equivocate  to  heaven:  O,  come  in, 
equivocator.  (Knocking  within)  Knock,  knock,  knockl  Who  's  there?  Faith, 
here's  an  English  tailor  come  hither,  for  stealing  out  of  a  French  hose: 
come  in,  tailor;  here  you  may  roast  your  goose.  (Knocking  within)  Knock, 
knock;  never  at  quiet!  What  are  you?  But  this  place  is  too  cold  for  hell. 
I'll  devil-porter  it  no  further:  I  had  thought  to  have  let  in  some  of  all  pro- 
fessions that  go  the  primrose  way  to  the  everlasting  bonfire.  (Knocking 
within )  Anon,  anon!  I  pray  you,  remember  the  porter.  ( Opens  the  gate ) 

(Enter  MACDUFF  and  LENNOX  ) 

MACDUFF.  Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to  bed, 
That  you  do  lie  so  late? 

PORTER.  'Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the  second  cock:  and  drink,  sir,  is 
a  great  provoker  of  three  things. 

MACDUFF.  What  three  things  does  drink  especially  provoke?  30 

PORTER.  Marry,  sir,  nose-painting,  sleep,  and  urine.  Lechery,  sir,  it  provokes, 
and  unprovokes;  it  provokes  the  desire,  but  it  takes  away  the  performance: 
therefore,  much  drink  may  be  said  to  be  an  equivocator  with  lechery:  it 
makes  him,  and  it  mars  him;  it  sets  him  on,  and  it  takes  him  off;  it  per- 
suades him,  and  disheartens  him;  makes  him  stand  to,  and  not  stand  to; 
in  conclusion,  equivocates  him  in  a  sleep,  and,  giving  him  the  lie,  leaves 
him.  40 

MACDUFF.  I  believe  drink  gave  thee  the  lie  last  night. 

PORTER.  That  it  did,  sir,  i'  the  very  throat  on  me:  but  I  requited  him  for  his 
lie;  and,  I  think,  being  too  strong  for  him,  though  he  took  up  my  legs 
sometime,  yet  I  made  a  shift  to  cast  him. 

MACDUFF.  Is  thy  master  stirring? 

(Enter  MACBETH  ) 
Our  knocking  has  awaked  him;  here  he  comes. 


2.  porter  of  hell-gate.  The  game  the  porter  plays  with  himself  is  based  on  the  mys- 
tery play,  Harrowing  of  Hell,  in  which  Christ  knocks  at  the  gate  of  hell,  supplied, 
we  may  believe,  with  a  humorous  porter.  3.  old,  colloquial  use,  as  in  "a  high  old  time." 
7.  come  in  time,  you  have  come  in  good  time.  17.  French  hose,  very  narrow  breeches 
and  therefore  hard  for  the  tailor  to  steal  cloth  from  when  he  made  them.  18.  goose, 
tailor's  smoothing  iron. 

530         THE   DRAMA 


LENNOX.  Good  morrow,  noble  sir. 

MACBETH.  Good  morrow,  both. 

MACDUFF.  Is  the  king  stirring,  worthy  thane? 

MACBETH.  Not  yet.  50 

MACDUFF.  He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on  him: 

I  have  almost  slipp'd  the  hour. 

MACBETH.  I'll  bring  you  to  him. 

MACDUFF.  I  know  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you; 

But  yet  'tis  one. 
MACBETH.  The  labour  we  delight  in  physics  pain.  55 

This  is  the  door. 
MACDUFF.  I'll  make  so  bold  to  call, 

For  'tis  my  limited  service.  (Exit) 
LENNOX.  Goes  the  king  hence  to-day? 

MACBETH.  He  does:  he  did  appoint  so. 

LENNOX.  The  night  has  been  unruly:  where  we  lay, 

Our  chimneys  were  blown  down;  and,  as  they  say,  60 

Lamentings  heard  i*  the  air;  strange  screams  of  death, 

And  prophesying  with  accents  terrible 

Of  dire  combustion  and  confused  events 

New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time:  the  obscure  bird 

Clamour'd  the  livelong  night:  some  say,  the  earth  65 

Was  feverous  and  did  shake. 

MACBETH.  'Twas  a  rough  night. 

LENNOX.  My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 

A  fellow  to  it. 
(Re-enter  MACDUFF  ) 
MACDUFF.  O  horror,  horror,  horror!  Tongue  nor  heart 

Cannot  conceive  nor  name  thee! 

MACBETH. 


70 
LENNOX.       J 

MACDUFF.  Confusion  now  hath  made  his  masterpiece! 

Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 

The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 

The  life  o'  the  buildingl 

MACBETH.  What  is  't  you  say?  the  life? 

LENNOX.  Mean  you  his  majesty?  75 

MACDUFF.  Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your  sight 

51.  timely,  betimes,  early.  52.  slipp'd,  let  slip.  55.  physics,  cures.  57.  limited,  ap- 
pointed. 64.  obscure  bird,  owl,  the  bird  of  darkness.  71.  Confusion,  destruction.  73.  The 
Lord's  anointed  temple,  allusion  to  the  king  as  Cod's  anointed  representative. 

MACBETH   ACT   II:    SC   III        531 


With  a  new  Gorgon:  do  not  bid  me  speak; 

See,  and  then  speak  yourselves.  ( Exeunt  MACBETH  and  LENNOX  ) 

Awake,  awake! 

Ring  the  alarum-bell.  Murder  and  treason! 

Banquo  and  Donalbain!  Malcolm!  awake!  80 

Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 

And  look  on  death  itself!  up,  up,  and  see 

The  great  doom's  image!  Malcolm!  Banquo! 

As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like  sprites, 

To  countenance  this  horror!  Ring  the  bell.  (Bell  rings)  85 

(Enter  LADY  MACBETH  ) 
LADY  MACBETH.  What 's  the  business, 

That  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley 

The  sleepers  of  the  house?  speak,  speak! 
MACDUFF.  O  gentle  lady, 

'Tis  not  for  you  to  hear  what  I  can  speak: 

The  repetition,  in  a  woman's  ear,  90 

Would  murder  as  it  fell. 
(Enter  BANQUO) 

O  Banquo,  Banquo, 

Our  royal  master 's  murder'd! 
LADY  MACBETH.  Woe,  alas! 

What,  in  our  house? 
BANQUO.  Too  cruel  any  where. 

Dear  Duff,  I  prithee,  contradict  thyself, 

And  say  it  is  not  so.  -  95 

(Re-enter  MACBETH  and  LENNOX,  with  ROSS) 
MACBETH.  Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this  chance, 

I  had  lived  a  blessed  time;  for,  from  this  instant, 

There's  nothing  serious  in  mortality: 

All  is  but  toys:  renown  and  grace  is  dead; 

The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees  100 

Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of. 
(Enter  MALCOLM  and  DONALBAIN  ) 
DONALBAIN.  What  is  amiss? 
MACBETH.  You  are,  and  do  not  know 't: 

The  spring,  the  head,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 

Is  stopp'd;  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopp'd. 
MACDUFF.  Your  royal  father 's  murdered. 
MALCOLM.  O,  by  whom?  105 

77.  Gorgon,  allusion  to  the  monsters  of  Greek  mythology  whose  look  turned  the  be- 
holders to  stone.  85.  countenance,  be  in  keeping  with.  98.  mortality,  mortal  life. 

532         THE    DRAMA 


LENNOX.  Those  of  his  chamber,  as  it  seem'd,  had  done 't: 

Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badged  with  blood; 

So  were  their  daggers,  which  unwiped  we  found 

Upon  their  pillows: 

They  stared,  and  were  distracted;  no  man's  life  no 

Was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 
MACBETH.  O,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury, 

That  I  did  kill  them. 

MACDUFF.  Wherefore  did  you  so? 

MACBETH.  Who  can  be  wise,  amazed,  temperate  and  furious, 

Loyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment?  No  man:  "5 

The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 

Outrun  the  pauser,  reason.  Here  lay  Duncan, 

His  silver  skin  laced  with  his  golden  blood; 

And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in  nature 

For  ruin's  wasteful  entrance:  there,  the  murderers,  120 

Steep'd  in  the  colours  of  their  trade,  their  daggers 

Unmannerly  breech'd  with  gore:  who  could  refrain, 

That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 

Courage  to  make  's  love  known? 

LADY  MACBETH.  Help  me  hence,  hoi 

MACDUFF.  Look  to  the  lady. 
MALCOLM  (aside  to  DONALBATN).  Why  do  we  hold  our  tongues,      125 

That  most  may  claim  this  argument  for  ours? 

DONALBAIN  (aside  to  MALCOLM).  What  should  be  spoken  here,  where  our 
fate, 

Hid  in  an  auger-hole,  may  rush,  and  seize  us? 

Let 's  away; 

Our  tears  are  not  yet  brew'd. 
MALCOLM  (aside  to  DONALBAIN).  Nor  our  strong  sorrow      130 

Upon  the  foot  of  motion. 
BANQUO.  Look  to  the  lady:  (LADY  MACBETH  is  carried  out) 

And  when  we  have  our  naked  frailties  hid, 

That  suffer  in  exposure,  let  us  meet, 

And  question  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work, 

To  know  it  further.  Fears  and  scruples  shake  us:  135 

In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand;  and  thence 

Against  the  undivulged  pretence  I  fight 

Of  treasonous  malice. 


107.  badged,  marked  as  with  a  badge  or  emblem.  116.  expedition,  haste.  122. 
breech'd,  covered  to  the  hilts  with  gore  (as  with  breeches).  128.  in  an  auger-hole,  in 
some  obscure  place. 

MACBETH    ACT    II:    SC    HI         533 


MAGDUFF.  And  so  do  I. 

ALL.  So  all. 

MACBETH.  Let 's  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness, 

And  meet  i'  the  hall  together. 

ALL.  Well  contented.  MO 

(Exeunt  all  but  MALCOLM  and  DONALBAIN) 
MALCOLM.  What  will  you  do?  Let 's  not  consort  with  them: 

To  show  an  unf elt  sorrow  is  an  office 

Which  the  false  man  does  easy.  I'll  to  England. 
DONALBAIN.  To  Ireland,  I;  our  separated  fortune 

Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer:  where  we  are,  M5 

There 's  daggers  in  men's  smiles :  the  near  in  blood, 

The  nearer  bloody. 
MALCOLM.  This  murderous  shaft  that 's  shot 

Hath  not  yet  lighted,  and  our  safest  way 

Is  to  avoid  the  aim.  Therefore,  to  horse; 

And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking,  *5o 

But  shift  away:  there 's  warrant  in  that  theft 

Which  steals  itself,  when  there  's  no  mercy  left.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  IV:  Outside  MACBETH'S  castle. 
Enter  ROSS  and  an  old  Man. 

OLD  MAN.  Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  well: 

Within  the  volume  of  which  time  I  have  seen 

Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange;  but  this  sore  night 

Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 
ROSS.  Ah,  good  father, 

Thou  seest,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's  act,  5 

Threaten  his  bloody  stage:  by  the  clock,  'tis  day, 

And  yet  dark  night  strangles  the  travelling  lamp: 

Is 't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 

That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  entomb, 

When  living  light  should  kiss  it? 
OLD  MAN.  'Tis  unnatural,  10 

Even  like  the  deed  that 's  done.  On  Tuesday  last, 

A  falcon,  towering  in  her  pride  of  place, 


139.  manly  readiness,  men's  clothing,  or  armor.  146.  near,  nearer,  i.e.,  the  nearer  in 
relationship  the  greater  the  danger  of  being  murdered.  148.  lighted,  descended.  SCENE  iv. 
4.  trifled  .  .  .  knowings,  made  trivial  all  former  knowledge.  8.  predominance,  ascend- 
ancy, superior  influence  (of  a  heavenly  body).  12.  towering,  soaring  (term  in  falconry). 
place,  pitch,  highest  point  in  the  falcon's  flight 


534 


THE  DRAMA 


Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  and  kill'd. 
ROSS.  And  Duncan's  horses—a  thing  most  strange  and  certain- 
Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  of  their  race,  15 

Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  stalls,  flung  out, 

Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would  make 

War  with  mankind. 

OLD  MAN.  Tis  said  they  eat  each  other. 

ROSS.  They  did  so,  to  the  amazement  of  mine  eyes 

That  look'd  upon 't.  Here  comes  the  good  Macduff.  20 

(Enter  MACDUFF  ) 

How  goes  the  world,  sir,  now? 

MACDUFF.  Why,  see  you  not? 

ROSS.  Is  't  known  who  did  this  more  than  bloody  deed? 
MACDUFF.  Those  that  Macbeth  hath  slain. 
ROSS.  Alas,  the  day! 

What  good  could  they  pretend? 
MACDUFF.  They  were  suborn'd: 

Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  the  king's  two  sons,  25 

Are  stol'n  away  and  fled;  which  puts  upon  them 

Suspicion  of  the  deed. 
ROSS.  'Gainst  nature  still! 

Thriftless  ambition,  that  wilt  ravin  up 

Thine  own  life's  means!  Then  'tis  most  like 

The  sovereignty  will  fall  upon  Macbeth.  30 

MACDUFF.  He  is  already  named,  and  gone  to  Scone 

To  be  invested. 

ROSS.  Where  is  Duncan's  body? 

MACDUFF.  Carried  to  Colmekill, 

The  sacred  storehouse  of  his  predecessors, 

And  guardian  of  their  bones. 

ROSS.  Will  you  to  Scone?  35 

MACDUFF.  No,  cousin,  I'll  to  Fife. 
ROSS.  Well,  I  will  thither. 

MACDUFF.  Well,  may  you  see  things  well  done  there:  adieu! 

Lest  our  old  robes  sit  easier  than  our  new! 

14.  horses,  pronounced  as  one  syllable,  indicating  the  old  form  of  the  plural  then  in 
common  use.  24.  pretend,  intend,  design,  suborn  d,  procured  to  do  an  evil  action.  28. 
ravin  up,  devour  ravenously.  31.  Scone,  ancient  royal  city  of  Scotland  near  Perth.  The 
stone  of  Scone,  on  which  Jacob  rested  his  head  at  Bethel,  was  carried  to  England  by 
Edward  I.  It  has  ever  since  formed  a  part  of  the  coronation  chair  of  English  kings  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  33.  Colmekill,  Icolmkill,  i.e.,  Cell  of  St.  Columba,  the  barren  islet 
of  lona  in  the  Western  Islands,  a  sacred  spot  where  the  kings  were  buried;  here  called 
a  storehouse. 

MACBETH   ACT   U:    SC   IV         535 


ROSS.  Farewell,  father. 

OLD  MAN.  God's  benison  go  with  you;  and  with  those  40 

That  would  make  good  of  bad,  and  friends  of  foes!  (Exeunt) 

ACT  III 

Scene  I:  Forres.  The  palace. 
Enter  BANQUO. 

BANQUO.  Thou  hast  it  now:  king,  Cawdor,  Glamis,  all, 

As  the  weird  women  promised,  and,  I  fear, 

Thou  play'dst  most  foully  for 't:  yet  it  was  said 

It  should  not  stand  in  thy  posterity, 

But  that  myself  should  be  the  root  and  father  5 

Of  many  kings.  If  there  come  truth  from  them— 

As  upon  thee,  Macbeth,  their  speeches  shine- 
Why,  by  the  verities  on  thee  made  good, 

May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well, 

And  set  me  up  in  hope?  But  hush!  no  more.  10 

(Sennet  sounded.  Enter  MACBETH,  as  king,  LADY  MACBETH,  as  queen,  LENNOX, 

ROSS,  Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants ) 
MACBETH.  Here 's  our  chief  guest. 
LADY  MACBETH  If  he  had  been  forgotten. 

It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  our  great  feast, 

And  all-thing  unbecoming. 
MACBETH.  To-night  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,  sir, 

And  I'll  request  your  presence. 
BANQUO.  Let  your  highness  15 

Command  upon  me;  to  the  which  my  duties 

Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 

For  ever  knit. 

MACBETH.  Ride  you  this  afternoon? 

BANQUO.  Ay,  my  good  lord.  20 

MACBETH.  We  should  have  else  desired  your  good  advice, 

Which  still  hath  been  both  grave  and  prosperous, 

In  this  day's  council;  but  well  take  to-morrow. 

Is 't  far  you  ride? 
BANQUO.  As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time  25 

Twixt  this  and  supper:  go  not  my  horse  the  better, 

I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night 

ACT  in,  SCENE  i.  7.  shine,  are  brilliantly  manifest.  13.  all-thing,  in  every  way.  14, 
solemn,  ceremonious. 

536        THE   DRAMA 


For  a  dark  hour  or  twain. 
MACBETH.  Fail  not  our  feast. 

BANQUO.  My  lord,  I  will  not. 
MACBETH.  We  hear,  our  bloody  cousins  are  bestow'd  30 

In  England  and  in  Ireland,  not  confessing 

Their  cruel  parricide,  filling  their  hearers 

With  strange  invention:  but  of  that  to-morrow, 

When  therewithal  we  shall  have  cause  of  state 

Craving  us  jointly.  Hie  you  to  horse:  adieu,  35 

Till  you  return  at  night.  Goes  Fleance  with  you? 
BANQUO.  Ay,  my  good  lord:  our  time  does  call  upon 's. 
MACBETH.  I  wish  your  horses  swift  and  sure  of  foot; 

And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 

Farewell.  (Exit  BANQUO)  4° 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time 

Till  seven  at  night:  to  make  society 

The  sweeter  welcome,  we  will  keep  ourself 

Till  supper-time  alone:  while  then,  God  be  with  you! 

( Exeunt  all  but  MACBETH,  and  an  Attendant) 

Sirrah,  a  word  with  you:  attend  those  men  45 

Our  pleasure? 

ATTENDANT.  They  are,  my  lord,  without  the  palace  gate. 
MACBETH.  Bring  them  before  us.  (Exit  Attendant) 

To  be  thus  is  nothing; 

But  to  be  safely  thus.— Our  fears  in  Banquo 

Stick  deep;  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature  5° 

Reigns  that  which  would  be  fear'd:  'tis  much  he  dares; 

And,  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind, 

He  hath  a  wisdom  that  doth  guide  his  valour 

To  act  in  safety.  There  is  none  but  he 

Whose  being  I  do  fear:  and,  under  him,  55 

My  Genius  is  rebuked;  as,  it  is  said, 

Mark  Antony's  was  by  Caesar.  He  chid  the  sisters 

When  first  they  put  the  name  of  king  upon  me, 

And  bade  them  speak  to  him:  then  prophet-like 

They  hail'd  him  father  to  a  line  of  kings:  60 

Upon  my  head  they  placed  a  fruitless  crown, 

And  put  a  barren  sceptre  in  my  gripe, 


30.  bestow'd,  lodged.  34.  cause  of  state,  questions  of  state.  44.  while,  till.  4S-49.  To 
.  .  .  thus.  This  is  explained  in  several  ways,  of  which  the  following  is  perhaps  correct: 
"To  be  thus  (i.e.,  on  the  throne)  is  nothing  unless  we  are  safely  on  the  throne."  62. 
gripe,  grasp. 

MACBETH  ACT  III:    SC   I        537 


Thence  to  be  wrench'd  with  an  unlineal  hand, 

No  son  of  mine  succeeding.  If 't  be  so, 

For  Banquo's  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind;  65 

For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  I  murder'd; 

Put  rancours  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 

Only  for  them;  and  mine  eternal  jewel 

Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man, 

To  make  them  kings,  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings!  70 

Rather  than  so,  come  fate  into  the  list, 

And  champion  me  to  the  utterance!  Who 's  there? 
(Re-enter  Attendant,  with  two  Murderers) 

Now  go  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call.  ( Exit  Attendant ) 

Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together? 
FIRST  MURDERER.  It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 
MACBETH.  Well  then,  now  75 

Have  you  consider'd  of  my  speeches?  Know 

That  it  was  he  in  the  times  past  which  held  you 

So  under  fortune,  which  you  thought  had  been 

Our  innocent  self:  this  I  made  good  to  you 

In  our  last  conference,  pass'd  in  probation  with  you,  80 

How  you  were  borne  in  hand,  how  cross'd,  the  instruments, 

Who  wrought  with  them,  and  all  things  else  that  might 

To  half  a  soul  and  to  a  notion  crazed 

Say  'Thus  did  Banquo." 

FIRST  MURDERER.  You  made  it  known  to  us. 

MACBETH.  I  did  so,  and  went  further,  which  is  now  85 

Our  point  of  second  meeting.  Do  you  find 

Your  patience  so  predominant  in  your  nature 

That  you  can  let  this  go?  Are  you  so  gospell'd 

To  pray  for  this  good  man  and  for  his  issue, 

Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bow'd  you  to  the  grave  90 

And  beggar'd  yours  for  ever? 

FIRST  MURDERER.  We  are  men,  my  liege. 

MACBETH.  Ay,  in  the  catalogue  ye  go  for  men; 

As  hounds  and  greyhounds,  mongrels,  spaniels,  curs, 

Shoughs,  water-rugs  and  demi-wolves  are  clept 


65.  fled,  defiled.  71.  list,  lists,  place  of  combat.  72.  champion  me,  fight  with  me  in 
single  combat,  to  the  utterance,  to  the  last  extremity;  French  a  I'outrance.  80.  probation, 
proof,  i.e.,  in  detail.  81.  borne  in  hand,  deceived  (by  false  promises).  83.  notion,  mind. 
88.  gospell'd,  imbued  with  the  gospel  spirit.  94.  Shoughs,  a  kind  of  shaggy  dog,  called 
also  shocks,  water-rugs,  rough  water  dogs(?).  demi-wolves,  apparently  a  crossbreed 
with  the  wolf,  clept,  called. 

538      THE  DJIAMA 


All  by  the  name  of  dogs:  the  valued  file  95 

Distinguishes  the  swift,  the  slow,  the  subtle, 

The  housekeeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 

According  to  the  gift  which  bounteous  nature 

Hath  in  him  closed,  whereby  he  does  receive 

Particular  addition,  from  the  bill  100 

That  writes  them  all  alike:  and  so  of  men. 

Now,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  file, 

Not  i'  the  worst  rank  of  manhood,  say 't; 

And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms, 

Whose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off,  105 

Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us, 

Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life, 

Which  in  his  death  were  perfect. 
SECOND  MURDERER.  I  am  one,  my  liege, 

Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 

Have  so  incensed  that  I  am  reckless  what  no 

I  do  to  spite  the  world. 
FIRST  MURDERER.  And  I  another 

So  weary  with  disasters,  tugg'd  with  fortune, 

That  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance, 

To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on  't. 
MACBETH.  Both  of  you 

Know  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 

BOTH  MURDERERS.  True,  my  lord.  115 

MACBETH.  So  is  he  mine;  and  in  such  bloody  distance, 

That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 

Against  my  near'st  of  life:  and  though  I  could 

With  barefaced  power  sweep  him  from  my  sight 

And  bid  my  will  avouch  it,  yet  I  must  not,  120 

For  certain  friends  that  are  both  his  and  mine, 

Whose  loves  I  may  not  drop,  but  wail  his  fall 

Who  I  myself  struck  down;  and  thence  it  is, 

That  I  to  your  assistance  do  make  love, 

Masking  the  business  from  the  common  eye  125 

For  sundry  weighty  reasons. 
SECOND  MURDERER.  We  shall,  my  lord, 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 


95.  valued  file,  list  classified  according  to  value.  97.  housekeeper,  watchdog.  100. 
Particular  .  .  .  bill,  particular  qualification  apart  from  the  catalog.  112.  tugg'd  with, 
pulled  about  by  (as  in  wrestling).  116.  distance,  hostility.  118.  nearst  of  life,  most  vital 
interests.  120.  avouch,  warrant,  i.e.,  destroy  him  as  an  act  of  royal  will. 

MACBETH  ACT  m;    SC  I        539 


FIRST  MURDERER.  Though  GUI  lives— 

MACBETH.  Your  spirits  shine  through  you.  Within  this  hour  at  most 

I  will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves; 

Acquaint  you  with  the  perfect  spy  o'  the  time,  13* 

The  moment  on  't;  for 't  must  be  done  to-night, 

And  something  from  the  palace;  always  thought 

That  I  require  a  clearness:  and  with  him— 

To  leave  no  rubs  nor  botches  in  the  work— 

Fleance  his  son,  that  keeps  him  company,  135 

Whose  absence  is  no  less  material  to  me 

Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate 

Of  that  dark  hour.  Resolve  yourselves  apart: 

111  come  to  you  anon. 

BOTH  MURDERERS.  We  are  resolved,  my  lord. 

MACBETH.  I'll  call  upon  you  straight:  abide  within.  (Exeunt  Murderers)    140 

It  is  concluded.  Banquo,  thy  soul's  flight, 

If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night.  (Exit ) 

Scene  II:  The  palace. 
Enter  LADY  MACBETH  and  a  Servant. 

LADY  MACBETH.  Is  Banquo  gone  from  court? 

SERVANT.  Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

LADY  MACBETH.  Say  to  the  king,  I  would  attend  his  leisure 

For  a  few  words. 

SERVANT.  Madam,  I  will.  (Exit) 

LADY  MACBETH.  Nought 's  had,  all's  spent, 

Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content:  5 

*Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 

Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 
(Enter  MACBETH) 

How  now,  my  lord!  why  do  you  keep  alone, 

Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making, 

Using  those  thoughts  which  should  indeed  have  died  10 

With  them  they  think  on?  Things  without  all  remedy 

Should  be  without  regard:  what 's  done  is  done. 
MACBETH.  We  have  scotch'd  the  snake,  not  kill'd  it: 

She'll  close  and  be  herself,  whilst  our  poor  malice 


128.  Your  .  .  .  you,  i.e.,  the  spirits  of  hatred  and  revenge  rise  into  their  faces.  130. 
perfect  spy  o  the  time,  knowledge  or  espiel  of  the  exact  time;  many  conjectures.  132, 
thought,  being  borne  in  mind.  133.  clearness,  freedom  from  suspicion.  SCENE  n.  13. 
swtch'd,  cut,  gashed. 

540        THE   DRAMA 


Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth.  15 

But  let  the  frame  of  things  disjoint,  both  the  worlds  suffer, 

Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear  and  sleep 

In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams 

That  shake  us  nightly:  better  be  with  the  dead, 

Whom  we,  to  gain  our  peace,  have  sent  to  peace,  20 

Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 

In  restless  ecstasy.  Duncan  is  in  his  grave; 

After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well; 

Treason  has  done  his  worst:  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 

Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing,  25 

Can  touch  him  further. 

LADY  MACBETH.  Come  Ott; 

Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  among  your  guests  to-night. 
MACBETH.  So  shall  I,  love;  and  so,  I  pray,  be  you: 

Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo;  3° 

Present  him  eminence,  both  with  eye  and  tongue: 

Unsafe  the  while,  that  we 

Must  lave  our  honours  in  these  flattering  streams, 

And  make  our  faces  vizards  to  our  hearts, 

Disguising  what  they  are. 

LADY  MACBETH.  You  must  leave  this.  35 

MACBETH.  O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife! 

Thou  know'st  that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance,  lives. 
LADY  MACBETH.  But  in  them  nature's  copy 's  not  eterne. 
MACBETH.  There  's  comfort  yet;  they  are  assailable; 

Then  be  thou  jocund:  ere  the  bat  hath  flown  40 

His  cloister'd  flight,  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 

The  shard-borne  beetle  with  his  drowsy  hums 

Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 

A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

LADY  MACBETH.  What 's  to  be  done? 

MACBETH.  Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck,  45 

Till  thou  applaud  the  deed.  Come,  seeling  night, 

16.  frame  of  things,  universe,  both  the  worlds  suffer,  heaven  and  earth  perish. 
27.  sleek  o'er,  smooth.  31.  Present  him  eminence,  distinguish  him  with  favor.  32-33.  Un- 
safe .  .  .  streams,  we  are  unsafe  so  long  as  we  have  to  keep  our  dignities  unsullied  by 
means  of  flattery.  38.  nature's  copy,  lease  of  life  (i.e.,  by  copyhold);  possibly,  man. 
eterne,  perpetual.  42.  shard-borne,  borne  on  shards,  or  horny  wing  cases.  43.  yawning, 
drowsy.  45.  chuck,  term  of  endearment.  46.  seeling,  eye-closing.  Night  is  pictured  as  a 
falconer  sewing  up  the  eyes  of  day  lest  it  should  struggle  against  the  deed  that  is  to  be 
done  (Parrott). 

MACBETH  ACT  HI;    SC   II        541 


Scarf  up  the  tender  eye  of  pitiful  day; 

And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand 

Cancel  and  tear  to  pieces  that  great  bond 

Which  keeps  me  pale!  Light  thickens;  and  the  crow  50 

Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood: 

Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse; 

Whiles  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouse. 

Thou  marvelFst  at  my  words:  but  hold  thee  still: 

Things  bad  begun  make  strong  themselves  by  ill.  55 

So,  prithee,  go  with  me.  (Exeunt ) 

Scene  III:  A  park  near  the  palace. 
Enter  three  Murderers. 
FIRST  MURDERER.  But  who  did  bid  thee  join  with  us? 

THIRD  MURDERER.  Macbeth. 

SECOND  MURDERER.  He  needs  not  our  mistrust,  since  he  delivers 

Our  offices  and  what  we  have  to  do 

To  the  direction  just. 
FIRST  MURDERER.  Then  stand  with  us. 

The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  day.  5 

Now  spurs  the  lated  traveller  apace 

To  gain  the  timely  inn;  and  near  approaches 

The  subject  of  our  watch. 

THIRD  MURDERER.  Hark!  I  hear  horses. 

BANQUO  (within).  Give  us  a  light  there,  ho! 
SECOND  MURDERER.  Then  'tis  he:  the  rest 

That  are  within  the  note  of  expectation  i° 

Already  are  i'  the  court. 

FIRST  MURDERER.  His  horses  go  about. 

THIRD  MURDERER.  Almost  a  mile:  but  he  does  usually, 

So  all  men  do,  from  hence  to  the  palace  gate 

Make  it  their  walk. 

SECOND  MURDERER.       A  light,  a  lightl 
(Enter  BANQUO,  and  FLEANCE  with  a  torch) 

THIRD  MURDERER.  'TlS  he. 

FIRST  MURDERER.  Stand  to  't.  f3 


47.  Scarf  up,  blindfold.  49.  bond,  Banquo's  lease  of  life.  51.  rooky,  full  of  rooks. 
SCENE  in.  2-3.  He  .  .  .  offices,  we  need  not  mistrust  him,  since  he  reports  upon  our 
business.  4.  To,  according  to.  just,  exactly.  That  is,  they  know  he  comes  from  Macbeth; 
it  has  been  thought  by  certain  ingenious  critics  that  the  Third  Murderer  is  Macbeth. 
6.  lated,  belated.  10.  note  of  expectation,  list  of  those  expected. 


542 


THE  DRAMA 


BANQUO.  It  will  be  rain  to-night. 

FIRST  MURDERER.  Let  it  come  down.  (They  set  upon  BANQUO) 

BANQUO.  O,  treachery!  Fly,  good  Fleance,  fly,  fly,  flyl 

Thou  mayst  revenge.  O  slavel  (Dies.  FLEANCE  escapes) 
THIRD  MURDERER.  Who  did  strike  out  the  light? 

FIRST  MURDERER.  Was  't  not  the  way? 

THIRD  MURDERER.  There 's  but  one  down;  the  son  is  fled. 
SECOND  MURDERER.  We  have  lost        20 

Best  half  of  our  affair. 
FIRST  MURDERER.  Well,  let 's  away,  and  say  how  much  is  done.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  IV:  The  same.  Hall  in  the  palace. 

A  banquet  prepared.  Enter  MACBETH,  LADY  MACBETH,  ROSS,  LENNOX,  Lords, 
and  Attendants. 

MACBETH.  You  know  your  own  degrees;  sit  down:  at  first 

And  last  the  hearty  welcome. 

LORDS.  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

MACBETH.  Ourself  will  mingle  with  society, 

And  play  the  humble  host. 

Our  hostess  keeps  her  state,  but  in  best  time  5 

We  will  require  her  welcome. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Pronounce  it  for  me,  sir,  to  all  our  friends; 

For  my  heart  speaks  they  are  welcome. 
(First  Murderer  appears  at  the  door) 
MACBETH.  See,  they  encounter  thee  with  their  hearts'  thanks. 

Both  sides  are  even:  here  I'll  sit  i'  the  midst:  *o 

Be  large  in  mirth;  anon  we'll  drink  a  measure 

The  table  round.  (Approaching  the  door)  There 's  blood  upon  thy  face. 
MURDERER.  'Tis  Banquo's  then. 
MACBETH.  'Tis  better  thee  without  than  he  within. 

Is  he  dispatched?  *5 

MURDERER.  My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut;  that  I  did  for  him. 
MACBETH.  Thou  art  the  best  o'  the  cut-throats:  yet  he 's  good 

That  did  the  like  for  Fleance:  if  thou  didst  it, 

Thou  art  the  nonpareil. 
MURDERER.  Most  royal  sir, 


SCENE  iv.  1.  degrees,  ranks.  1-2.  at  first  And  last,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  (of 
the  feast).  6.  require,  request.  14.  Tw  better  .  .  .  within.  It  is  better  for  it  to  be  on 
the  outside  of  thee  than  on  the  inside  of  him;  sometimes  explained  as  "better  that  his 
blood  should  be  on  thy  face  than  he  in  this  room/' 

MACBETH   ACT   III:    SC   IV        543 


Fleance  is  'scaped.  20 

IACBETH.  Then  comes  my  fit  again:  I  had  else  been  perfect, 

Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock, 

As  broad  and  general  as  the  casing  air: 

But  now  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confined,  bound  in 

To  saucy  doubts  and  fears.  But  Banquo  's  safe?  25 

IURDERER.  Ay,  my  good  lord:  safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides, 

With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head; 

The  least  a  death  to  nature. 
IACBETH.  Thanks  for  that. 

There  the  grown  serpent  lies;  the  worm  that 's  fled 

Hath  nature  that  in  time  will  venom  breed,  30 

No  teeth  for  the  present.  Get  thee  gone:  to-morrow 

We'll  hear,  ourselves,  again.  ( Exit  Murderer ) 
ADY  MACBETH.  My  royal  lord, 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer:  the  feast  is  sold 

That  is  not  often  vouched,  while  'tis  a-making, 

Tis  given  with  welcome:  to  feed  were  best  at  home;  35 

From  thence  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony; 

Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 
[ACBETH.  Sweet  remembrancer! 

Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 

And  health  on  both! 

ENNOX.  May 't  please  your  highness  sit. 

The  Ghost  of  BANQUO  enters,  and  sits  in  MACBETH'S  place ) 
TACBETH.  Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honour  roof'd,  40 

Were  the  graced  person  of  our  Banquo  present; 

Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 

Than  pity  for  mischance! 
oss.  His  absence,  sir, 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.  Please  't  your  highness 

To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company.  45 

[ACBETH.  The  table  's  full. 

ENNOX.  Here  is  a  place  reserved,  sir. 

rACBETH.  Where? 

ENNOX.  Here,  my  good  lord.  What  is  't  that  moves  your  highness? 
IACBETH.  Which  of  you  have  done  this? 
ORDS.  What,  my  good  lord? 


23.  casing,  enveloping.  24-25.  bound  in  To,  confined  along  with.  25.  saucy,  sharp 
Koppel);  impudent  (Schmidt).  26.  bides,  lies.  29.  worm,  small  serpent.  32.  hear,  our- 
elves,  talk  it  over.  34.  vouch'd,  assurance  given  that  it  is  not  sold  like  a  meal  at  an  inn. 
0.  roofd,  under  one  roof.  41.  graced,  gracious.  42.  Who  may  I,  whom  I  hope  I  may. 

544         THE   DRAMA 


MACBETH.  Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it:  never  shake  50 

Thy  gory  locks  at  me. 

ROSS.  Gentlemen  rise;  his  highness  is  not  well. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Sit,  worthy  friends:  my  lord  is  often  thus, 

And  hath  been  from  his  youth:  pray  you,  keep  seat; 

The  fit  is  momentary;  upon  a  thought  55 

He  will  again  be  well:  if  much  you  note  him, 

You  shall  offend  him  and  extend  his  passion: 

Feed,  and  regard  him  not.  Are  you  a  man? 
MACBETH.  Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 

Which  might  appal  the  devil. 
LADY  MACBETH.  O  proper  stuffl  60 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear: 

This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger  which,  you  said, 

Led  you  to  Duncan.  O,  these  flaws  and  starts, 

Impostors  to  true  fear,  would  well  become 

A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire,  65 

Authorized  by  her  grandam.  Shame  itself! 

Why  do  you  make  such  faces?  When  all 's  done, 

You  look  but  on  a  stool. 
MACBETH.  Prithee,  see  there!  behold!  look!  lo!  how  say  you? 

Why,  what  care  I?  If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too.  70 

If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 

Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 

Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  (Ghost  vanishes) 
LADY  MACBETH.  What,  quite  unmanned  in  folly? 

MACBETH.  If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Fie,  for  shame! 

MACBETH.  Blood  hath  beea  shed  ere  now,  f  the  olden  time,  75 

Ere  humane  statute  purged  the  gentle  weal; 

Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  performed 

Too  terrible  for  the  ear:  the  time  has  been, 

That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 

And  there  an  end;  but  now  they  rise  again,  80 

With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns, 

And  push  us  from  our  stools:  this  is  more  strange 

Than  such  a  murder  is. 


55.  upon  a  thought,  in  a  moment.  57.  extend,  prolong.  60.  O  proper  stuff!  O  veritable 
nonsense!  64.  to,  compared  with.  73.  maws,  stomachs.  If  the  body  were  devoured  by 
kites,  the  ghost  could  not  rise.  76.  humane.  This  spelling  carried  both  meanings:  "ap- 
pertaining to  mankind"  and  "befitting  man."  purged  .  .  .  weal,  cleansed  the  common- 
wealth of  violence  and  made  it  gentle.  81.  mortal  murders,  deadly  wounds. 

MACBETH   ACT  HI:    SC   IV        545 


LADY  MACBETH.  My  worthy  lord, 

Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 
MACBETH.  I  do  forget. 

Do  not  muse  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends;  85 

I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 

To  those  that  know  me.  Come,  love  and  health  to  all; 

Then  111  sit  down.  Give  me  some  wine;  fill  full. 

I  drink  to  the  general  joy  o*  the  whole  table, 

And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  whom  we  miss;  90 

Would  he  were  herel  to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst, 

And  all  to  all. 

LORDS.  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge. 

(Re-enter  Ghost) 
MACBETH.  Avaunt!  and  quit  my  sight!  let  the  earth  hide  thee! 

Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold; 

Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes  95 

Which  thou  dost  glare  with! 
LADY  MACBETH.  Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom:  'tis  no  other; 

Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 
MACBETH.  What  man  dare,  I  dare: 

Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Russian  bear,  100 

The  arm'd  rhinoceros,  or  the  Hyrcan  tiger; 

Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 

Shall  never  tremble:  or  be  alive  again, 

And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword; 

If  trembling  I  inhabit  then,  protest  me  105 

The  baby  of  a  girl.  Hence,  horrible  shadow! 

Unreal  mockery,  hence!  (Ghost  vanishes) 

Why,  so:  being  gone, 

I  am  a  man  again.  Pray  you,  sit  still. 
LADY  MACBETH.  You  have  displaced  the  mirth,  broke  the  good  meeting, 

With  most  admired  disorder. 
MACBETH.  Can  such  things  be,  "o 

And  overcome  us  like  a  summer's  cloud, 

Without  our  special  wonder?  You  make  me  strange 


84.  lack,  miss.  91.  thirst,  desire  to  drink.  92.  all  to  all,  all  good  wishes  to  all. 
95.  speculation,  light  of  living  intellect;  also  defined  as  "power  of  sight."  100-101.  bear 
.  .  .  tiger.  Bears  of  Russia  and  tigers  of  Hyrcania  were  types  of  ferocity.  101.  arm'd 
sheathed  in  armor.  105.  If  .  .  .  then,  if  then  I  tremble  (i.e.,  put  on  trembling  as  a  gar- 
ment). 106.  baby  of  a  girl,  (puny)  infant  of  an  immature  mother.  109.  displaced, 
banished. 

546        THE  DRAMA 


Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe, 

When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 

And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks,  "5 

When  mine  is  blanch'd  with  fear. 

ROSS.  What  sights,  my  lord? 

LADY  MACBETH.  I  pray  you,  speak  not;  he  grows  worse  and  worse; 

Question  enrages  him.  At  once,  good  night: 

Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 

But  go  at  once. 
LENNOX.  Good  night;  and  better  health  «o 

Attend  his  majesty! 
LADY  MACBETH.  A  kind  good  night  to  all! 

( Exeunt  all  but  MACBETH  and  LADY  MACBETH) 
MACBETH.  It  will  have  blood;  they  say,  blood  will  have  blood: 

Stones  have  been  known  to  move  and  trees  to  speak; 

Augurs  and  understood  relations  have 

By  magot-pies  and  choughs  and  rooks  brought  forth  "5 

The  secret'st  man  of  blood.  What  is  the  night? 
LADY  MACBETH.  Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is  which. 
MACBETH.  How  say'st  thou,  that  Macduff  denies  his  person 

At  our  great  bidding? 

LADY  MACBETH.  Did  you  send  to  him,  sir? 

MACBETH.  I  hear  it  by  the  way;  but  I  will  send:  130 

There 's  not  a  one  of  them  but  in  his  house 

I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.  I  will  to-morrow, 

And  betimes  I  will,  to  the  weird  sisters: 

More  shall  they  speak;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 

By  the  worst  means,  the  worst.  For  mine  own  good,  135 

All  causes  shall  give  way:  I  am  in  blood 

Stepp'd  in  so  far  that,  should  I  wade  no  more, 

Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er: 

Strange  things  I  have  in  head,  that  will  to  hand; 

Which  must  be  acted  ere  they  may  be  scann'd.  MO 

LADY  MACBETH.  You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep. 
MACBETH.  Come,  well  to  sleep.  My  strange  and  self -abuse 

Is  the  initiate  fear  that  wants  hard  use: 

We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed.  (Exeunt) 


119.  Stand  .  .  .  order,  do  not  wait  for  the  ceremonies.  123.  Stones,  thought  to  be  an 
allusion  to  rocking-stones  or  great  stones  so  balanced  on  their  foundations  that  they  can 
be  rocked  with  little  effort.  124.  Augurs,  probably,  auguries,  understood  relations,  secret 
mystical  connections.  125.  ma  got -pies,  magpies.  141.  season,  seasoning,  relish.  142.  self- 
abuse,  self-delusion.  143.  initiate,  of  the  beginner,  use,  experience. 

MACBETH   ACT  OT:    9C  IV        547 


Scene  V:  A  heath. 
Thunder.  Enter  the  three  Witches,  meeting  HECATE. 

FIRST  WITCH.  Why,  how  now,  Hecate!  you  look  angerly. 
HECATE.  Have  I  not  reason,  beldams  as  you  are, 

Saucy  and  overbold?  How  did  you  dare 

To  trade  and  traffic  with  Macbeth 

In  riddles  and  affairs  of  death;  5 

And  I,  the  mistress  of  your  charms, 

The  close  contriver  of  all  harms, 

Was  never  call'd  to  bear  my  part, 

Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art? 

And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done  10 

Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son, 

Spiteful  and  wrathful,  who,  as  others  do, 

Loves  for  his  own  ends,  not  for  you. 

But  make  amends  now:  get  you  gone, 

And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron  15 

Meet  me  f  the  morning:  thither  he 

Will  come  to  know  his  destiny: 

Your  vessels  and  your  spells  provide, 

Your  charms  and  every  thing  beside. 

I  am  for  the  air;  this  night  I'll  spend  20 

Unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end: 

Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon: 

Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 

There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound; 

I'll  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground:  25 

And  that  distill'd  by  magic  sleights 

Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprites 

As  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion 

Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion: 

He  shall  spurn  fate,  scorn  death,  and  bear  30 

His  hopes  'bove  wisdom,  grace  and  fear: 

And  you  all  know,  security 

Is  mortals'  chiefest  enemy. 

(Music  and  a  song  within:  "Come  away,  corne  away,"  &c.) 

Hark!  I  am  call'd;  my  little  spirit,  see, 

SCENE  v.  15.  Acheron,  a  river  of  hell.  24.  profound,  ready  to  drop(?)  of  deep  sig- 
nificance^) 27.  artificial,  produced  by  magical  arts.  32.  security,  confidence,  over- 
confidence. 


548 


THE   DRAMA 


Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  for  me.  ( Exit )  35 

FIRST  WITCH.  Come,  let 's  make  haste;  shell  soon  be  back  again.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  VI:  Forres.  The  palace. 
Enter  LENNOX  and  another  Lord. 

LENNOX.  My  former  speeches  have  but  hit  your  thoughts, 

Which  can  interpret  further:  only,  I  say, 

Things  have  been  strangely  borne.  The  gracious  Duncan 

Was  pitied  of  Macbeth:  marry,  he  was  dead: 

And  the  right- valiant  Banquo  walk'd  too  late;  5 

Whom,  you  may  say,  if 't  please  you,  Fleance  kill'd, 

For  Fleance  fled:  men  must  not  walk  too  late. 

Who  cannot  want  the  thought  how  monstrous 

It  was  for  Malcolm  and  for  Donalbain 

To  kill  their  gracious  father?  damned  fact!  10 

How  it  did  grieve  Macbeth!  did  he  not  straight 

In  pious  rage  the  two  delinquents  tear, 

That  were  the  slaves  of  drink  and  thralls  of  sleep? 

Was  not  that  nobly  done?  Ay,  and  wisely  too; 

For  'twould  have  anger'd  any  heart  alive  15 

To  hear  the  men  deny  't.  So  that,  I  say, 

He  has  borne  all  things  well:  and  I  do  think 

That  had  he  Duncan's  sons  under  his  key- 
As,  an  't  please  heaven,  he  shall  not— they  should  find 

What  'twere  to  kill  a  father;  so  should  Fleance.  20 

But,  peace!  for  from  broad  words  and  'cause  he  fail'd 

His  presence  at  the  tyrant's  feast,  I  hear 

Macduff  lives  in  disgrace:  sir,  can  you  tell 

Where  he  bestows  himself? 
LORD.  The  son  of  Duncan, 

From  whom  this  tyrant  holds  the  due  of  birth,  25 

Lives  in  the  English  court,  and  is  received 

Of  the  most  pious  Edward  with  such  grace 

That  the  malevolence  of  fortune  nothing 

Takes  from  his  high  respect:  thither  Macduff 

Is  gone  to  pray  the  holy  king,  upon  his  aid  30 

To  wake  Northumberland  and  warlike  Siward: 

That,  by  the  help  of  these— with  Him  above 

SCENE  vi.  8.  want  the  thought,  help  thinking.  21.  from,  on  account  of.  broad,  open, 
plain.  22.  tyrant's,  usurper's.  27.  Edward,  Edward  the  Confessor.  30.  upon  his  aid,  in  aid 
of  Malcolm. 

MACBETH    ACT   III:    SC   VI        549 


To  ratify  the  work— we  may  again 

Give  to  our  tables  meat,  sleep  to  our  nights, 

Free  from  our  feasts  and  banquets  bloody  knives,  35 

Do  faithful  homage  and  receive  free  honours: 

All  which  we  pine  for  now:  and  this  report 

Hath  so  exasperate  the  king  that  he 

Prepares  for  some  attempt  of  war. 

LENNOX.  Sent  he  to  Macduff  ? 

LORD.  He  did:  and  with  an  absolute  "Sir,  not  I,"  40 

The  cloudy  messenger  turns  me  his  back, 

And  hums,  as  who  should  say  "You'll  rue  the  time 

That  clogs  me  with  this  answer." 
LENNOX.  And  that  well  might 

Advise  him  to  a  caution,  to  hold  what  distance 

His  wisdom  can  provide.  Some  holy  angel  45 

Fly  to  the  court  of  England  and  unfold 

His  message  ere  he  come,  that  a  swift  blessing 

May  soon  return  to  this  our  suffering  country 

Under  a  hand  accursed! 
LORD.  Ill  send  my  prayers  with  him.  (Exeunt) 

ACT  IV 

Scene  I:  A  cavern.  In  the  middle,  a  boiling  cauldron. 
Thunder.  Enter  the  three  Witches. 

FIRST  WITCH.  Thrice  the  brinded  cat  hath  mew'd. 
SECOND  WITCH.  Thrice  and  once  the  hedge-pig  whined. 
THIRD  WITCH.  Harpier  cries  'Tis  time,  'tis  time. 
FIRST  WITCH.  Round  about  the  cauldron  go; 

In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw.  5 

Toad,  that  under  cold  stone 

Days  and  nights  has  thirty  one 

Swelter'd  venom  sleeping  got, 

Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot. 
ALL.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble;  10 


35.  Free  .  .  .  feasts,  free  our  feasts  from.  36.  free,  freely  bestowed,  or  the  honors 
pertaining  to  freemen.  40.  absolute,  curt,  peremptory.  41.  cloudy,  sullen.  48-49.  suf- 
fering country  Under,  country  suffering  under. 

ACT  rv,  SCENE  i.  1.  brinded,  marked  with  streaks  (as  by  fire),  brindled.  2.  hedge-pig, 
hedgehog.  3.  Harpier,  form  doubtful,  probably  intended  for  "harpy."  6.  cold,  two  syl- 
lables. 8.  venom.  The  toad  was  commonly  thought  to  be  venomous. 

550        THE  DRAMA 


Fire  burn,  and  cauldron  bubble. 
SECOND  WITCH.  Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 

In  the  cauldron  boil  and  bake; 

Eye  of  newt  and  toe  of  frog, 

Wool  of  bat  and  tongue  of  dog,  15 

Adder's  fork  and  blind-worm's  sting, 

Lizard's  leg  and  howlet's  wing, 

For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble, 

Like  a  hell-broth  boil  and  bubble. 
ALL.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble;  20 

Fire  burn  and  cauldron  bubble. 
THIRD  WITCH.  Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf, 

Witches'  mummy,  maw  and  gulf 

Of  the  ravin'd  salt-sea  shark, 

Root  of  hemlock  digg'd  i'  the  dark,  25 

Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew, 

Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew 

Sliver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse, 

Nose  of  Turk  and  Tartar's  lips, 

Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe  3° 

Ditch-deliver'd  by  a  drab, 

Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab: 

Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chaudron, 

For  the  ingredients  of  our  cauldron. 
ALL.  Double,  double  toil  and  trouble;  35 

Fire  burn  and  cauldron  bubble. 
SECOND  WITCH.  Cool  it  with  a  baboon's  blood, 

Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 
(Enter  HECATE  to  the  other  three  Witches) 
HECATE.  O,  well  done!  I  commend  your  pains; 

And  every  one  shall  share  i'  the  gains:  40 

And  now  about  the  cauldron  sing, 

Likes  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring, 

Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

( Music  and  a  song:  "Black  spirits,"  &c.  HECATE  retires) 
SECOND  WITCH.  By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs, 

Something  wicked  this  way  comes.  45 

Open,  locks, 
Whoever  knocks! 


16.  fork,  forked  tongue,  blind- worm,  a  harmless  kind  of  snake  also  called  slowworm. 
17.  howlet's,  owl's.  23.  gulf,  gullet.  24.  ravind,  ravenous.  32.  slab,  viscous,  thick.  33. 
chaudron,  entrails. 

MACBETH   ACT  IV:    SC   I        551 


(Enter  MACBETH) 

MACBETH.  How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  midnight  hags! 

What  is  't  you  do? 

ALL.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

MACBETH.  I  conjure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess,  5° 

Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it,  answer  me: 

Though  you  untie  the  winds  and  let  them  fight 

Against  the  churches;  though  the  yesty  waves 

Confound  and  swallow  navigation  up; 

Though  bladed  corn  be  lodged  and  trees  blown  down;  55 

Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders'  heads; 

Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  slope 

Their  heads  to  their  foundations;  though  the  treasure 

Of  nature's  germens  tumble  all  together, 

Even  till  destruction  sicken;  answer  me  60 

To  what  I  ask  you. 
FIRST  WITCH.  Speak. 

SECOND  WITCH.  Demand, 

THIRD  WITCH.  We'll  answer. 

FIRST  WITCH.  Say,  if  thou  'dst  rather  hear  it  from  our  mouths, 

Or  from  our  masters? 

MACBETH.  Call  'em;  let  me  see  'em. 

FIRST  WITCH.  Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 

Her  nine  farrow;  grease  that  's  sweaten  65 

From  the  murderer's  gibbet  throw 

Into  the  flame. 
ALL.  Come,  high  or  low; 

Thyself  and  office  deftly  show! 
(Thunder.  First  Apparition:  an  armed  Head) 
MACBETH.  Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power,— 
FIRST  WITCH.  He  knows  thy  thought: 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  nought.  7° 

FIRST  APPARITION.  Macbeth!  Macbeth!  Macbeth!  beware  Macduff; 

Beware  the  thane  of  Fife.  Dismiss  me.  Enough.  (Descends) 
MACBETH.  Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution,  thanks; 

Thou  hast  harp'd  my  fear  aright:  but  one  word  more,— 
FIRST  WITCH.  He  will  not  be  commanded:  here 's  another,  75 


53.  gesty,  foamy.  55.  bladed,  in  the  blade,  still  green,  corn,  general  name  for  wheat 
and  other  grains,  lodged,  thrown  down,  laid.  59.  nature's  germens,  seeds  or  elements, 
from  which  nature  operates.  60.  sicken,  be  surfeited.  65.  nine  farrow,  litter  «f  nine. 
68.  Stage  direction:  armed  Head.  This  symbolizes  the  head  of  Macbeth  cut  off  by  Mac- 
duff  and  presented  by  him  to  Malcolm.  74.  harp'd,  hit,  touched. 


552 


THE   DRAMA 


More  potent  than  the  first. 
(Thunder.  Second  Apparition:  a  bloody  Child) 
SECOND  APPARITION.  Macbeth!  Macbeth!  Macbeth! 
MACBETH.  Had  I  three  ears,  I  'Id  hear  thee. 
SECOND  APPARITION.  Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute;  laugh  to  scorn 

The  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born  80 

Shall  harm  Macbeth.  (Descends) 
MACBETH.  Then  live,  Macduff:  what  need  I  fear  of  thee? 

But  yet  I'll  make  assurance  double  sure, 

And  take  a  bond  of  fate:  thou  shalt  not  live; 

That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies,  85 

And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. 

(Thunder.  Third  Apparition:  a  Child  crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand) 

What  is  this 

That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king, 

And  wears  upon  his  baby-brow  the  round 

And  top  of  sovereignty? 

ALL.  Listen,  but  speak  not  to  't. 

THIRD  APPARITION.  Be  lion-mettled,  proud;  and  take  no  care  9° 

Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are: 

Macbeth  shall  never  vanquished  be  until 

Great  Birnam  wood  to  high  Dunsinane  hill 

Shall  come  against  him.  (Descends) 
MACBETH.  That  will  never  be: 

Who  can  impress  the  forest,  bid  the  tree  95 

Unfix  his  earth-bound  root?  Sweet  bodements!  good! 

Rebellion's  head,  rise  never  till  the  wood 

Of  Birnam  rise,  and  our  high-placed  Macbeth 

Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 

To  time  and  mortal  custom.  Yet  my  heart  100 

Throbs  to  know  one  thing:  tell  me,  if  your  art 

Can  tell  so  much:  shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 

Reign  in  this  kingdom? 

ALL.  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

MACBETH.  I  will  be  satisfied:  deny  me  this, 


76.  Stage  direction:  bloody  Child.  This  symbolizes  Macduff  (see  V,  viii,  15-16). 
86.  Stage  direction:  Child  .  .  .  hand.  This  third  apparition  symbolizes  Malcolm,  the 
royal  child.  88-89.  round  .  .  .  sovereignty,  seems  to  allude  to  the  shape  of  a  crown  as 
made  up  of  a  lower  round  and  a  top  part,  and  also  to  the  rounding  out  and  culmina- 
tion in  sovereignty.  93.  Birnam,  Dunsinane.  Birnam  is  a  hill  near  Dunkeld,  twelve  miles 
from  Dunsinane,  which  is  seven  miles  from  Perth.  95.  impress,  like  soldiers.  96.  bode- 
ments, prophecies.  99.  lease  of  nature,  natural  period. 

MACBETH  ACT  IV:    SC  I       553 


And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you!  Let  me  know.  x°5 

Why  sinks  that  cauldron?  and  what  noise  is  this?  (Hautboys) 

FIRST  WITCH.  Show! 
SECOND  WITCH.  Showl 
THIRD  WITCH.  Showl 

ALL.  Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart;  no 

Come  like  shadows,  so  depart! 
(A  show  of  Eight  Kings,  the  last  with  a  glass  in  his  hand;  BANQUO'S  Ghost 

following) 
MACBETH.  Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo;  down! 

Thy  crown  does  sear  mine  eye-balls.  And  thy  hair, 

Thou  other  gold-bound  brow,  is  like  the  first. 

A  third  is  like  the  former.  Filthy  hags!  "5 

Why  do  you  show  me  this?  A  fourth!  Start,  eyes! 

What,  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom? 

Another  yet!  A  seventh!  I'll  see  no  more: 

And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 

Which  shows  me  many  more;  and  some  I  see  120 

That  two-fold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry: 

Horrible  sight!  Now,  I  see,  'tis  true; 

For  the  blood-bolter'd  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 

And  points  at  them  for  his.  (Apparitions  vanish)  What,  is  this  so? 
FIRST  WITCH.  Ay,  sir,  all  this  is  so:  but  why  125 

Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly? 

Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprites, 

And  show  the  best  of  our  delights: 

I'll  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound, 

While  you  perform  your  antic  round;  130 

That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 

Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

(Music.  The  Witches  dance,  and  then  vanish,  with  HECATE) 
MACBETH.  Where  are  they?  Gone?  Let  this  pernicious  hour 

Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar! 

Come  in,  without  there! 
(Enter  LENNOX) 

106.  noise,  music.  112.  Thou  .  .  .  Banquo.  This  would  be  the  first  in  the  succession 
of  Scottish  kings  down  to  James  I,  therefore  Fleance,  whose  coronation  was  the  thing 
most  dreaded  by  Macbeth.  117.  crack  of  doom,  possibly,  thunder  announcing  Dooms- 
day. 121.  two-fold  balls,  a  probable  reference  to  the  double  coronation  of  James  at  Scone 
and  Westminster,  as  kings  of  England  and  Scotland,  treble  sceptres,  almost  certainly 
refers  to  James'  assumed  title  of  King  of  Great  Britain,  France,  and  Ireland.  123.  blood- 
bolter'd,  having  his  hair  matted  with  blood.  130.  antic  round,  grotesque  dance  in  a 
circle. 

554        THE  DRAMA 


LENNOX.  What 's  your  grace's  will?  *35 

MACBETH.  Saw  you  the  weird  sisters? 

LENNOX.  No,  my  lord. 

MACBETH.  Came  they  not  by  you? 

LENNOX.  No,  indeed,  my  lord. 

MACBETH.  Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride; 

And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them  I  I  did  hear 

The  galloping  of  horse:  who  was 't  came  by?  140 

LENNOX.  Tis  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word 

Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 
MACBETH.  Fled  to  England! 

LENNOX.  Ay,  my  good  lord. 
MACBETH.  Time,  thou  anticipatest  my  dread  exploits: 

The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook  145 

Unless  the  deed  go  with  it:  from  this  moment 

The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 

The  firstlings  of  my  hand.  And  even  now, 

To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and  done: 

The  castle  of  Macduff  I  will  surprise;  150 

Seize  upon  Fife;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 

His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 

That  trace  him  in  his  line.  No  boasting  like  a  fool: 

This  deed  I'll  do  before  this  purpose  cool. 

But  no  more  sights!— Where  are  these  gentlemen?  155 

Come,  bring  me  where  they  are.  (Exeunt ) 

Scene  II:  Fife.  MACDUFF'S  castle. 
Enter  LADY  MACDUFF,  her  Son,  and  ROSS. 

LADY  MACDUFF.  What  had  he  done,  to  make  him  fly  the  land? 

ROSS.  You  must  have  patience,  madam. 

LADY  MACDUFF.  He  had  none: 

His  flight  was  madness:  when  our  actions  do  not, 

Our  fears  do  make  us  traitors. 
ROSS.  You  know  not 

Whether  it  was  his  wisdom  or  his  fear.  3 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Wisdom!  to  leave  his  wife,  to  leave  his  babes, 

His  mansion  and  his  titles  in  a  place 

From  whence  himself  does  fly?  He  loves  us  not; 

145.  flighty,  fleeting.  153.  trace,  follow.  SCENE  n.  2.  He  had  none.  Patience  was  the 
virtue  by  which  the  faculties  were  controlled;  hence,  His  flight  was  madness  (1.  3). 
7.  titles,  possessions. 

MACBETH   ACT  IV:    SC   H        555 


He  wants  the  natural  touch:  for  the  poor  wren, 

The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight,  10 

Her  young  ones  in  her  nest,  against  the  owl. 

All  is  the  fear  and  nothing  is  the  love; 

As  little  is  the  wisdom,  where  the  flight 

So  runs  against  all  reason. 
ROSS.  My  dearest  coz, 

I  pray  you,  school  yourself:  but  for  your  husband,  15 

He  is  noble,  wise,  judicious,  and  best  knows 

The  fits  o'  the  season.  I  dare  not  speak  much  further; 

But  cruel  are  the  times,  when  we  are  traitors 

And  do  not  know  ourselves,  when  we  hold  rumour 

From  what  we  fear,  yet  know  not  what  we  fear,  20 

But  float  upon  a  wild  and  violent  sea 

Each  way  and  move.  I  take  my  leave  of  you: 

Shall  not  be  long  but  I'll  be  here  again: 

Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  climb  upward 

To  what  they  were  before.  My  pretty  cousin,  25 

Blessing  upon  you! 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Fathered  he  is,  and  yet  he  *s  fatherless. 
BOSS.  I  am  so  much  a  fool,  should  I  stay  longer, 

It  would  be  my  disgrace  and  your  discomfort: 

I  take  my  leave  at  once.  (Exit) 
LADY  MACDUFF.  Sirrah,  your  father 's  dead:  30 

And  what  will  you  do  now?  How  will  you  live? 
SON.  As  birds  do,  mother. 

LADY  MACDUFF.  What,  with  worms  and  flies? 

SON.  With  what  I  get,  I  mean;  and  so  do  they. 
LADY  MACDUFF.  Poor  bird!  thou  'Idst  never  fear  the  net  nor  lime, 

The  pitfall  nor  the  gin.  35 

SON.  Why  should  I,  mother?  Poor  birds  they  are  not  set  for. 

My  father  is  not  dead,  for  all  your  saying. 
LADY  MACDUFF.  Yes,  he  is  dead:  how  wilt  thou  do  for  a  father? 
SON.  Nay,  how  will  you  do  for  a  husband? 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Why,  I  can  buy  me  twenty  at  any  market.  40 

SON.  Then  you'll  buy  'em  to  sell  again. 
LADY  MACDUFF.  Thou  speak'st  with  all  thy  wit;  and  yet,  i'  faith, 

With  wit  enough  for  thee. 


9.  touch,  affection,  feeling.  17.  fits  o*  the  season,  violent  disorders  of  the  time.  19. 
know  ourselves,  know  ourselves  (or  possibly,  each  other)  to  be  traitors.  Owing  to 
Macbeth's  system  of  espionage  even  good  men  have  grown  suspicious  of  each  other, 
hold,  accept,  believe.  34.  lime,  birdlime.  35.  gin,  snare.  36.  they,  the  snares. 

656        THE  DRAMA 


SON.  Was  my  father  a  traitor,  mother? 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Ay,  that  he  was.  45 

SON.  What  is  a  traitor? 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Why,  one  that  swears  and  lies. 

SON.  And  be  all  traitors  that  do  so? 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Every  one  that  does  so  is  a  traitor,  and  must  be  hanged.      50 

SON.  And  must  they  all  be  hanged  that  swear  and  lie? 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Every  one. 

SON.  Who  must  hang  them? 

LADY  MACDUFF.  Why,  the  honest  men. 

SON.  Then  the  liars  and  swearers  are  fools,  for  there  are  liars  and  swearers 

enow  to  beat  the  honest  men  and  hang  up  them. 
LADY  MACDUFF.  Now,  God  help  thee,  poor  monkey!  But  how  wilt  thou  do 

for  a  father?  60 

SON.  If  he  were  dead,  you  Id  weep  for  him:  if  you  would  not,  it  were  a  good 

sign  that  I  should  quickly  have  a  new  father. 
LADY  MACDUFF.  Poor  prattler,  how  thou  talk'st! 
(Enter  a  Messenger) 
MESSENGER.  Bless  you,  fair  dame!  I  am  not  to  you  known,  65 

Though  in  your  state  of  honour  I  am  perfect. 

I  doubt  some  danger  does  approach  you  nearly: 

If  you  will  take  a  homely  man's  advice, 

Be  not  found  here;  hence,  with  your  little  ones. 

To  fright  you  thus,  methinks,  I  am  too  savage;  7° 

To  do  worse  to  you  were  fell  cruelty, 

Which  is  too  nigh  your  person.  Heaven  preserve  you! 

I  dare  abide  no  longer.  (Exit) 
LADY  MACDUFF.  Whither  should  I  fly? 

I  have  done  no  harm.  But  I  remember  now 

I  am  in  this  earthly  world;  where  to  do  harm  75 

Is  often  laudable,  to  do  good  sometime 

Accounted  dangerous  folly:  why  then,  alas, 

Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defence, 

To  say  I  have  done  no  harm? 
(Enter  Murderers ) 

What  are  these  faces? 

FIRST  MURDERER.  Where  is  your  husband?  80 

LADY  MACDUFF.  I  hope,  in  no  place  so  unsanctified 

Where  such  as  thou  mayst  find  him. 
FIRST  MURDERER.  He 's  a  traitor. 


47.  swears  and  lies,  swears  allegiance  and  breaks  his  oath.  66.  in  ...  honour,  with 
your  honorable  rank,  perfect,  perfectly  acquainted. 

MACBETH    ACT   IV:    SC   II        557 


SON.  Thou  liest,  thou  shag-hair'd  villainl 

FIRST  MURDERER.  What,  you  cggl  (Stabbing  him) 

Young  fry  of  treachery! 

SON.  He  has  kill'd  me,  mother: 

Run  away,  I  pray  you!  85 

(Dies.  Exit  LADY  MACDUFF,  crying  "Murder!"  Exeunt  Murderers, 

following  her) 

Scene  HI:  England.  Before  the  King's  palace. 
Enter  MALCOLM  and  MACDUFF. 

MALCOLM.  Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade,  and  there 

Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 
MACDUFF.  Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword,  and  like  good  men 

Bestride  our  down-fall'n  birthdom:  each  new  morn 

New  widows  howl,  new  orphans  cry,  new  sorrows  5 

Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 

As  if  it  felt  with  Scotland  and  yell'd  out 

Like  syllable  of  dolour. 
MALCOLM.  What  I  believe  I'll  wail, 

What  know  believe,  and  what  I  can  redress, 

As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will.  10 

What  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so  perchance. 

This  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  blisters  our  tongues, 

Was  once  thought  honest:  you  have  loved  him  well; 

He  hath  not  touch'd  you  yet.  I  am  young;  but  something 

You  may  deserve  of  him  through  me,  and  wisdom  15 

To  offer  up  a  weak  poor  innocent  lamb 

To  appease  an  angry  god. 
MACDUFF.  I  am  not  treacherous. 
MALCOLM.  But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil 

In  an  imperial  charge.  But  I  shall  crave  your  pardon;  20 

That  which  you  are  my  thoughts  cannot  transpose: 

Angels  are  bright  still,  though  the  brightest  fell: 

Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows  of  grace, 

Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 


83.  egg,  used  contemptuously  of  the  young.  84.  fry,  swarm  of  young  fishes;  contemp- 
tuously used.  SCENE  m.  4.  Bestride,  stand  over  in  defense,  birthdom,  fatherland.  10.  to 
friend,  for  my  friend.  12.  sole,  mere.  19.  recoil,  fall  away,  degenerate.  20.  imperial 
charge,  royal  command.  24.  so,  like  grace. 


558 


THE  DRAMA 


MACDUFF.  I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

MALCOLM.  Perchance  even  there  where  I  did  find  my  doubts.  *5 

Why  in  that  rawness  left  you  wife  and  child, 

Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of  love, 

Without  leave-taking?  I  pray  you, 

Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonours, 

But  mine  own  safeties.  You  may  be  rightly  just,  30 

Whatever  I  shall  think. 
MACDUFF.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  countryl 

Great  tyranny!  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure, 

For  goodness  dare  not  check  thee:  wear  thou  thy  wrongs; 

The  title  is  affeer'd!  Fare  thee  well,  lord: 

I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st  35 

For  the  whole  space  that 's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 

And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 
MALCOLM.  Be  not  offended: 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 

I  think  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  yoke; 

It  weeps,  it  bleeds;  and  each  new  day  a  gash  40 

Is  added  to  her  wounds:  I  think  withal 

There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right; 

And  here  from  gracious  England  have  I  offer 

Of  goodly  thousands:  but,  for  all  this, 

When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head,  45 

Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 

Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before, 

More  suffer  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever, 

By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

MACDUFF.  What  should  he  be? 

MALCOLM.  It  is  myself  I  mean:  in  whom  I  know  50 

All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted 

That,  when  they  shall  be  open'd,  black  Macbeth 

Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow,  and  the  poor  state 

Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compared 

With  my  confineless  harms. 
MACDUFF.  Not  in  the  legions  55 

Of  horrid  hell  can  come  a  devil  more  damn'd 

In  evils  to  top  Macbeth. 
MALCOLM.  I  grant  him  bloody, 

26.  rawness,  haste,  unpreparedness.  34.  affeer'd,  confirmed,  certified.  43.  England, 
king  of  England.  49.  What,  who.  52.  open'd,  unfolded  (like  buds).  55.  my  confineless 
harms,  the  boundless  injuries  I  shall  inflict. 

MACBETH   ACT   IV:    SC   D3         559 


Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 

Sudden,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 

That  has  a  name:  but  there  's  no  bottom,  none,  60 

In  my  voluptuousness:  your  wives,  your  daughters, 

Your  matrons  and  your  maids,  could  not  fill  up 

The  cistern  of  my  lust,  and  my  desire 

All  continent  impediments  would  o'erbear 

That  did  oppose  my  will:  better  Macbeth  65 

Than  such  an  one  to  reign. 
MACDUFF.  Boundless  intemperance 

In  nature  is  a  tyranny;  it  hath  been 

The  untimely  emptying  of  the  happy  throne 

And  fall  of  many  kings.  But  fear  not  yet 

To  take  upon  you  what  is  yours:  you  may  70 

Convey  your  pleasures  in  a  spacious  plenty, 

And  yet  seem  cold,  the  time  you  may  so  hoodwink. 

We  have  willing  dames  enough;  there  cannot  be 

That  vulture  in  you,  to  devour  so  many 

As  will  to  greatness  dedicate  themselves,  75 

Finding  it  so  inclined. 
MALCOLM.  With  this  there  grows 

In  my  most  ill-composed  affection  such 

A  stanchless  avarice  that,  were  I  king, 

I  should  cut  off  the  nobles  for  their  lands, 

Desire  his  jewels  and  this  other's  house:  80 

And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 

To  make  me  hunger  more;  that  I  should  forge 

Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good  and  loyal, 

Destroying  them  for  wealth. 
MACDUFF.  This  avarice 

Sticks  deeper,  grows  with  more  pernicious  root  85 

Than  summer-seeming  lust,  and  it  hath  been 

The  sword  of  our  slain  kings:  yet  do  not  fear; 

Scotland  hath  f oisons  to  fill  up  your  will, 

Of  your  mere  own:  all  these  are  portable, 

With  other  graces  weigh'd.  90 


58.  Luxurious,  lustful.  59.  Sudden,  violent,  passionate.  64.  continent,  restraining. 
67.  tyranny,  usurpation.  69.  yet,  nevertheless.  71.  Convey,  manage  with  secrecy.  72.  the 
time  .  .  .  hoodwink,  you  may  so  deceive  the  age.  77.  ill-composed  affection,  evil  dis- 
position. 78.  stanchless,  insatiable.  86.  summer-seeming,  passing  away  with  youth,  transi- 
tory. 88.  foisons,  resources.  89.  your  mere  own,  what  is  absolutely  your  own.  portable, 
bearable.  90.  With,  against. 

560        THE   DRAMA 


MALCOLM.  But  I  have  none:  the  king-becoming  graces, 

As  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stableness, 

Bounty,  perseverance,  mercy,  lowliness, 

Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 

I  have  no  relish  of  them,  but  abound  95 

In  the  division  of  each  several  crime, 

Acting  it  many  ways.  Nay,  had  I  power,  I  should 

Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell, 

Uproar  the  universal  peace,  confound 

All  unity  on  earth. 

MACDUFF.  O  Scotland,  Scotland!  100 

MALCOLM.  If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak: 

I  am  as  I  have  spoken. 
MACDUFF.  Fit  to  govern! 

No,  not  to  live.  O  nation  miserable, 

With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody-scepter'd, 

When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again,  105 

Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 

By  his  own  interdiction  stands  accursed, 

And  does  blaspheme  his  breed?  Thy  royal  father 

Was  a  most  sainted  king:  the  queen  that  bore  thee, 

Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet,  no 

Died  every  day  she  lived.  Fare  thee  well! 

These  evils  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself 

Have  banish'd  me  from  Scotland.  O  my  breast, 

Thy  hope  ends  here! 
MALCOLM.  Macduff,  this  noble  passion, 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul  115 

Wiped  the  black  scruples,  reconciled  my  thoughts 

To  thy  good  truth  and  honour.  Devilish  Macbeth 

By  many  of  these  trains  hath  sought  to  win  me 

Into  his  power,  and  modest  wisdom  plucks  me 

From  over-credulous  haste:  but  God  above  120 

Deal  between  thee  and  me!  for  even  now 

I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 

Unspeak  mine  own  detraction,  here  abjure 

The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself, 

For  strangers  to  my  nature.  I  am  yet  125 


95.  relish  of,  flavor  or  trace  of.  104.  untitled,  lacking  rightful  title.  107.  interdiction, 
authoritative  exclusion.  108.  blaspheme,  slander,  defame.  111.  Died  .  .  .  lived,  lived  a 
life  of  daily  mortification  (Delius).  118.  trains,  plots,  artifices. 

MACBETH    ACT    IV:    SC    III         561 


Unknown  to  woman,  never  was  forsworn, 

Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own, 

At  no  time  broke  my  faith,  would  not  betray 

The  devil  to  his  fellow,  and  delight 
.    No  less  in  truth  than  life:  my  first  false  speaking  130 

Was  this  upon  myself:  what  I  am  truly, 

Is  thine  and  my  poor  country's  to  command: 

Whither  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach, 

Old  Siward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men, 

Already  at  a  point,  was  setting  forth.  135 

Now  we'll  together;  and  the  chance  of  goodness 

Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel!  Why  are  you  silent? 
MACDUFF.  Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  things  at  once 

'Tis  hard  to  reconcile. 
(Enter  a  Doctor) 

MALCOLM.  Well;  more  anon.— Comes  the  king  forth,  I  pray  you?  140 

DOCTOR.  Ay,  sir;  there  are  a  crew  of  wretched  souls 

That  stay  his  cure:  their  malady  convinces 

The  great  assay  of  art;  but  at  his  touch- 
Such  sanctity  hath  heaven  given  his  hand— 

They  presently  amend. 

MALCOLM.  I  thank  you,  doctor.  (Exit  Doctor)  145 

MACDUFF.  What 's  the  disease  he  means? 
MALCOLM.  'Tis  calFd  the  evil: 

A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king; 

Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 

I  have  seen  him  do.  How  he  solicits  heaven, 

Himself  best  knows:  but  strangely-visited  people,  150 

All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye, 

The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures, 

Hanging  a  golden  stamp  about  their  necks, 

Put  on  with  holy  prayers:  and  'tis  spoken, 

To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves  155 

The  healing  benediction.  With  this  strange  virtue, 

He  hath  a  heavenly  gift  of  prophecy, 

And  sundry  blessings  hang  about  his  throne, 


126.  forsworn,  perjured.  135.  at  a  point,  ready,  prepared.  136.  chance  of  goodness, 
chance  of  success.  141.  crew,  company.  142.  convinces,  conquers.  143.  assay  of  art,  efforts 
of  medical  skill.  146.  evil,  disease,  i.e.,  scrofula.  The  passage  is  an  obvious  compliment 
to  James  I,  who  claimed  the  miraculous  power  of  the  royal  touch.  150.  strangely-visited, 
afflicted  by  strange  diseases.  153.  stamp,  coin  (hung  around  the  necks  of  the  persons 
touched). 

562        THE  DRAMA 


That  speak  him  full  of  grace. 
(Enter  ROSS  ) 

MACDUFF.  See,  who  comes  here? 

MALCOLM.  My  countryman;  but  yet  I  know  him  not.  160 

MACDUFF.  My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 
MALCOLM.  I  know  him  now.  Good  God,  betimes  remove 

The  means  that  makes  us  strangers! 
ROSS.  Sir,  amen. 

MACDUFF.  Stands  Scotland  where  it  did? 
ROSS.  Alas,  poor  countryl 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself.  It  cannot  165 

Be  calFd  our  mother,  but  our  grave;  where  nothing, 

But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile; 

Where  sighs  and  groans  and  shrieks  that  rend  the  air 

Are  made,  not  mark'd;  where  violent  sorrow  seems 

A  modern  ecstasy:  the  dead  man's  knell  170 

Is  there  scarce  ask'd  for  who;  and  good  men's  lives 

Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps, 

Dying  or  ere  they  sicken. 
MACDUFF.  O,  relation 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true! 

MALCOLM.  What 's  the  newest  grief? 

ROSS.  That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the  speaker:  175 

Each  minute  teems  a  new  one. 

MACDUFF.  How  does  my  wife? 

ROSS.  Why,  well. 

MACDUFF.  And  all  my  children? 

ROSS.  Well  too. 

MACDUFF.  The  tyrant  has  not  batter'd  at  their  peace? 
ROSS.  No;  they  were  well  at  peace  when  I  did  leave  'em. 
MACDUFF.  Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech:  how  goes  't?  180 

ROSS.  When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings, 

Which  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumour 

Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out; 

Which  was  to  my  belief  witness'd  the  rather, 

For  that  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  a-foot:  185 

Now  is  the  time  of  help;  your  eye  in  Scotland 

Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight, 

To  doff  their  dire  distresses. 


166.  nothing,  nobody.  167.  once,  ever.  170.  modern  ecstasy,  commonplace  excitement. 
175.  hiss,  cause  to  be  hissed.  176.  teems,  teems  with.  182.  heavily,  sadly.  183.  out,  in 
arms. 

MACBETH  ACT  IV:    SC   HI        563 


MALCOLM.  Be 't  their  comfort 

We  are  coming  thither:  gracious  England  hath 

Lent  us  good  Siward  and  ten  thousand  men;  190 

An  older  and  a  better  soldier  none 

That  Christendom  gives  out. 
ROSS.  Would  I  could  answer 

This  comfort  with  the  like!  But  I  have  words 

That  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air, 

Where  hearing  should  not  latch  them. 
MACDUFF.  What  concern  they?  195 

The  general  cause?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief 

Due  to  some  single  breast? 
ROSS.  No  mind  that 's  honest 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe;  though  the  main  part 

Pertains  to  you  alone. 
MACDUFF.  If  it  be  mine, 

Keep  it  not  from  me,  quickly  let  me  have  it.  200 

ROSS.  Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  for  ever, 

Which  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest  sound 

That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

MACDUFF.  Hum!  I  guess  at  it. 

ROSS.  Your  castle  is  surprised;  your  wife  and  babes 

Savagely  slaughtered:  to  relate  the  manner,  205 

Were,  on  the  quarry  of  these  murder'd  deer, 

To  add  the  death  of  you. 
MALCOLM.  Merciful  heaven! 

What,  man!  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows; 

Give  sorrow  words:  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 

Whispers  the  o'er-fraught  heart  and  bids  it  break.  210 

MACDUFF.  My  children  too? 
ROSS.  Wife,  children,  servants,  all 

That  could  be  found. 
MACDUFF.  And  I  must  be  from  thence! 

My  wife  kill'd  too? 
ROSS.  I  have  said. 

MALCOLM.  Be  comforted: 

Let 's  make  us  medicines  of  our  great  revenge, 

To  cure  this  deadly  grief.  215 

MACDUFF.  He  has  no  children.  All  my  pretty  ones? 

189.  England,  the  king  of  England.  192.  gives  out,  tells  of.  195.  latch,  catch  the 
sound  of.  196.  fee-grief,  a  grief  with  an  individual  owner.  206.  quarry,  heap  of  slaugh- 
tered deer  at  a  hunt.  210.  Whispers,  whispers  to.  o'er-fraught,  overburdened. 

564        THE  DRAMA 


Did  you  say  all?  O  hell-kite!  All? 

What,  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 

At  one  fell  swoop? 
MALCOLM.  Dispute  it  like  a  man. 
MACDUFF.  I  shall  do  so;  220 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man: 

I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were, 

That  were  most  precious  to  me.  Did  heaven  look  on, 

And  would  not  take  their  part?  Sinful  Macduff, 

They  were  all  struck  for  thee!  naught  that  I  am,  225 

Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine, 

Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls.  Heaven  rest  them  now! 
MALCOLM.  Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword:  let  grief 

Convert  to  anger;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it. 
MACDUFF.  O,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes  230 

And  braggart  with  my  tongue!  But,  gentle  heavens, 

Cut  short  all  intermission;  front  to  front 

Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  myself; 

Within  my  sword's  length  set  him;  if  he  'scape, 

Heaven  forgive  him  too! 
MALCOLM.  This  tune  goes  manly.  235 

Come,  go  we  to  the  king;  our  power  is  ready; 

Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave:  Macbeth 

Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 

Put  on  their  instruments.  Receive  what  cheer  you  may: 

The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day.  (Exeunt)  240 

ACT  V 

Scene  I:  Dunsinane.  Ante-room  in  the  castle. 
Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physic  and  a  Waiting-Gentlewoman. 

DOCTOR.  I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you,  but  can  perceive  no  truth  in 
your  report.  When  was  it  she  last  walked? 

GENTLEWOMAN.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have  seen  her  rise 
from  her  bed,  throw  her  nightgown  upon  her,  unlock  her  closet,  take  forth 
paper,  fold  it,  write  upon 't,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it,  and  again  return 
to  bed;  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep.  9 

DOCTOR.  A  great  perturbation  in  nature,  to  receive  at  once  the  benefit  of 

220.  Dispute,  fight  on  the  issue;  not  reason  upon  it.  237.  Our  .  .  .  leave,  we  need 
only  to  take  our  leave,  or  possibly,  we  need  only  permission  to  depart.  239.  Put  on  their 
instruments,  set  us  on  as  their  instruments. 

MACBETH   ACT  V:    SC   I        565 


sleep,  and  do  the  effects  of  watching!  In  this  slumbery  agitation,  besides 

her  walking  and  other  actual  performances,  what,  at  any  time,  have  you 

heard  her  say? 

GENTLEWOMAN.  That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 
DOCTOR.  You  may  to  me:  and  'tis  most  meet  you  should. 
GENTLEWOMAN.  Neither  to  you  nor  any  one,  having  no  witness  to  confirm  my 

speech.  2I 

(Enter  LADY  MACBETH,  with  a  taper) 

Lo  you,  here  she  comes!  This  is  her  very  guise;  and,  upon  my  life,  fast 

asleep.  Observe  her;  stand  close. 
DOCTOR.  How  came  she  by  that  light? 
GENTLEWOMAN.  Why,  it  stood  by  her;  she  has  light  by  her  continually;  'tis 

her  command. 

DOCTOR.  You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 
GENTLEWOMAN.  Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

DOCTOR.  What  is  it  she  does  now?  Look,  how  she  rubs  her  hands.  31 

GENTLEWOMAN.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to  seem  thus  washing 

her  hands:  I  have  known  her  continue  in  this  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Yet  here 's  a  spot. 
DOCTOR.  Hark!  she  speaks:  I  will  set  down  what  comes  from  her,  to  satisfy 

my  remembrance  the  more  strongly.  38 

LADY  MACBETH.  Out,  damned  spot!  out,  I  say!— One:  two:  why,  then  'tis  time 

to  do 't— Hell  is  murky!— Fie,  my  lord,  fie!  a  soldier,  and  afeard?  What 

need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none  can  call  our  power  to  account?— 

Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in 

him. 

DOCTOR.  Do  you  mark  that? 
LADY  MACBETH.  The  thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife:  where  is  she  now?— What,  will 

these  hands  ne'er  be  clean?— No  more  o'  that,  my  lord,  no  more  o'  that: 

you  mar  all  with  this  starting.  50 

DOCTOR.  Go  to,  go  to;  you  have  known  what  you  should  not. 
GENTLEWOMAN.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am  sure  of  that:  heaven 

knows  what  she  has  known. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Here 's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still:  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia 

will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand.  Oh,  oh,  oh! 

DOCTOR.  What  a  sigh  is  there!  The  heart  is  sorely  charged.  60 

GENTLEWOMAN.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom  for  the  dignity 

of  the  whole  body. 
DOCTOR.  Well,  well,  well,— 
GENTTJEWOMAN.  Pray  God  it  be,  sir. 

12.  effects  of  watching,  deeds  characteristic  of  waking,  60.  sorely  charged,  heavily 
burdened  with  passions. 

566 


DOCTOR.  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice:  yet  I  have  known  those  which 

have  walked  in  their  sleep  who  have  died  holily  in  their  beds. 
LADY  MACBETH.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  nightgown;  look  not  so  pale. 

—I  tell  you  yet  again,  Banquo  's  buried;  he  cannot  come  out  on 's  grave. 
DOCTOR.  Even  so?  72 

LADY  MACBETH.  To  bed,  to  bed!  there's  knocking  at  the  gate:  come,  come, 

come,  comp,  give  me  your  hand.  What 's  done  cannot  be  undone.— To  bed, 

to  bed,  to  bed!  (Exit) 
DOCTOR.  Will  she  go  now  to  bed? 
GENTLEWOMAN.  Directly. 
DOCTOR.  Foul  whisperings  are  abroad:  unnatural  deeds 

Do  breed  unnatural  troubles:  infected  minds  80 

To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets: 

More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. 

God,  God  forgive  us  all!  Look  after  her; 

Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 

And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her.  So,  good  night:  85 

My  mind  she  has  mated,  and  amazed  my  sight. 

I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 
GENTLEWOMAN.  Good  night,  good  doctor.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  II:  The  country  near  Dunsinane. 
Drum  and  colours.  Enter  MENTEITH,  CAITHNESS,  ANGUS,  LENNOX,  and  Soldiers. 

MENTEITH.  The  English  power  is  near,  led  on  by  Malcolm, 

His  uncle  Siward  and  the  good  MacdufF: 

Revenges  burn  in  them;  for  their  dear  causes 

Would  to  the  bleeding  and  the  grim  alarm 

Excite  the  mortified  man. 
ANGUS.  Near  Birnam  wood  5 

Shall  we  well  meet  them;  that  way  are  they  coming. 
CAITHNESS.  Who  knows  if  Donalbain  be  with  his  brother? 
LENNOX.  For  certain,  sir,  he  is  not:  I  have  a  file 

Of  all  the  gentry:  there  is  Siward's  son, 

And  many  unrough  youths  that  even  now  10 

Protest  their  first  of  manhood. 

MENTEITH.  What  does  the  tyrant? 

CAITHNESS.  Great  Dunsinane  he  strongly  fortifies: 

Some  say  he 's  mad;  others  that  lesser  hate  him 

71.  on  X  of  his.  84.  annoyance,  i.e.,  harming  herself.  86.  mated,  bewildered,  stupe- 
fied. SCENE  n.  4.  alarm,  call  to  battle.  5.  mortified,  paralyzed.  8.  file,  list,  roster.  10.  un- 
rough,  beardless.  11.  Protest,  assert  publicly. 

MACBETH   ACT  V:    SC  U        567 


Do  call  it  valiant  fury:  but,  for  certain, 

He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  cause  15 

Within  the  belt  of  rule. 
ANGUS.  Now  does  he  feel 

His  secret  murders  sticking  on  his  hands; 

Now  minutely  revolts  upbraid  his  faith-breach; 

Those  he  commands  move  only  in  command, 

Nothing  in  love:  now  does  he  feel  his  title  20 

Hang  loose  about  him,  like  a  giant's  robe 

Upon  a  dwarfish  thief. 
MENTEITH.  Who  then  shall  blame 

His  pester'd  senses  to  recoil  and  start, 

When  all  that  is  within  him  does  condemn 

Itself  for  being  there? 
CAITHNESS.  Well,  march  we  on,  25 

To  give  obedience  where  'tis  truly  owed: 

Meet  we  the  medicine  of  the  sickly  weal, 

And  with  him  pour  we  in  our  country's  purge 

Each  drop  of  us. 
LENNOX.  Or  so  much  as  it  needs, 

To  dew  the  sovereign  flower  and  drown  the  weeds.  3° 

Make  we  our  march  towards  Birnam.  (Exeunt,  marching) 

Scene  HI:  Dunsinane.  A  room  in  the  castle. 
Enter  MACBETH,  Doctor,  and  Attendants. 

MACBETH.  Bring  me  no  more  reports;  let  them  fly  all: 

Till  Birnam  wood  remove  to  Dunsinane, 

I  cannot  taint  with  fear.  What 's  the  boy  Malcolm? 

Was  he  not  born  of  woman?  The  spirits  that  know 

All  mortal  consequences  have  pronounced  me  thus:  5 

"Fear  not,  Macbeth;  no  man  that 's  born  of  woman 

Shall  e'er  have  power  upon  thee."  Then  fly,  false  thanes, 

And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures: 

The  mind  I  sway  by  and  the  heart  I  bear 

Shall  never  sag  with  doubt  nor  shake  with  fear.  10 

(Enter  a  Servant) 


18.  minutely,  happening  every  minute.  23.  pester'd,  troubled,  recoil,  degenerate.  27. 
medicine,  i.e.,  Malcolm.  30.  dew,  bedew.  SCENE  m.  1.  them,  the  thanes.  3.  taint,  be- 
come imbued  w,ith  (an  undesirable  quality).  5.  mortal  consequences,  what  befalls  man. 
8.  epicures,  luxury-loving  persons.  Holinshed  refers  to  the  introduction  of  luxurious  habits 
of  living  by  the  English  into  Scotland.  9.  sway  by,  am  swayed  by. 


568 


THE  DRAMA 


The  devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  cream-faced  loonl 

Where  got'st  thou  that  goose  look? 
SERVANT.  There  is  ten  thousand— 
MACBETH.  Geese,  villain? 

SERVANT.  Soldiers,  sir. 

MACBETH.  Go,  prick  thy  face,  and  over-red  thy  fear, 

Thou  lily-liver'd  boy.  What  soldiers,  patch?  *5 

Death  of  thy  soul!  those  linen  cheeks  of  thine 

Are  counsellors  to  fear.  What  soldiers,  whey-face? 
SERVANT.  The  English  force,  so  please  you. 
MACBETH.  Take  thy  face  hence.  ( Exit  Servant ) 

Seyton!—  I  am  sick  at  heart, 

When  I  behold— Seyton,  I  say!— This  push  20 

Will  cheer  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 

I  have  lived  long  enough:  my  way  of  life 

Is  falFn  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf; 

And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 

As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends,  25 

I  must  not  look  to  have;  but,  in  their  stead, 

Curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honour,  breath, 

Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not. 

Seyton! 

(Enter  SEYTON  ) 

SEYTON.  What  is  your  gracious  pleasure? 

MACBETH.  What  news  more?  30 

SEYTON.  All  is  confirmed,  my  lord,  which  was  reported. 
MACBETH.  I'll  fight  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh  be  hack'd. 

Give  me  my  armour. 
SEYTON.  'Tis  not  needed  yet. 

MACBETH.  I'll  put  it  On. 

Send  out  moe  horses;  skirr  the  country  round;  35 

Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear.  Give  me  mine  armour. 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor? 

DOCTOR.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 


11.  loon,  stupid  fellow.  14.  over-red,  redden  over.  The  servant's  blood  has  all  re- 
tired into  his  lower  abdomen  on  account  of  his  fear,  so  that  he  is  very  pale  and  there  is 
no  blood  in  his  liver,  where  his  courage  should  have  resided  —  hence  lily-liver *d  (1.  15). 
15.  patch,  domestic  fool;  here  used  contemptuously.  17.  counsellors  to  fear,  i.e.,  they  sug- 
gest fear  in  conformity  with  psychological  doctrine;  I,  v,  73.  20.  push,  crisis,  onset.  35. 
skirr,  scour. 

MACBETH    ACT   V:    SC    III         569 


MACBETH.  Cure  her  of  that. 

Canst  them  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased,  40 

Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 

Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain 

And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 

Cleanse  the  stufFd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 

Which  weighs  upon  the  heart? 
DOCTOR.  Therein  the  patient  45 

Must  minister  to  himself. 
MACBETH.  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs;  I'll  none  of  it. 

Come,  put  mine  armour  on;  give  me  my  staff. 

Seyton,  send  out.  Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me. 

Come,  sir,  dispatch.  If  thou  couldst,  doctor,  cast  5° 

The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease, 

And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 

I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo, 

That  should  applaud  again.— Pull 't  off,  I  say.— 

What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug,  55 

Would  scour  these  English  hence?  Hear'st  thou  of  them? 
DOCTOR.  Ay,  my  good  lord;  your  royal  preparation 

Makes  us  hear  something. 
MACBETH.  Bring  it  after  me. 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane, 

Till  Birnam  forest  come  to  Dunsinane.  60 

DOCTOR  (aside).  Were  I  from  Dunsinane  away  and  clear, 

Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  IV:  Country  near  Birnam  wood. 

Drum  and  colours.  Enter  MALCOLM,  old  SIWARD  and  his  Son,  MACDUFF, 
MENTEITH,  CAITHNESS,  ANGUS,  LENNOX,  ROSS,  and  Soldiers,  marching. 

MALCOLM.  Cousins,  I  hope  the  days  are  near  at  hand 

That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

MENTEITH.  We  doubt  it  nothing. 

SIWARD.  What  wood  is  this  before  us? 

MENTEITH.  The  wood  of  Birnam. 

MALCOLM.  Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough 

And  bear't  before  him:  thereby  shall  we  shadow  5 


43.  oblivious,  causing  forgetfulness.  48.  staff,  lance;  probably  not  the  general's  baton. 
50.  cast,  technical  term  for  "diagnose."  54.  Pull 't  off,  referring  to  some  part  of  the  armor. 
55.  senna,  purgative  drug,  58.  it,  the  armor.  SCENE  iv.  2.  chambers,  i.e.,  men  may  sleep 
safely  in  their  bed-chambers. 


570 


THE   DRAMA 


The  numbers  of  our  host  and  make  discovery 

Err  in  report  of  us. 

SOLDIERS.  It  shall  be  done. 

SIWARD.  We  learn  no  other  but  the  confident  tyrant 

Keeps  still  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 

Our  setting  down  before 't. 
MALCOLM.  Tis  his  main  hope:  10 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  given, 

Both  more  and  less  have  given  him  the  revolt, 

And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things 

Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 
MACDUFF.  Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on  15 

Industrious  soldiership. 
SIWARD.  The  time  approaches 

That  will  with  due  decision  make  us  know 

What  we  shall  say  we  have  and  what  we  owe. 

Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate, 

But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate:  20 

Towards  which  advance  the  war.  (Exeunt,  marching) 

Scene  V:  Dunsinane.  Within  the  castle. 
Enter  MACBETH,  SEYTON,  and  Soldiers,  with  drum  and  colours. 

MACBETH.  Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward  walls: 

The  cry  is  still  "They  come:"  our  castle's  strength 

Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn:  here  let  them  lie 

Till  famine  and  the  ague  eat  them  up: 

Were  they  not  forced  with  those  that  should  be  ours,  5 

We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 

And  beat  them  backward  home.  (A  cry  of  women  within) 

What  is  that  noise? 

SEYTON.  It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord.  (Exit ) 
MACBETH.  I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears: 

The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd  10 

To  hear  a  night-shriek;  and  my  fell  of  hair 

Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  rouse  and  stir 

As  life  were  in 't:  I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors; 

Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts, 

14.  censures.  The  older  soldier  recalls  them  to  their  task;  in  this  he  is  seconded  by 
Siward.  SCENE  v.  5.  forced,  reinforced.  11.  my  fell  of  hair,  the  hair  of  my  scalp.  12.  dis- 
mal treatise,  sinister  story.  14.  slaughterous  thoughts,  thoughts  of  murder. 

MACBETH   ACT  V:    SO   V        571 


Cannot  once  start  me. 
(Re-enter  SEYTON) 

Wherefore  was  that  cry?  15 

SEYTON.  The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 
MACBETH.  She  should  have  died  hereafter; 

There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 

To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow, 

Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day  20 

To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time, 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 

The  way  to  dusty  death.  Out,  out,  brief  candlel 

Life 's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 

That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage  25 

And  then  is  heard  no  more:  it  is  a  tale 

Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 

Signifying  nothing. 
(Enter  a  Messenger) 

Thou  comest  to  use  thy  tongue;  thy  story  quickly. 
MESSENGER.  Gracious  my  lord,  3° 

I  should  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 

But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 
MACBETH.  Well,  say,  sir. 

MESSENGER.  As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 

I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 

The  wood  began  to  move. 

MACBETH.  Liar  and  slave!  35 

MESSENGER.  Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if 't  be  not  so: 

Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming; 

I  say,  a  moving  grove. 
MACBETH.  If  thou  speak'st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive, 

Till  famine  cling  thee:  if  thy  speech  be  sooth,  40 

I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. 

I  pull  in  resolution,  and  begin 

To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend 

That  lies  like  truth:  "Fear  not,  till  Birnam  wood 

Do  come  to  Dunsinane:"  and  now  a  wood  45 

Comes  toward  Dunsinane.  Arm,  arm,  and  outl 


17.  She  .  .  .  hereafter.  Her  death  should  have  been  deferred  to  some  more  peace- 
ful hour  (Johnson);  or,  she  would  have  died  some  day.  18.  such  a  word,  i.e.,  as  death. 
40.  clingt  cause  to  shrivel  up.  sooth,  truth.  42.  pull  in,  explained  as  "check,"  "restrain." 
Johnson  conjectured  pall,  grow  stale,  fail— a  preferable  reading. 

572        THE  DRAMA 


If  this  which  he  avouches  does  appear, 

There  is  nor  flying  hence  nor  tarrying  here. 

I  'gin  to  be  aweary  of  the  sun, 

And  wish  the  estate  o'  the  world  were  now  undone.  5° 

Ring  the  alarum-bell!  Blow,  wind!  come,  wrackl 

At  least  well  die  with  harness  on  our  back.  (Exeunt) 

Scene  VI:  Dunsinane.  Before  the  castle. 

Drum  and  colours.  Enter  MALCOLM,  old  SIWARD,  MACDUFF,  and  their  Army, 
with  boughs. 

MALCOLM.  Now  near  enough:  your  leavy  screens  throw  down, 

And  show  like  those  you  are.  You,  worthy  uncle, 

Shall,  with  my  cousin,  your  right-noble  son, 

Lead  our  first  battle:  worthy  Macduff  and  we 

Shall  take  upon 's  what  else  remains  to  do,  5 

According  to  our  order. 
SIWARD.  Fare  you  well. 

Do  we  but  find  the  tyrant's  power  to-night, 

Let  us  be  beaten,  if  we  cannot  fight. 
MACDUFF.  Make  all  our  trumpets  speak;  give  them  all  breath, 

Those  clamorous  harbingers  of  blood  and  death.  (Exeunt)  10 

Scene  VII:  Another  part  of  the  field. 
Alarums.  Enter  MACBETH. 

MACBETH.  They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake;  I  cannot  fly, 

But,  bear-like,  I  must  fight  the  course.  What 's  he 

That  was  not  born  of  woman?  Such  a  one 

Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 
(Enter  young  SIWARD) 
YOUNG  SIWARD.  What  is  thy  name? 

MACBETH.  Thou  'It  be  afraid  to  hear  it.  5 

YOUNG  SIWARD.  No;  though  thou  call'st  thyself  a  hotter  name 

Than  any  is  in  hell. 

MACBETH.  My  name 's  Macbeth. 

YOUNG  SIWARD.  The  devil  himself  could  not  pronounce  a  title 

More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 

MACBETH.  No,  nor  more  fearful. 

YOUNG  SIWARD.  Thou  liest,  abhorred  tyrant;  with  my  sword  10 

SCENE  vu.  2.  bear-like  .  .  .  course.  This  is  a  simile  from  bearbaiting,  in  which  the 
bear  was  tied  to  a  stake  and  dogs  were  set  upon  him;  the  course  was  a  bout  or  round. 

MACBETH   ACT  V:    SC  VII        573 


I'll  prove  the  lie  thou  speak'st.  (They  fight  and  young  SIWARD  is  slain) 
MACBETH.  Thou  wast  born  of  woman. 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugh  to  scorn, 

Brandished  by  man  that's  of  a  woman  born.  (Exit) 
(Alarums.  Enter  MACDUFF  ) 
MACDUFF.  That  way  the  noise  is.  Tyrant,  show  thy  face! 

If  thou  be'st  slain  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine,  15 

My  wife  and  children's  ghosts  will  haunt  me  still. 

I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kerns,  whose  arms 

Are  hired  to  bear  their  staves:  either  thou,  Macbeth, 

Or  else  my  sword  with  an  unbatter'd  edge 

I  sheathe  again  undeeded.  There  thou  shouldst  be;  20 

By  this  great  clatter,  one  of  greatest  note 

Seems  bruited.  Let  me  find  him,  fortune! 

And  more  I  beg  not.  (Exit.  Alarums) 
(Enter  MALCOLM  and  old  SIWARD  ) 
SIWARD.  This  way,  my  lord;  the  castle's  gently  rendered: 

The  tyrant's  people  on  both  sides  do  fight;  25 

The  noble  thanes  do  bravely  in  the  war; 

The  day  almost  itself  professes  yours, 

And  little  is  to  do. 
MALCOLM.  We  have  met  with  foes 

That  strike  beside  us. 
SIWARD.  Enter,  sir,  the  castle.  (Exeunt.  Alarums) 

Scene  VIII:  Another  part  of  the  field. 
Enter  MACBETH. 

MACBETH.  Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fool,  and  die 

On  mine  own  sword?  whiles  I  see  lives,  the  gashes 

Do  better  upon  them. 
(Enter  MACDUFF  ) 

MACDUFF.  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn! 

MACBETH.  Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee: 

But  get  thee  back;  my  soul  is  too  much  charged  5 

With  blood  of  thine  already. 
MACDUFF.  I  have  no  words: 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword:  thou  bloodier  villain 

Than  terms  can  give  thee  out!  (They  fight) 
MACBETH.  Thou  losest  labour: 

17.  kerns,  properly,  Irish  foot  soldiers;  here  applied  contemptuously  to  the  rank  and 
file.  18.  staves,  spears.  22.  bruited,  noised  abroad,  announced. 


574 


THB  DRAMA 


As  easy  mayst  thou  the  intrenchant  air 

With  thy  keen  sword  impress  as  make  me  bleed:  i° 

Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests; 

I  bear  a  charmed  life,  which  must  not  yield 

To  one  of  woman  born. 
MACDUFF.  Despair  thy  charm; 

And  let  the  angel  whom  thou  still  hast  served 

Tell  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb  15 

Untimely  ripp'd. 
MACBETH.  Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me  so, 

For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man! 

And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believed, 

That  palter  with  us  in  a  double  sense;  20 

That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear, 

And  break  it  to  our  hope.  I'll  not  fight  with  thee. 
MACDUFF.  Then  yield  thee,  coward, 

And  live  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  the  time: 

We'll  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are,  25 

Painted  upon  a  pole,  and  underwrit, 

"Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant." 
MACBETH.  I  will  not  yield, 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 

And  to  be  baited  with  the  rabble's  curse. 

Though  Birnam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane,  30 

And  thou  opposed,  being  of  no  woman  born, 

Yet  I  will  try  the  last.  Before  my  body 

I  throw  my  warlike  shield.  Lay  on,  Macduff, 

And  damn'd  be  him  that  first  cries  "Hold,  enough!" 

(Exeunt,  fighting.  Alarums) 
(Retreat.  Flourish.  Enter,  with  drum  and  colours,  MALCOLM,  old  SIWARD,  ROSS, 

the  other  Thanes,  and  Soldiers) 

MALCOLM.  I  would  the  friends  we  miss  were  safe  arrived,  35 

SIWARD.  Some  must  go  off:  and  yet,  by  these  I  see, 

So  great  a  day  as  this  is  cheaply  bought. 
MALCOLM.  Macduff  is  missing,  and  your  noble  son. 
ROSS.  Your  son,  my  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's  debt: 

He  only  lived  but  till  he  was  a  man;  4* 

The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirm'd 

SCENE  viii.  9.  intrenchant,  invulnerable,  indivisible.  14.  angel,  evil  angel,  Macbeth's 
gunius.  18.  cow'd  .  .  .  man,  subdued  my  soul,  or  spirit,  or  mind.  Macbeth's  invul- 
nerability was,  in  some  measure,  his  belief  in  his  invulnerability.  26.  Painted  upon  a 
pole,  i.e.,  painted  on  a  board  suspended  on  a  pole. 

MACBETH  ACT  V:    SC   VIII        575 


In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought, 

But  like  a  man  he  died. 
SIWARD.  Then  he  is  dead? 

ROSS.  Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field:  your  cause  of  sorrow 

Must  not  be  measured  by  his  worth,  for  then  45 

It  hath  no  end. 

SIWARD.  Had  he  his  hurts  before? 

ROSS.  Ay,  on  the  front. 
SIWARD.  Why  then,  God's  soldier  be  hel 

Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs, 

I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death: 

And  so,  his  knell  is  knoll'd. 
MALCOLM.  He 's  worth  more  sorrow,  5° 

And  that  I'll  spend  for  him. 
SIWARD.  He's  worth  no  more: 

They  say  he  parted  well,  and  paid  his  score: 

And  so,  God  be  with  him!  Here  comes  newer  comfort. 
(Re-enter  MACDUFF,  with  MACBETH'S  head ) 
MACDUFF.  Hail,  king!  for  so  thou  art:  behold,  where  stands 

The  usurper's  cursed  head:  the  time  is  free:  55 

I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl, 

That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds; 

Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine: 

Hail,  King  of  Scotland! 

ALL.  Hail,  King  of  Scotland!  (Flourish) 

MALCOLM.  We  shall  not  spend  a  large  expense  of  time  60 

Before  we  reckon  with  your  several  loves, 

And  make  us  even  with  you.  My  thanes  and  kinsmen, 

Henceforth  be  earls,  the  first  that  ever  Scotland 

In  such  an  honour  named.  What 's  more  to  do, 

Which  would  be  planted  newly  with  the  time,  65 

As  calling  home  our  exiled  friends  abroad 

That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tyranny, 

Producing  forth  the  cruel  ministers 

Of  this  dead  butcher  and  his  fiend-like  queen, 

Who,  as  'tis  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands  70 

Took  off  her  life;  this,  and  what  needful  else 

That  calls  upon  us,  by  the  grace  of  Grace, 

We  will  perform  in  measure,  time  and  place: 

So,  thanks  to  all  at  once  and  to  each  one, 

Whom  we  invite  to  see  us  crown'd  at  Scone.  (Flourish.  Exeunt)  75 

42.  unshrinking  station,  post  from  which  he  did  not  shrink.  56.  thy  kingdom's  pearl, 
the  flower  of  thy  kingdom.  70.  self  and  violent,  her  own  violent. 

576        THE   DRAMA 


HENRIK    IBSEN 


Hedda  Gabler 


£*»  By  the  time  Ibsen  s  Hedda  Gabler 
appeared,  in  1891,  the  modern  theater, 
in  most  of  its  essentials,  had  come  into 
being.  Examples  were  to  be  found  in  all 
the  big  cities,  not  only  in  Europe  and 
Great  Britain  but  also  in  the  United 
States.  Since  that  time,  some  of  the 
architectural  fashions  have  changed, 
and  various  experiments  have  been 
tried,  but  most  of  the  important  gen- 


eralizations about  the  theater  hold  good 
for  the  whole  period  from  1891  to  the 
present. 

The  typical  modern  theater  has  an 
auditorium  containing  a  main  floor,  two 
or  three  horseshoe  galleries,  and  boxes. 
In  general,  the  prices  of  seats  are  deter- 
mined by  the  excellence  of  the  view  of 
the  stage  which  they  afford.  Only  those 
theatergoers  who  sit  in  boxes  pay  high 


HEDDA  GABLER 


577 


prices  for  poor  (but  easily  seen)  vantage 
points  and  thus  prolong  a  generally  out- 
moded aristocratic  tradition.  The  audi- 
ences as  a  rule  are  made  up  of  the  upper 
and  middle  economic  classes:  the  labor- 
ing class  has  tended  to  find  its  entertain- 
ment away  from  the  playhouse.  The 
modern  audience  contains  a  much  larger 
proportion  of  women  than  any  audience 
in  the  past.  Since  the  dramatist  tries  to 
appeal  to  his  audience,  especially  in  a 
period  when  the  theater  is  commercial- 
ized as  it  is  today,  these  shifts  in  the 
make-up  of  the  audience  naturally  have 
influenced  dramatic  productions. 

The  stage— the  portion  of  the  modern 
theater  building  behind  the  proscenium 
—has  become  very  complicated  because 
of  the  liking  of  present-day  audiences 
for  realistic  or  unusual  scenery.  Only 
half  or  two  thirds  of  the  whole  area— 
the  part  enclosed  by  painted  scenery— is 
visible,  like  a  picture  in  a  frame,  to  the 
audience.  Above  this  five-sided  box,  in 


an  area  extending  to  the  roof  of  the  the- 
ater, scenery  is  lifted  and  hung,  to  be 
lowered  when  needed.  Behind  the 
scene-enclosed  area,  and  to  each  side, 
are  placed  properties  and  additional 
scenery.  Unless  costs  prevent,  greatly 
varied  and  quite  elaborate  settings  and 
properties  may  be  used  in  any  play. 
Such  extensive  changes  of  scenery  are 
time-consuming,  and  so  the  modern 
theater  misses  the  continuity  of  action 
most  earlier  theaters  had,  but  most  con- 
temporary audiences  do  not  find  this 
lack  disturbing.  The  chief  modern  de- 
velopment, of  course,  has  been  in  light- 
ing made  possible  by  electricity.  By 
arranging  and  manipulating  lights— foot- 
lights, lights  in  the  wings  or  above  the 
stage,  or  spotlights  located  in  the  gal- 
lery, directors  can  secure  realistic  or 
fantastic  effects,  emphasize  details  in 
the  setting  or  parts  of  the  action,  and 
communicate  moods  or  emotions. 
In  general,  modern  audiences  have 


d  tupwd  nurdern 


578 


THE  DRAMA 


been  less  enthusiastic  about  tragedies  nationally  famous  during  his  lifetime 

than  most  audiences  in  the  past  were,  and  continues  to  command  admiration. 

They  do  support  some  tragedies,  how-  In  Hedda  Gabler,  he  has  achieved  fine 

ever,  which  have  been  written  by  first-  characterization  and  has  dealt  with  an 

rate  dramatists  and  which  deal  with  important  problem.  As  a  result,  he  has 

serious  current  problems.  Ibsen,  a  great  written  a  play  which,  from  1891  to  the 

dramatist  who  was  also  a  pioneer  in  the  present,  has  been  an  exciting  experience 

writing  of  "problem  plays,"  was  inter-  for  many  playgoers  and  readers. 


CHAKACTERS 

GEORGE  TESMAN,  a  young  man  of  letters 

MRS.  HEDDA  TESMAN  (bom  GABLER),  his  Wife 
MISS  JULIANA  TESMAN,  his  aunt 
MRS.  ELVSTED 
JUDGE  BRACK 
EJLERT  LOVBORG 

BERTHA,  servant  to  the  Tesmans. 
The  action  proceeds  in  Tesmans  villa  in  the  western  part  of  the  city. 

ACT   I 

A  spacious,  pretty,  and  tastefully  furnished  sitting-room,  decorated  in  dark 
colors.  In  the  wall  at  the  back  is  a  broad  door-way,  with  curtains  drawn 
aside.  This  door-way  leads  into  a  smaller  room,  which  is  furnished  in  the 
same  style  as  the  sitting-room.  On  the  wall  to  the  right  in  this  latter  there 
is  a  folding-door,  which  leads  out  to  the  hall.  On  the  opposite  wall,  to  the 
left,  there  is  a  glass  door,  also  with  curtains  drawn  back.  Through  the 
panes  of  glass  are  seen  part  of  a  verandah,  which  projects  outside,  and 
trees  covered  with  autumn  foliage.  On  the  floor  in  front  stands  an  oval 
table  with  a  cover  on  it  and  chairs  around.  In  front  of  the  wall  on  the  right 
a  broad,  dark,  porcelain  stove,  a  high-backed  arm-chair,  a  foot-stool,  with 
cushions  and  two  ottomans.  Up  in  the  right-hand  corner  a  settee  and  a 
small  round  table.  In  front,  to  left,  a  little  away  from  the  wall,  a  sofa. 
Opposite  the  glass  door  a  pianoforte.  On  both  sides  of  the  door-way  in  the 
back  stand  6tag£res  with  pieces  of  terra  cotta  and  majolica.  Close  to  the 
back  wall  of  the  inner  room  is  seen  a  sofa,  a  table,  and  some  chairs.  Above 
this  sofa  hangs  the  portrait  of  a  handsome  elderly  man  in  a  gencraTs 
uniform.  Over  the  table  a  chandelier  with  dim,  milk-colored  shade.  A  great 


Translated  from  the  Norwegian  by  Edmund  Gosse. 

HEDDA  GABLER        579 


many  bouquets  of  flowers,  in  vases  and  glasses,  are  arranged  about  the 
sitting-room.  Others  lie  on  the  table.  Thick  carpets  are  spread  on  the 
floors  of  both  rooms.  It  is  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  in  through  the  glass 
door. 

(MISS  JULIANA  TESMAN,  with  hat  and  parasol,  comes  in  from  the  hall,  followed 
by  BERTHA,  who  carries  a  bouquet  with  paper  wrapped  around  it.  MISS 
TESMAN  is  a  good-natured-looking  lady  of  about  sixty-five,  neatly,  but 
simply  dressed  in  a  gray  walking-costume.  BERTHA  is  a  somewhat  elderly 
servant-maid,  with  a  plain  and  rather  countrified  appearance) 

MISS  TESMAN  (stands  inside  the  door,  listens,  and  says  under  her  breath). 

Well!  I  declare  if  I  believe  that  they  are  up  yet! 
BERTHA  (in  the  same  tone).  That's  just  what  I  said,  Miss  Juliana.  Just  think 

how  late  the  steamer  came  in  last  night.  And  what  they  were  doing  after 

that!  Gracious,  the  amount  of  things  the  young  mistress  would  unpack 

before  she  would  consent  to  go  to  bed! 
MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  yes!  Let  them  have  their  sleep  out.  But,  at  all  events,  they 

shall  have  fresh  morning  air  when  they  come.  (She  goes  to  the  glass  door, 

and  throws  it  wide  open) 
BERTHA  (at  the  table,  standing  irresolute,  with  the  bouquet  in  her  hand). 

There  isn't  an  atom  of  roorp  fcft  anywhere.  I  think  I  shall  put  it  down  here, 

miss.  (Lays  down  the  bouquet  in  front  of  the  pianoforte) 
MISS  TESMAN.  Well,  you've  got  a  new  master  and  mistress  at  last,  my  dear 

Bertha.  God  knows  how  hard  it  is  for  me  to  part  with  you. 
BERTHA  (tearfully).  And— for  me— too!  What  am  I  to  say?  I,  who  have  been 

in  your  service  for  all  these  years  and  years,  Miss  Juliana. 
MISS  TESMAN.  We  must  take  it  quietly,  Bertha.  The  truth  is,  there's  nothing 

else  to  be  done.  George  must  have  you  with  him  in  the  house,  you  see. 

He  must.  You  have  been  used  to  look  after  him  ever  since  he  was  a  little 

boy. 
BERTHA.  Yes,  miss,  but  I  can't  help  thinking  so  much  about  her  who  lies  at 

home.  Poor  thing,  so  utterly  helpless!  And  then  with  a  new  servant-maid 

there.  She'll  never,  never  learn  to  wait  on  the  invalid  properly. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh!  I  shall  get  her  into  proper  training  for  it.  And  I  shall  do 

most  of  it  myself,  you  may  be  sure.  You  need  not  be  so  anxious  about  my 

poor  sister,  dear  Bertha. 
BERTHA.  Yes,  but  you  know  there  are  other  things  besides,  Miss  Juliana.  I 

am  so  dreadfully  afraid  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  suit  the  young  mistress. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Now,  dear  me,  just  at  first  there  may  possibly  be  one  thing  or 

another 

BERTHA.  For  there's  no  doubt  that  she's  tremendously  particular. 


580 


THE  DRAMA 


MISS  TESMAN.  Well,  you  can  understand  that.  General  Gabler's  daughter. 
What  she  was  used  to  as  long  as  the  General  lived!  Can  you  remember 
when  she  rode  over  with  her  father?  In  the  long,  black  riding-habit?  And 
with  feathers  in  her  hat? 

BERTHA.  Yes,  I  should  think  I  did.  Well!  if  ever  I  thought  in  those  days  that 
she  and  Master  George  would  make  a  match  of  it. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Nor  I  either.  But  by  the  way,  Bertha,  while  I  remember  it, 
you  must  not  say  Master  George  in  future;  you  must  say  the  Doctor.  ) 

BERTHA.  Oh,  yes,  the  young  mistress  said  something  about  that  last  night— 
the  very  moment  she  came  in  at  the  door.  Is  that  so,  Miss  Juliana? 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  of  course  it  is.  Recollect,  Bertha,  they  made  him  a  doctor 
while  he  was  abroad.  While  he  was  travelling,  you  understand.  I  did 
not  know  a  word  about  it  until  he  told  me  down  there  on  the  quay. 

BERTHA.  Well,  he  can  be  made  whatever  he  likes,  he  can.  He  is  so  clever. 
But  I  should  never  have  believed  that  he  would  have  taken  to  curing 
people. 

MISS  TESMAN.  No,  he  is  not  that  sort  of  doctor.  (Nods  significantly)  Besides, 
who  knows  but  what  you  may  soon  have  to  call  him  something  grander 
still. 

BERTHA.  Not  really!  What  may  that  be,  Miss  Juliana? 

MISS  TESMAN  (smiles).  H'm— I'm  not  sure  that  you  ought  to  know  about  it. 
(Agitated)  Oh,  dear,  Oh  dear!  if  only  my  poor  Jochum  could  rise  from  his 
grave  and  see  what  his  little  boy  has  grown  into.  (Glances  around)  Taken 
the  covers  off  all  the  furniture? 

BERTHA.  Mrs.  George  said  I  was  to  do  so.  She  can't  bear  covers  on  the  chairs 
she  s^ys. 

MISS  TESMAN.  But— are  they  to  be  like  this  every  day? 

BERTHA.  Yes,  I  believe  so.  Mrs.  George  said  so.  As  to  the  doctor,  he  didn't 
say  anything. 

(GEORGE  TESMAN  enters,  humming,  from  the  right  side  into  the  back  room, 
carrying  an  empty  open  hand-bag.  He  is  of  middle  height,  a  young-look- 
ing man  of  thirty-three,  rather  stout,  with  an  open,  round,  jolly  counte- 
nance, blond  hair  and  beard.  He  wears  spectacles  and  is  dressed  in  a 
comfortable,  rather  careless  indoor  suit) 

MISS  TESMAN.  Good-morning,  good-morning,  George. 

TESMAN.  Aunt  Julie!  Dear  Aunt  Julie!  (Walks  up  to  her  and  shakes  her  hand) 
Right  out  here  so  early!  Eh? 

MISS  TESMAN.  Well,  you  can  fancy  I  wanted  to  look  after  you  a  little. 

TESMAN.  And  that  although  you  have  not  had  your  usual  night's  rest! 

MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter  the  least  in  the  world. 

TESMAN.  Well,  did  you  get  safe  home  from  the  quay?  Eh? 

HEDDA    GABLER         581 


MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  dear  me,  yes,  thank  GodI  The  Judge  was  so  kind  as  to 

see  me  home  right  to  my  door. 
TESMAN.  We  were  so  sorry  we  could  not  take  you  up  in  the  carriage.  But 

you  saw  yourself— Hedda  had  so  many  boxes  that  she  was  obliged  to  take 

with  her. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  it  was  quite  dreadful  what  a  quantity  of  boxes  she  had. 
BERTHA  ( to  TESMAN  ) .  Shall  I  go  up  and  ask  the  mistress  whether  I  can  help 

her? 
TESMAN.  No,  thank  you,  Bertha— it  is  not  worth  while  for  you  to  do  that.  If 

she  wanted  anything  she  would  ring,  she  said. 
BERTHA  (to  the  right).  Yes,  yes,  all  right. 
TESMAN.  But  look  here— take  this  bag  away  with  you. 
BERTHA  (takes  it).  I  will  put  it  up  in  the  garret.  (She  goes  out  through  the  hall 

door) 
TESMAN.  Just  fancy,  Aunt,  that  whole  bag  was  stuffed  full  of  nothing  but 

transcripts.  It  is  perfectly  incredible  what  I  have  collected  in  the  various 

archives.  Wonderful  old  things,  which  nobody  had  any  idea  of  the  exist- 
ence of. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  indeed,  you  have  not  wasted  your  time  on  your  wedding- 
journey,  George. 
TESMAN.  No,  I  may  say  I  have  not.  But  do  take  off  your  hat,  Aunt.  Look  here. 

Let  me  untie  the  bow.  Eh? 
MISS  TESMAN  (while  he  does  it).  Oh,  dear  me!  it  seems  exactly  as  if  you  were 

still  at  home  with  us. 
TESMAN  (turns  and  swings  the  hat  in  his  hand).  Well,  what  a  smart,  showy 

hat  you  have  got  for  yourself,  to  be  sure. 
/MISS TESMAN.  Ibonghtjitjor  Hgddals-sake. 
I  TESMAN.  ForJHedda^S-Sake^eh? 

/MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  in  order  that  Hedda  may  not  be  ashamed  of  me  whgn_wg  j 

V     are  walkingin  the  street  together.  ^/ 

TESMAN  (patting  her  under  the  chin).  You  positively  think  of  everything, 

Aunt  Julie!  (Puts  the  hat  on  a  chair  close  to  the  table)  Now,  look  here, 

let  us  sit  down  here  on  this  sofa  and  chat  a  little  until  Hedda  comes.  (They 

sit  down.  She  places  her  parasol  on  the  settee) 
MISS  TESMAN  (takes  both  his  hands  in  hers  and  looks  at  him).  How  nice  it  is 

to  have  you,  George,  as  large  as  life,  before  one's  very  eyes  again.  Oh,  my 

dear,  you  are  poor  Jochum's  own  boy. 
TESMAN.  And  for  me,  too.  To  see  you  again,  Aunt  Julie!  You  who  have  been 

both  father  and  mother  to  me. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  I  know  very  well  that  you  are  still  fond  of  your  old  aunts. 
TESMAN.  And  so  there's  no  improvement  in  Aunt  Rina.  Eh? 
MISS  TESMAN.  Ah,  no,  there  is  no  improvement  for  her  to  be  hoped  for,  poor 

582        THE  DRAMA 


thing.  She  lies  there  just  as  she  has  lain  all  these  years.  But  I  pray  the  Lord 

to  let  me  keep  her  a  while  yet.  For  I  don't  know  how  I  could  live  without 

her,  George.  Most  of  all  now,  you  see,  when  I  have  not  you  to  look  after 

any  longer. 

TESMAN  (pats  her  on  the  back).  Come,  come! 
MISS  TESMAN.  Well,  but  remember  that  you  are  a  married  man  now,  George. 

Fancy  its  being  you  who  carried  off  Hedda  Gabler!  The  lovely  HeddaJ 

Gabler.  Think  of  it!  She  who  had  such  a  crowd  of  suitors  around  her!) 
TESMAN  (hums  a  little  and  smiles  contentedly).  Yes,  I  expect  I  have  plenty\ 

of  good  friends  here  in  town  that  envy  me.  Eh?  s 

MISS  TESMAN.  And  what  a  long  wedding-journey  you  made,  to  be  sure!  More 

than  five— nearly  six  months. 
TESMAN.  Well,  it  has  been  a  sort  of  travelling  scholarship  for  me  as  well. 

All  the  archives  I  had  to  examine.  And  the  mass  of  books  I  had  to  read 

through! 
MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  indeed,  I  expect  so.  (More  quietly  and  in  a  lower  voice) 

But  now  listen,  George— haven't  you  anything—anything  particular  to  tell 

me? 
TESMAN.  About  the  journey? 

MISS  TESMAN.  YeS. 

TESMAN.  No,  I  don't  think  of  anything  more  than  I  have  mentioned  in  my 
letters.  I  told  you  yesterday  about  my  taking  my  doctor's  degree  while  we 
were  abroad. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  you  told  me  that.  But  I  mean— haven't  you  any— 
any  particular— prospects — ? 

TESMAN.  Prospects? 

MISS  TESMAN.  Good  God,  George— I'm  your  old  auntl 

TESMAN.  Oh,  yes,  I  have  prospects. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Well! 

TESMAN.  I  have  an  excellent  chance  of  becoming  a  professor  one  of  these 

days. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  a  professor — I 
TESMAN.  Or— I  might  even  say  I  am  certain  of  becoming  one.  But,  dear  Aunt 

Julie,  you  know  that  just  as  well  as  I  do! 
MISS  TESMAN  (giggling).  Yes,  of  course  I  do.  You  are  quite  right  about  that. 

(Crosses  over)  But  we  were  talking  about  your  journey.  It  must  have  cost 

a  lot  of  money,  George? 
TESMAN.  No,  indeed.  That  large  stipend  went  a  long  way  toward  paying  our 

expenses. 
MISS  TESMAN.  But  I  can  scarcely  understand  how  you  can  have  made  it 

sufficient  for  two  of  you. 
TESMAN.  No,  no,  it  is  not  easy  to  make  that  out,  is  it?  Eh? 


MISS  TESMAN.  And  when  it  k  a  lady  that  is  your  travelling  companion.  For 

I've  heard  that  that  makes  everything  frightfully  more  expensive. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  of  course— rather  more  expensive  it  certainly  is.  But  Hedda 

was  bound  to  have  that  journey,  Aunt.  She  was  really  bound  to  have  it. 

We  could  not  have  done  anything  else. 
MISS  TESMAN.  No,  no,  you  could  not.  A  wedding-trip  is  quite  the  proper  thing 

nowadays.  But  tell  me— have  you  made  yourself  quite  comfortable  here 

in  these  rooms? 

TESMAN.  Oh,  yes,  indeed.  I  have  been  busy  ever  since  it  was  light. 
MISS  TESMAN.  And  what  do  you  think  of  it  all? 
•ESMAN.  Splendid.  Perfectly  splendid!  The  only  thing  I  don't  know  is  what 

we  shall  do  with  the  two  empty  rooms  between  the  back-room  there  and 

Hedda's  bedroom. 
;  TESMAN  (smiling).  Oh,  my  dear  George,  you  may  find  a  use  for  them  in 

the— course  of  time. 
ESMAN.  Yes,  you  are  quite  right  about  that,  Aunt  Julie.  For,  as  I  add  to  my 

collection  of  books,  I  shall— eh? 

uss  TESMAN.  Just  so,  my  dear  boy.  It  was  your  collection  of  books  I  was 
-thinking  about. 
TESMAN.  I  am  most  pleased  for  Hedda's  sake.  Before  we  were  engaged  she 

said  that  she  never  wanted  to  live  anywhere  else  than  in  Mrs.  Falk's  villa. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  fancy!— and  that  it  should  happen  to  be  for  sale  just  when 

you  had  started  on  your  journey. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  Aunt  Julie,  there  is  no  doubt  we  were  in  luck's  way,  eh? 
MISS  TESMAN.  But  expensive,  my  dear  George!  It  will  be  expensive  for  you 

—all  this  place. 

TESMAN  (looks  rather  dispiritedly  at  her).  Yes,  I  daresay  it  will  be,  Aunt. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  my  goodness! 
TESMAN.  How  much  do  you  think?  Give  a  guess.  Eh? 
MISS  TESMAN.  No,  I  can't  possibly  tell  till  all  the  bills  come  in. 
TESMAN.  Well,  fortunately  Judge  Brack  has  bargained  for  lenient  terms  for 

me.  He  wrote  so  himself  to  Hedda. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  do  not  bother  about  that,  my  boy.  Besides  I  have  given 

security  for  the  furniture  and  all  the  carpets. 
TESMAN.  Security?  You?  Dear  Aunt  Julie,  what  sort  of  security  could  you 

give? 

MISS  TESMAN.  I  have  given  a  mortgage  on  our  income. 
TESMAN  (jumps  up).  What!  On  your— and  Aunt  Rina's  incomel 
MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  you  know  I  did  not  see  any  other  way  out  of  it. 
TESMAN  (stands  in  front  of  her).  But  you  must  be  mad,  Aunt!  The  income— 

that  is  the  only  thing  which  you  and  Aunt  Rina  have  to  live  upon. 

584        THE   DRAMA 


MISS  TESMAN.  Well,  well,  don't  be  so  excited  about  it.  It  is  all  a  matter  of 
form,  you  know.  Judge  Brack  said  so  too.  For  it  was  he  who  was  so  kind 
as  to  arrange  the  whole  thing  for  me.  Merely  a  matter  of  form,  he  said. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  that  may  well  be.  But  at  the  same  time 

MISS  TESMAN.  And  now  you  will  have  your  own  salary  to  draw  from.  And, 
dear  me,  supposing  we  have  to  fork  out  a  little?  Pinch  a  little  at  first?  It 
will  merely  be  like  a  pleasure  for  us,  that  will. 

TESMAN.  Oh,  Aunt,  you  will  never  be  tired  of  sacrificing  yourself  for  me! 

MISS  TESMAN  (stands  up  and  places  her  liands  on  his  shoulders).  Do  you 
think  I  have  any  other  joy  in  this  world  than  to  smooth  the  way  for  you, 
my  dear  boy?  You,  who  have  never  had  a  father  or  a  mother  to  look  after 
you.  And  now  we  stand  close  to  the  goal.  The  prospect  may  have  seemed 
a  little  black  from  time  to  time.  But,  thank  God,  it's  all  over  now,  George! 

TESMAN.  Yes,  it  really  is  marvellous  how  everything  has  adapted  itself. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  and  those  who  opposed  you— and  tried  to  bar  your  way— 
they  have  all  had  to  submit.  They  are  fallen,  George!  He  who  was  the 
most  dangerous  of  all— he  is  just  the  one  who  has  fallen  worst.  And  now 
he  lies  in  the  pit  he  digged  for  himself— poor  misguided  man! 

TESMAN.  Have  you  heard  anything  about  Ejlert?  Since  I  went  away,  I  mean. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Nothing,  except  that  he  has  been  publishing  a  new  book. 

TESMAN.  Not  really?  Ejlert  Lovborg?  Quite  lately?  Eh? 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  they  say  so.  Heaven  knows  if  there  can  be  much  good  in 
it.  No,  when  your  new  book  comes  out— that  will  be  something  different, 
that  will,  George!  What  is  the  subject  to  be? 

TESMAN.  It  will  treat  of  the  domestic  industries  of  Brabant  during  the  Middle 
Ages. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Fancy  your  being  able  to  write  about  that  as  well! 

TESMAN.  At  the  same  time,  it  may  be  a  long  while  before  the  book  is  ready. 
I  have  these  extensive  collections,  which  must  be  arranged  first  of  all, 
you  see. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  arrange  and  collect— you  are  good  at  that.  You  are  not 
poor  Jochum's  son  tor  nothing. 

TESMAN.  I  am  so  awfully  glad  to  be  going  on  with  it.  Especially  now  that 
I  have  a  comfortable  house  and  home  to  work  in. 

MISS  TESMAN.  And  first  and  foremost,  now  you  have  her  who  was  the  desire 
of  your  heart,  dear  George. 

TESMAN  (embraces  her).  Oh,  yes,  yes,  Aunt  Julie.  Hedda— she  is  the  love- 
liest part  of  it  all!  (Looks  toward  the  doorway)  I  think  she's  coming  now, 
eh? 

(HEDDA  approaches  from  the  left  through  the  back  room.  She  is  a  lady  of 
twenty-nine.  Face  and  figure  dignified  and  distinguished.  The  color  of 

HEDDA   GABLER         585 


the  skin  uniformly  pallid.  The  eyes  steel-gray,  with  a  cold,  open  expres- 
sion of  serenity.  The  hair  an  agreeable  brown,  of  medium  tint,  but  not 
very  thick.  She  is  dressed  in  tasteful,  somewhat  loose  morning  costume) 

MISS  TESMAN.  Good-morning,  dear  Heddal  Good-morning  1 

HEDDA  (stretching  her  hand  to  her).  Good-morning,  dear  Miss  Tesman!  Pay- 
ing a  visit  so  early?  That  was  friendly  of  you. 

MISS  TESMAN  (seems  a  little  embarrassed).  Well,  have  you  slept  comfortably 
in  your  new  home? 

HEDDA.  Oh,  yes,  thanks!  Tolerably. 

TESMAN  (laughs).  Tolerably.  Well,  that  is  a  joke,  Hedda!  You  were  sleeping 
like  a  stone,  when  I  got  up. 

HEDDA.  Fortunately.  We  have  to  accustom  ourselves  to  everything  new,  Miss 
Tesman.  It  comes  little  by  little.  (Looks  toward  the  left)  Ugh!— the  girl  has 
left  the  balcony  door  open.  There  is  a  perfect  tide  of  sunshine  in  here. 

MISS  TESMAN  (goes  to  the  door).  Well,  we  will  shut  it. 

HEDDA.  No,  no,  don't  do  that!  Dear  Tesman,  draw  the  curtains.  That  gives  a 
softer  light. 

TESMAN  (at  the  door).  All  right— all  right.  There,  Hedda— now  you  have  both 
shade  and  fresh  air. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  there  is  some  need  of  fresh  air  here.  All  these  flowers —  But, 
dear  Miss  Tesman,  won't  you  sit  down? 

MISS  TESMAN.  No,  thank  you.  Now  that  I  know  that  all  is  going  well  here, 
thank  God.  And  I  must  be  getting  home  again  now.  To  her  who  lies  and 
waits  there  so  drearily,  poor  thing. 

TESMAN.  Giveher  ever  so  many  kind  messages  from  me.  And  say  that  I  am 
coming  over  to  see  Tier  to-day,  lateF  on. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  I  will.  Oh!  but— George.  (Fumbles  in  the  pocket  of  her 
cloak)  I  almost  forgot.  I  have  something  here  for  you. 

TESMAN.  What  is  it,  Aunt?  Eh? 

MISS  TESMAN  (brings  up  a  flat  package  wrapped  in  newspaper  and  gives  it 
to  him).  Look  here,  my  dear  boy. 

TESMAN  (opens  it).  No,  you  don't  say  so.  Have  you  really  been  keeping  this 
for  me,  Aunt  Julie!  Hedda!  This  is  positively  touching!  Eh? 

HEDDA  (by  the  tiagdres  to  the  right).  Yes,  dear,  what  is  it? 

TESMAN.  My  .old  morning  shoes!  My  slippers! 

HEDDA.  Ah,  yes!  I  remember  you  so  often  spoke  of  them  while  we  were 
travelling. 

TESMAN.  ftes,  I  wanted  them  so  badly.  (Goes  to  her)  You  shall  just  look  at 
them,  Hedda. 

HEDDA  (goes  away  toward  the  stove).  No,  thanks,  I  really  don't  care  about 
doing  that. 

586        THE  DRAMA 


TESMAN  (following  her).  Just  think— Aunt  Rina  lay  and  embroidered  them 

for  me.  So  ill  as  she  was.  Oh,  you  can't  believe  how  many  memories  are 

bound  up  in  them. 

HEDDA  (by  the  table).  Not  for  me  personally. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Hedda  is  quite  right  about  that,  George. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  but  I  thought  that  now,  now  she  belongs  to  the  family. 
HEDDA  (interrupting).  We  shall  never  be  able  to  get  on  with  that  servant, 

Tesman. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Not  get  on  with  Bertha? 
TESMAN.  What  do  you  mean,  dear?  Eh? 

HEDDA  (points).  Look  there!  She  has  left  her  old  hat  behind  her  on  the  chair. 
TESMAN  (horrified,  drops  the  slippers  on  the  floor).  But  Hedda— 
HEDDA.  Think— if  any  one  came  in  and  saw  a  thing  of  that  kind. 
TESMAN.  But— but  Hedda— it  is  Aunt  Julie's  hat! 
HEDDA.  Really? 
MISS  TESMAN  (takes  the  hat).  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  mine.  And  it  is  not  old  at  all, 

little  Mrs.  Hedda. 

HEDDA.  I  really  did  not  look  carefully  at  it.  Miss  Tesman. 
MISS  TESMAN  (putting  on  the  hat).  This  is  positively  the  first  time  I  have  worn 

it.  Yes,  I  assure  you  it  is. 

TESMAN.  And  it  is  smart,  too!  Really  splendid! 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  only  moderately,  my  dear  George.  (Looks  around)  My 

parasol?  Here  it  is.  (Takes  it)  For  this  is  also  mine.  (Murmurs)  Not  Bertha's. 
TESMAN.  New  hat  and  parasol!  Think  of  that,  Hedda! 
HEDDA.  And  very  nice  and  pretty  they  are. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  are  they  not?  Eh?  But,  Aunt,  look  carefully  at  Hedda  before 

you  go.  See  how  nice  and  pretty  she  is! 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  my  dear,  there  is  nothing  new  in  that,  Hedda  has  been 

lovely  all  her  days.  (She  nods  and  goes  to  the  right) 
TESMAN  (follows  her).  Yes,  but  have  you  noticed  how  buxom  and  plump  she 

has  become?  How  she  has  filled  out  during  our  trip? 
HEDDA  (walks  across  the  floor).  Oh!  Don't! 
MISS  TESMAN  (stops  and  turns  around).  Filled  out? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  Aunt  Julie,  you  don't  notice  it  so  much  now  she  has  her 

wrapper  on.  But  I,  who  have  opportunity  of — 
HEDDA  (at  the  glass  door,  impatiently).  Oh,  you  have  no  opportunity  for 

anything! 

TESMAN.  It  must  be  the  mountain  air  down  there  in  the  Tyrol — 
HEDDA  (sharply,  interrupting).  I  am  exactly  as  I  was  when  I  started. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  that  is  what  you  maintain.  But  I  declare  that  you  are  not.  Do 

not  you  think  so,  Aunt? 

HEDDA  GABLKR        587 


MISS  TESMAN  (folds  her  hands  and  gazes  at  her).  Hedda  is  lovely— lovely- 
lovely.  (Goes  to  her,  bends  her  head  down  with  both  her  hands,  and 
kisses  her  hair)  God  bless  and  preserve  Hedda  Tesman.  For  George's  sake. 

HEDDA  (gently  releases  herself).  Oh!  let  me  go. 

MISS  TESMAN  (quietly  agitated).  I  shall  come  in  to  have  a  look  at  you  every 
single  day. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  do,  Aunt!  Eh? 

MISS  TESMAN.  Good-by— good-by! 

(She  goes  out  through  the  hall  door.  TESMAN  follows  her  out.  The  door  stands 
half  open.  TESMAN  is  heard  to  repeat  his  messages  to  Aunt  Rina  and  thanks 
for  the  slippers.  At  the  same  time,  HEDDA  walks  across  the  floor,  lifts  her 
arms  and  clenches  her  hands  as  if  distracted.  Draws  the  curtains  from  the 
glass  door,  remains  standing  there,  and  looks  out.  Shortly  after,  TESMAN 
comes  in  again  and  shuts  the  door  behind  him) 

TESMAN  (takes  the  slippers  up  from  the  floor).  What  are  you  standing  there 
and  looking  at,  Hedda? 

HEDDA  (once  more  calm  and  self-possessed).  I  was  merely  standing  and  look- 
ing out  at  the  foliage.  It  is  so  yellow.  And  so  withered. 

TESMAN  (picks  up  the  slippers  and  lays  them  on  the  table).  Yes,  we  have  got 
into  September  now. 

HEDDA  (agitated  again).  Yes,  think— we  are  already  in— in  September. 

TESMAN.  Did  you  not  think  Aunt  Julie  was  odd?  Almost  mysterious?  Can  you 
make  out  what  was  the  matter  with  her?  Eh? 

HEDDA.  I  scarcely  know  her.  Is  she  accustomed  to  be  like  that? 

TESMAN.  No,  not  as  she  was  to-day. 

HEDDA  (goes  away  from  the  glass  door).  Do  you  think  she  was  offended 
about  the  hat? 

TESMAN.  Oh!  nothing  much!  Perhaps  just  a  very  little  for  the  moment 

HEDDA.  But  what  a  way  of  behaving  to  throw  one's  hat  away  from  one  here 
in  the  drawing-room!  One  does  not  do  that. 

TESMAN.  Well,  you  can  depend  upon  it,  Aunt  Julie  is  not  in  the  habit  of 
doing  so. 

HEDDA.  All  the  same  I  shall  take  care  to  make  it  all  right  again  with  her. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  dear,  sweet  Hedda,  you  will  do  that,  won't  you? 

HEDDA.  When  you  go  to  see  them  later  on  to-day,  you  can  ask  her  to  come 
here  this  evening. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  that  I  certainly  will.  And  then  there  is  one  thing  you  could 
do  which  would  please  her  immensely. 

HEDDA.  What? 

TESMAN.  If  you  could  only  persuade  yourself  to  say  "Thou"  to  her.  For  my 
sake,  Hedda?  Eh? 


588 


THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA.  No,  no,  Tesman— that  you  really  must  not  ask  me  to  do.  I  have  told 

you  so  once  before.  I  shall  try  to  call  her  Aunt.  And  that  must  be  enough. 
TESMAN.  Very  well,  very  well.  But  I  merely  thought,  that  now  you  belong 

to  the  family — 
HEDDA.  H'm— I  am  not  perfectly  sure.  (Goes  across  the  floor  toward  the 

doorway) 

TESMAN  (after  a  pause).  Is  anything  the  matter  with  you,  Hedda?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  I  was  merely  looking  at  my  old  piano.  It  does  not  seem  to  match 

very  well  with  all  the  rest. 

TESMAN.  The  first  time  I  am  paid  we  will  see  about  getting  it  changed. 
HEDDA.  No,  no— not  changed.  I  will  not  have  it  taken  away.  We  can  put  it 

in  the  back  room.  And  we  can  have  another  here  in  its  place.  When  there's 

an  occasion,  I  mean. 

TESMAN  (slightly  embarrassed).  Yes,  we  can  do  that. 
HEDDA  (takes  up  the  bouquet  on  the  piano).  These  flowers  were  not  here 

when  we  came  last  night. 

TESMAN.  Aunt  Julie  must  have  brought  them  for  you. 
HEDDA  (looks  into  the  bouquet).  A  visiting  card.  (Takes  it  out  and  reads) 

"Am  coming  again  later  in  the  day."  Can  you  guess  whom  it  is  from? 
TESMAN.  No.  From  whom,  then?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  The  name  is  "Mrs.  Elvsted." 

TESMAN.  Not  really?  Mrs.  Elvsted!  Miss  Rysing,  her  name  used  to  be. 
HEDDA.  Just  so.  She  with  the  irritating  hair  which  she  went  around  and 

made  a  sensation  with.  Your  old  flame,  I've  heard. 
TESMAN  (laughing).  Well,  it  did  not  last  long.  And  that  was  before  I  knew 

you,  Hedda,  that  was.  But  fancy  her  being  in  town! 
HEDDA.  Extraordinary  that  she  should  call  upon  us.  I  have  scarcely  known 

her  since  our  being  at  school  together. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  and  I  have  not  seen  her  for— goodness  knows  how  long.  How 

she  can  endure  living  up  there  in  that  poky  hole.  Eh? 
HEDDA  (considers,  and  suddenly  says).  Listen,  Tesman— is  it  not  up  there  that 

there  is  a  place  which  he  haunts— he— Ejlert  Lovborg? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  it  is  somewhere  up  there  in  that  neighborhood. 
(BERTHA  appears  in  the  hall  door) 
BERTHA.  She  has  come  again,  ma'am— that  lady  who  was  here  just  now  and 

left  the  flowers.  (Points)  Those  you  are  holding,  ma'am. 
HEDDA.  Ah!  is  she?  Then  will  you  show  her  in? 
(  BERTHA  opens  the  door  for  MRS.  ELVSTED,  and  goes  out  herself.  MRS.  ELVSTED 

is  a  slender  figure,  with  a  pretty,  gentle  face.  The  eyes  are  light  blue, 

large,  round,  and  somewhat  prominent,  with  a  frightened,  questioning 

expression.  Her  hair  is  singularly  bright,  almost  white-gold,  and  un- 

HEDDA   GABLER         589 


usually  copious  and  wavy.  She  is  a  year  or  two  younger  than  HEDDA.  Her 

costume  is  a  dark  visiting-dress,  which  is  in  good  taste,  but  not  in  the 

latest  fashion) 
HEDDA  (conies  pleasantly  to  meet  her).  Good-day,  dear  Mrs.  Elvsted.  It  is 

awfully  nice  to  see  you  again. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (nervously  trying  to  get  self-command).  Yes,  it  is  very  long 

since  we  met. 

TESMAN  (holding  out  his  hand  to  her).  And  we  two,  also.  Eh? 
HEDDA.  Thanks,  for  your  lovely  flowers — 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  please— I  wanted  to  have  come  here  at  once,  yesterday 

afternoon.  But  when  I  heard  that  you  were  travelling — 
TESMAN.  Are  you  just  come  to  town?  Eh? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  I  arrived  at  noon  yesterday.  Oh,  I  was  so  perfectly  in  despair, 

when  I  heard  you  were  not  at  home. 
HEDDA.  In  despair?  Why? 

TESMAN.  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Ry sing— Mrs.  Elvsted,  I  mean 

HEDDA.  I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  there  is.  And  I  don't  know  any  other  living  creature  whom 

I  could  appeal  to. 

HEDDA  (puts  the  bouquet  on  the  table).  Come— let  us  sit  here  on  the  sofa. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  I  have  not  a  moment's  quiet  to  sit  down. 
HEDDA.  Oh,  yes,  I'm  sure  you  have.  Come  here.  (She  drags  MRS.  ELVSTED 

down  on  the  sofa,  and  sits  at  her  side) 

TESMAN.  Well?  And  so,  Mrs. 

HEDDA.  Has  anything  particular  happened  up  at  your  place? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes— it  both  has  and  has  not  happened.  Oh—I  should  be  so 

extremely  sorry  if  you  misunderstood  me 

HEDDA.  But  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  tell  us  the  whole  story,  Mrs. 

Elvsted. 

TESMAN.  You  have  come  here  on  purpose  to  do  that.  Eh? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  yes— that  is  so.  And  so  I  must  tell  you— if  you  don't  know 

it  already— that  Ejlert  Lovborg  is  also  in  town. 

HEDDA.  Is  Lovborg 

TESMAN.  No,  you  don't  say  that  Ejlert  Lovborg  is  come  back  again!  Think  of 

that,  Heddal 

HEDDA.  Good  gracious,  I  hear  itl 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  He  has  now  been  here  a  week.  Just  think  of  that— a  whole 

weekl  In  this  dangerous  town.  Alonel  With  all  the  bad  company  that  is 

to  be  found  here. 

HEDDA.  But,  dear  Mrs.  Elvsted— how  does  he  really  concern  you? 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (looks  terrified  around  and  says  rapidly).  He  was  the  tutor 

for  the  children. 


590 


THE   DRAMA 


HEDDA.  For  your  children? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  For  my  husband's.  I  have  none. 

HEDDA.  For  your  step-children,  then. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes. 

TESMAN  (somewhat  hesitatingly).  Was  he  so  far— I  don't  quite  know  how  to 

express  myself— so  far— regular  in  his  mode  of  life  that  he  could  be  set 

to  that  kind  of  employment?  Eh? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Of  late  years  there  has  been  nothing  to  bring  forward  against 

him. 

TESMAN.  Has  there  not,  really?  Fancy  that,  Heddal 
HEDDA.  I  hear  it. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Not  the  smallest  thing,  I  assure  youl  Not  in  any  respect  what- 
ever. But  at  the  same  time— now,  when  I  knew  that  he  was  here— in  town 

—and  a  great  deal  of  money  passing  through  his  hands!  Now  I  am  so 

mortally  frightened  for  him. 
TESMAN.  But  why  did  he  not  stay  up  there,  where  he  was?  With  you  and 

your  husband?  Eh? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  When  the  book  was  published,  he  could  not  settle  down  up 

there  with  us  any  longer. 

TESMAN.  Ah!  that  is  true— Aunt  Julie  said  he  had  brought  out  a  new  book. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  a  large  new  book,  all  about  the  progress  of  civilization. 

It  was  a  fortnight  ago.  And  now  it  is  being  bought  and  read  so  much—and 

has  made  such  a  great  sensation — 
TESMAN.  Has  it  really?  It  must  be  something  he  has  had  lying  about  him 

from  his  good  days. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  You  mean,  from  before — ? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  of  course. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  he  has  written  it  all  since  he  has  been  up  with  us.  Now 

—within  the  last  year. 

TESMAN.  That  is  good  news,  Hedda!  Fancy  that! 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  yes,  if  only  it  might  keep  like  thatl 
HEDDA.  Have  you  met  him  here? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  not  yet.  I  have  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  finding  out 

his  address.  But  I  am  really  to  see  him  to-morrow. 
HEDDA  (gives  her  a  searching  look).  All  things  considered,  I  think  it  seems 

a  little  strange  of  your  husband— h'm 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (nervously).  Of  my  husband!  What? 

HEDDA.  To  send  you  to  town  on  such  an  errand.  Not  to  come  in  himself  and 

look  after  his  friend. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  no,  no— my  husband  has  no  time  for  that.  And  there  were 

—some  purchases  I  had  to  make. 
HEDDA  (slightly  smiling).  Ah,  that  is  a  different  matter. 

HEDDA   GABLER        591 


MRS.  ELVSTED  (rising  quickly  and  uneasily).  And  now  I  do  beg  of  you,  Mr, 

Tesman,  receive  Ejlert  Lovborg  kindly,  if  he  comes  to  youl  And  that  he 

is  sure  to  do!  Good  gracious,  you  used  to  be  such  great  friends  once.  And 

you  both  go  in  for  the  same  studies.  The  same  class  of  knowledge— so  far 

as  I  can  judge. 

TESMAN.  Well,  we  used  to,  at  all  events. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  and  therefore  I  do  beg  you  so  earnestly  that  you  will— 

you  too— that  you  will  keep  an  eye  upon  him.  Ohl  you  will,  won't  you, 

Mr.  Tesman— you  promise  me  you  will? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  I  shall  be  very  glad  indeed,  Mrs.  Rysing — 
HEDDA.  Elvsted. 
TESMAN.  I  shall  do  for  Ejlert  all  that  it  is  in  my  power  to  do.  You  can  depend 

upon  that. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  how  perfectly  lovely  that  is  of  you!  (Presses  his  hands) 

Thanks,  thanks,  thanks!  (With  a  frightened  expression)  Yes,  for  my  hus- 
band is  so  very  fond  of  him. 
HEDDA  (rising).  You  ought  to  write  to  him,  Tesman.  For  perhaps  he  might 

not  quite  like  to  come  to  you  of  himself. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  that  would  be  best,  wouldn't  it,  Hedda?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  And  do  not  put  it  off.  Now,  immediately,  it  seems  to  me. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  ( supplicating).  Oh,  yes,  if  you  would! 
TESMAN.  Til  write  this  very  moment.   Have  you  his  address,   Mrs.— Mrs. 

Elvsted? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes.  (Takes  a  little  slip  of  paper  out  of  her  pocket  and  gives 

it  to  him)  Here  it  is. 
TESMAN.  Good,  good.  Then  I  will  go  in.  (Looks  around  him)  That  is  true— 

the  slippers?  Now  then.  (Takes  the  package  and  is  going) 
HEDDA.  Be  sure  you  write  in  a  very  cordial  and  friendly  way  to  him.  And 

write  a  pretty  long  letter,  too. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  I  will. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  But  not  a  word  to  hint  that  I  have  been  begging  for  him. 
TESMAN.  No,  of  course,  not  a  word.  Eh?  (He  goes  through  the  back  room 

to  the  left) 
HEDDA  (wallts  up  to  MRS.  ELVSTED,  smiles,  and  says  in  a  low  voice).  Well!  Now 

we  have  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  What  do  you  mean? 
HEDDA.  Do  you  not  understand  that  I  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  that  he  might  write  the  letter 

HEDDA.  And  also  to  have  a  chat  alone  with  you. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (confused).  About  the  same  subject? 
HEDDA.  Yes. 


592 


THE   DRAMA 


MRS.  ELVSTED  (distressed).  But  there  is  no  more,  Mrs.  Tesmanl  Really  no 
more! 

HEDDA.  Oh,  yes,  indeed  there  is.  There  is  a  great  deal  more.  I  understand 
as  much  as  that.  Come  here— let  us  sit  down  and  be  perfectly  frank  with 
one  another.  (She  presses  MRS.  ELVSTED  down  into  the  arm-chair— by  the 
stove,  and  seats  herself  on  one  of  the  footstools) 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (anxiously,  looks  at  her  watch).  But  dear  Mrs. 1  really  in- 
tended to  be  going  now. 

HEDDA.  Oh!  there  cannot  be  any  reason  for  hurrying—is  there?  Tell  me  a 
little  how  you  are  getting  on  at  home. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  that  is  the  very  last  thing  I  should  wish  to  discuss. 

HEDDA.  But  to  me,  dear ?  Goodness,  we  went  to  the  same  school  together. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  but  you  were  in  the  class  above  me!  Oh!  how  fearfully 
afraid  of  you  I  was  then! 

HEDDA.  Were  you  afraid  of  me? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  fearfully  afraid.  Because,  when  we  met  on  the  stairs,  you 
always  used  to  pull  my  hair. 

HEDDA.  No,  did  I  really? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  and  once  you  said  you  would  scorch  it  off  my  head. 

HEDDA.  Oh,  that  was  only  nonsense,  you  know. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  but  I  was  so  stupid  in  those  days.  And  then  besides,  after 
—we  were  separated  so  far— far  from  one  another.  Our  circles  were  so 
entirely  different. 

HEDDA.  Well,  now  we  will  try  to  come  closer  to  each  other  again.  Now 
listen!  At  school  we  said  "thou"  to  one  another.  And  we  called  one 
another  by  our  Christian  names — 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  you  are  certainly  quite  mistaken  about  that. 

HEDDA.  No,  I  am  sure  I  am  not,  no!  I  recollect  it  perfectly.  And  we  will  be 
frank  with  one  another,  just  as  we  were  in  those  old  days.  (Draws  foot- 
stool nearer)  There!  (Kisses  her  cheek)  Now  say  "thou"  to  me,  and  call 
me  Hedda. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (presses  and  pats  her  hands).  Oh,  such  goodness  and  friendli- 
ness! It  is  something  that  I  am  not  at  all  accustomed  to. 

HEDDA.  There,  there,  there!  And  I  shall  say  "thou"  to  you,  just  as  I  used  to 
do,  and  call  you  my  dear  Thora. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  My  name  is  Thea. 

HEDDA.  So  it  is.  Of  course.  I  meant  Thea,  (Looks  significantly  at  her)  So  you 
are  but  little  accustomed  to  goodness  and  friendliness,  Thea?  In  your  own 
home? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  if  I  had  a  home!  But  I  have  not  one.  Have  never  had  one. 

HEDDA  (looking  slightly  at  her).  I  had  a  suspicion  of  something  of  the  sort 

HEDDA    GABLER         593 


MRS.  ELVSTED  (staring  helplessly  in  front  of  her).  Yes,  yes,  yes. 

HEDDA.  I  cannot  quite  remember  now.  But  was  it  not  first  as  housekeeper 

that  you  went  up  there  to  the  sheriff's? 
MBS.  ELVSTED.  More  properly  as  governess.  But  his  wife— his  then  wife— she 

was  an  invalid,  and  confined  to  her  bed  most  of  the  time.  So  I  really  had 

to  undertake  the  housekeeping. 

HEDDA.  But  then,  at  last,  you  became  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (dejected).  Yes,  I  did. 

HEDDA.  Let  me  see— about  how  long  is  it  now,  since  then? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Since  my  marriage? 
HEDDA.  Yes. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  It  is  now  five  years. 
HEDDA.  Ah,  yes;  it  must  be. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  those  five  years!  Or,  at  all  events,  the  last  two  or  three. 

Oh,  if  you  could  realize 

HEDDA  (slaps  her  hand  softly).  You?  Fie,  Theal 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  no— I  must  get  used  to  it.  Yes,  if  you  merely  could  just 

realize  and  understand (Tries  to  use  "ihou"  in  the  remainder  of  the  con- 
versation, but  frequently  relapses  into  "you") 
HEDDA  (casually).  Ejlert  LSvborg  has  also  been  up  there  for  three  years 

I  believe. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (looking  embarrassed  at  her).  Ejlert  Lo'vborg?  Yes,  he  has. 
HEDDA.  Did  you  know  him  already,  from  seeing  him  in  town? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Scarcely  at  all.  Yes,  that  is  to  say,  by  name  of  course. 
HEDDA.  But  up  there  in  the  country— he  came  to  your  house? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  he  came  over  to  us  every  day.  He  had  to  read  with  the 

children.  For  it  became  at  last  more  than  I  could  manage  all  by  myself. 
HEDDA.  One  can  well  understand  that.  And  your  husband?  I  suppose  that 

he  is  often  away  travelling? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes.  You  can  imagine  that  as  sheriff  he  has  to  travel  around 

the  district. 
HEDDA  (leans  on  the  arm  of  the  chair).  Thea— poor,  sweet  Thea— now  you 

must  tell  me  everything  just  as  it  is. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Well,  then  you  must  ask  me  questions. 
HEDDA.  What  sort  of  a  man  is  your  husband  really,  Thea?  I  mean,  how  is  he, 

socially?  Is  he  good  to  you? 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (evasively).  He  believes  that  he  does  all  for  the  best. 
HEDDA.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  must  be  too  old  for  you.  More  than  twenty 

years  older  at  least. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (irritated).  That  too.  One  thing  with  another.  Everything 

around  him  is  distasteful  to  me!  We  do  not  possess  a  thought  in  common. 

Not  one  thing  in  the  world,  he  and  I. 


594 


THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA.  But  is  he  fond  of  you,  all  the  same?  In  his  own  way? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh!  I  don't  know  what  he  is.  I  am  certainly  just  useful  to  him. 

And  it  does  not  cost  much  to  keep  me.  I  am  cheap. 
HEDDA.  That  is  stupid  of  you. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (shakes  her  head).  Can't  be  otherwise.  Not  with  him.  He  is 

not  really  fond  of  anybody  but  himself.  And  perhaps  of  the  children 

a  little. 

HEDDA.  And  of  Ejlert  Lflvborg,  Thea. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (looks  at  her).  Of  Ejlert  LSvborgl  What  makes  you  think  that? 
HEDDA.  But,  dear —I  thought  that  if  he  sends  you  right  in  here  to  town 

after  him.  (Smiles  almost  imperceptibly)— And  then  you  yourself  said  so 

to  Tesman. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (with  a  nervous  movement).  Well!  Yes,  I  did  say  so.   (Bursts 

out  in  a  low  voice)  No— I  may  just  as  well  say  it  first  as  last!  For  it  is  sure 

to  come  to  the  light  in  any  case. 

HEDDA.  But,  my  dear  Thea 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Well,  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it!  My  husband  had  no  idea 

I  had  left  home. 

HEDDA.  Really!  Did  not  your  husband  know  that? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  of  course  not.  Besides,  he  was  not  at  home.  He  was  trav- 
elling, he  too.  Oh,  I  could  not  bear  it  any  longer,  Hedda!  Absolutely  im- 
possible! So  lonely  as  I  should  be  up  there  after  this. 
HEDDA.  Well?  And  so? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  So  I  packed  up  some  of  my  things,  you  see.  What  was  most 

necessary.  Quite  quietly.  And  then  I  walked  away  from  the  house. 
HEDDA.  Without  doing  anything  else? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes.  And  then  I  took  the  train  and  came  to  town. 
HEDDA.  But,  my  dear  Thea— fancy  your  daring  to  do  it! 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (rises  and  crosses  the  floor).  Yes,  and  what  else  in  the  world 

should  I  do? 
HEDDA.  But  what  do  you  think  your  husband  will  say  when  you  go  home 

again? 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (at  the  table,  looks  at  her).  Up  there  to  him? 
HEDDA.  Yes,  of  course! 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  I  shall  never  go  up  there  to  him  any  more. 
HEDDA  (rises  and  approaches  her).  Then  you  have— in  serious  earnest— gone 

away  for  good? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes.  I  did  not  think  that  there  was  anything  else  for  me  to  do. 
HEDDA.  And  so— you  went  so  perfectly  openly. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  well!  such  things  can't  be  really  concealed,  whatever 

you  do. 
HEDDA.  But  what  do  you  suppose  that  people  will  say  about  you,  Thea? 

HEDDA    GABLER         595 


BRACK.  Altered  perhaps  you  find? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  a  little  younger,  I  think. 

BRACK.  Sincerest  thanks! 

TKSMAN.  But  what  do  you  think  of  Hedda?  Eh?  Does  not  she  look  well? 

She  positively — 
HEDDA.  Oh!  Do  leave  off  discussing  me.  Rather  thank  the  Judge  for  all  the 

trouble  he  has  hud 

BRACK.  Oh,  dear  me— it  was  a  positive  pleasure — 

HEDDA.  Yes,  you  arc  a  loyal  soul!  Jkit  my  friend  here  is  standing  and  all 

impatience  to  be  off.  Au  rcvoir,  Judge.  I  shall  be  back  here  again  in  a 

moment.  (Greetings  pass.  MRS.  ELVSTED  and  HEDDA  go  out  through  the  hall 

door) 

BRACK.  Well— is  your  wife  pleased  on  the  whole? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  thank  you  so  very  much.  That  is  to  say— a  little  shifting  here 

and  there  will  be  necessary,  I  understand.  And  there  arc  a  few  things 

wanting.  We  shall  be  obliged  to  order  in  some  little  matters. 
BRACK.  Indeed!  Really? 
TESMAN.  But  you  must  not  take  any  trouble  about  that.  Hedda  said  that  she 

would  attend  herself  to  anything  that  is  wanted,  Shall  we  sit  down?  Eh? 
BRACK.  Thanks,  just  a  moment.  (Site  close  to  the  table)  There  is  something 

I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about,  my  dear  Tesman. 
TESMAN.  Indeed?  Ah,  of  course.  (Sits  down)  It  is  no  doubt  time  to  think 

about  the  serious  part  of  the  feast.  Eh? 
BRACK.  Oh,  there  is  no  such  great  hurry  about  settling  the  money  affairs.  At 

the  same  time  I  can't  help  wishing  that  we  had  made  our  arrangements 

a  little  more  economically. 
TESMAN.  But  that  would  never  have  done.  Think  of  Hcdda!  You,  who  know 

her  so  well— I  could  not  possibly  have  settled  her  in  mean  surroundings. 
BRACK.  No,  no.  That,  of  course,  was  just  the  difficulty. 
TESMAN.  And  so,  fortunately,  it  cannot  be  long  before  I  am  appointed. 
BRACK.  Oh,  you  see,  these  things  often  drag  on  for  a  long  time. 
TKSMAN.  Do  you  happen  to  have  heard  anything  more  precise?  Eh? 
BRACK.  Not  anything  absolutely  definite,  (breaking  off)  But  it  is  true— I  have 

one  piece  of  news  to  give  you. 
TESMAN.  Ah? 

BRACK.  Your  old  friend,  Ejlert  L6vborg,  has  come  back  to  town. 
TESMAN.  I  know  that  already. 
BRACK.  Indeed?  How  did  you  find  out? 

TESMAN.  She  told  me— that  lady  who  went  out  with  Hedda. 
BRACK.  Ah,  indeed!  What  was  her  name?  I  did  not  quite  catch — 


598 


THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA  ( coldly ,  with  self-command).  Oh,  dear  me!  Nobody  does  that  sort  of 
thing  here. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No.  And  therefore  I  think  it  must  be  that  red-haired  opera- 
singer,  whom  he  once — 

HEDDA.  Yes,  I  should  think  it  might  be. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  For  I  recollect  hearing  it  said  that  she  went  about  with  loaded 
firearms. 

HEDDA.  Well— then  of  course  it  is  she. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (wrings  her  hands).  Yes,  but  just  think,  Hedda— I  have  been 
hearing  that  that  singer— she  is  in  town  again.  Oh!— I  am  perfectly  in 
despair. 

HEDDA  (glances  toward  the  back  room).  Hush!  There  is  Tesman  coming, 
(Rises  and  whispers)  Thea— all  this  must  be  between  you  and  me. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (starting  up).   Oh,  yes!  yes!  for  God's  sake! 

(GEORGE  TESMAN,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  comes  from  the  left  through  the 
back  room) 

TESMAN.  There— the  letter  is  finished. 

HEDDA.  That  is  all  right.  But  Mrs.  Elvsted  wants  to  be  going,  I  think.  Wait 
a  moment.  I  will  walk  to  the  garden-gate  with  you. 

TESMAN.  Hedda— can't  Bertha  attend  to  this? 

HEDDA  (takes  the  letter).  I  will  tell  her  to.  (BERTHA  comes  from  the  hall) 

BERTHA.  Judge  Brack  is  here  and  says  he  should  so  much  like  to  see  you  and 
master. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  ask  the  Judge  to  be  so  kind  as  to  come  in.  And,  Bertha,  listen 
—just  post  this  letter. 

BERTHA  (takes  the  letter).  Yes,  ma'am. 

(She  opens  the  door  for  JUDGE  BRACK  and  goes  out  herself.  The  JUDGE  is  a 
gentleman  of  forty-five.  Short  and  well  built,  and  elastic  in  his  movements. 
Face  round,  with  distinguished  profile.  Hair  cut  short,  still  almost  black 
and  carefully  brushed.  Eyes  bright  and  sparkling;  eyebrows  thick;  mus- 
tache the  same,  with  waxed  ends.  He  is  dressed  in  an  elegant  walking 
suit,  a  little  too  juvenile  for  his  age.  Uses  an  eyeglass,  which  now  and 
then  he  lets  drop) 

JUDGE  BRACK  (bows,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand).  May  I  venture  to  call  so  early 
in  the  day? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  indeed. 

TESMAN  (presses  his  hand).  You  are  always  welcome.  (Presenting  him)  Judge 
Brack— Miss  Rysing- — 

HEDDA.  H'm! 

BRACK  (bowing).  Ah— it  is  a  great  pleasure 

«EDDA  (looks  at  him  and  laughs).  It  seems  awfully  funny  to  look  at  you  by 
daylight,  Judge! 

HEDDA    CABLER         597 


BRACK*  Altered  perhaps  you  find? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  a  little  younger,  I  think. 

BRACK.  Sincerest  thanks! 

TESMAN.  But  what  do  you  think  of  Hedda?  Eh?  Does  not  she  look  well? 

She  positively — 
HEDDA.  Oh!  Do  leave  off  discussing  me.  Rather  thank  the  Judge  for  all  the 

trouble  he  has  had — 

BRACK.  Oh,  dear  me—it  was  a  positive  pleasure — 
HEDDA.  Yes,  you  are  a  loyal  soul!  But  my  friend  here  is  standing  and  all 

impatience  to  be  off,  Au  revoir,  Judge.  I  shall  be  back  here  again  in  a 

moment.  (Greetings  pass.  MRS.  ELVSTED  and  HEDDA  go  out  through  the  hall 

door) 

BRACK.  Well— is  your  wife  pleased  on  the  whole? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  thank  you  so  very  much.  That  is  to  say— a  little  shifting  here 

and  there  will  be  necessary,  I  understand.  And  there  are  a  few  things 

wanting.  We  shall  be  obliged  to  order  in  some  little  matters. 
BRACK.  Indeed!  Really? 
TESMAN.  But  you  must  not  take  any  trouble  about  that.  Hedda  said  that  she 

would  attend  herself  to  anything  that  is  wanted.  Shall  we  sit  down?  Eh? 
BRACK.  Thanks,  just  a  moment.  (Sits  close  to  the  table)  There  is  something 

I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about,  my  dear  Tesman. 
TESMAN.  Indeed?  Ah,  of  course.  (Sits  down)  It  is  no  doubt  time  to  think 

about  the  serious  part  of  the  feast.  Eh? 
BRACK.  Oh,  there  is  no  such  great  hurry  about  settling  the  money  affairs.  At 

the  same  time  I  can't  help  wishing  that  we  had  made  our  arrangements 

a  little  more  economically. 
TESMAN.  But  that  would  never  have  done.  Think  of  Hedda!  You,  who  know 

her  so  well— I  could  not  possibly  have  settled  her  in  mean  surroundings. 
BRACK.  No,  no.  That,  of  course,  was  just  the  difficulty. 
TESMAN.  And  so,  fortunately,  it  cannot  be  long  before  I  am  appointed. 
BRACK.  Oh,  you  see,  these  things  often  drag  on  for  a  long  time. 
TESMAN.  Do  you  happen  to  have  heard  anything  more  precise?  Eh? 
BRACK.  Not  anything  absolutely  definite.  (Breaking  off)  But  it  is  true— I  have 

one  piece  of  news  to  give  you. 
TESMAN.  Ah? 

BRACK.  Your  old  friend,  Ejlert  Lflvborg,  has  come  back  to  town. 
TESMAN.  I  know  that  already. 
BRACK.  Indeed?  How  did  you  find  out? 
TESMAN.  She  told  me— that  lady  who  went  out  with  Hedda. 
BRACK.  Ah,  indeed!  What  was  her  name?  I  did  not  quite  catch — 

598        THE  DRAMA 


TESMAN.  Mrs.  Elvsted. 

BRACK,  Alia!— then  she's  the  sheriff's  wife.  Yes,  it  is  up  there  with  them  thj 

he  has  been  staying. 
TESMAN.  And  fancy— I  hear,  to  my  great  joy,  that  he  is  a  perfectly  respectab 

member  of  society  again. 
BRACK.  Yes,  they  maintain  that  that  is  so. 
TESMAN.  And  so  he  has  published  a  new  book.  Eh? 
BRACK.  Bless  me,  yesl 
TESMAN.  And  it  has  made  a  sensation. 
BRACK.  The  sensation  it  has  made  is  quite  extraordinary. 
TESMAN.  Fancy— is  not  that  good  news  to  hear?  He,  with  his  marvelous  gift 

I  was  so  painfully  certain  that  he  had  gone  right  down  for  good. 
BRACK.  And  that  was  the  general  opinion  about  him. 
TESMAN.  But  I  can  scarcely  conceive  what  he  will  take  to  now!  How  in  tr 

world  will  he  be  able  to  make  a  living?  Eh? 
(HEDDA,  during  these  last  words,  has  entered  through  the  hall  door) 
HEDDA  (to  BRACK,  laughs  somewhat  scornfully).  Tesman  is  always  goir 

about  in  a  fright  lest  people  should  not  be  able  to  make  a  living. 
TESMAN.  Good  gracious,  my  dear,  we  are  talking  about  poor  Ejlert  Lflvbor 
HEDDA  (looks  sharply  at  him).  Ah?  (Sits  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  stove,  an 

asks,  indifferently)  What  is  the  matter  with  him? 
TESMAN.  Well,  he  certainly  ran  through  all  his  property  long  ago.  And  1 

can't  write  a  new  book  every  year.  Eh?  Well— then  I  do  seriously  as 

what  is  to  become  of  him? 
BRACK.  Perhaps  I  can  tell  you  a  little  about  that. 
TESMAN.  Really? 
BRACK.  You  must  remember  that  he  has  relatives  who  have  considerab 

influence. 
TESMAN.  Oh,  unfortunately,  his  relatives  have  entirely  washed  their  hanc 

of  him. 

BRACK.  They  used  to  call  him  the  hope  of  the  family. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  they  used  to,  yes!  But  he  has  forfeited  all  that. 
HEDDA.  Who  knows?  (Smiles  slightly)  Up  there  in  Sheriff  Elvsted's  fami 

they  have  restored  him — 

BRACK.  And  then  this  book  that  has  been  published — 
TESMAN.  Yes,  yes,  we  can  only  hope  that  they  may  be  willing  to  help  hi 

in  one  way  or  another.  I  have  just  written  to  him,  Hedda,  dear;  I  askc 

him  to  drop  in  this  evening. 
BRACK.  But,  my  dear  friend,  you  are  coming  to  my  bachelor  party  this  ev 

ning.  You  promised  you  would,  on  the  quay  last  night. 

HEDDA  GABLER        599 


HEDDA.  Had  you  forgotten  that,  Tesman? 

TESMAN.  Yes,  the  truth  is  I  had  forgotten  it. 

BRACK.  Besides,  you  may  rest  perfectly  sure  that  he  will  not  coma. 

TESMAN.  Why  do  you  think  that?  Eh? 

BRACK  (loitering  a  little,  rises  and  rests  his  hands  on  the  back  of  the  chair). 

Dear  Tesman— and  you  too,  Mrs.  Tesman— I  am  not  justified  in  leaving 

you  in  ignorance  about  a  matter  which— which — 
TESMAN.  Which  concerns  Ejlert? 
BRACK.  Both  you  and  him. 
TESMAN.  But,  dear  Judge,  let  us  know  what  it  is! 
BRACK.  You  must  be  prepared  for  your  appointment  perhaps  not  taking 

place  quite  so  soon  as  you  desire  and  expect. 

TESMAN  (jumping  up  uneasily).  Has  anything  happened  to  prevent  it?  Eh? 
BRACK.  The  possession  of  the  post  might  possibly  depend  on  the  result  of  a 

competition 

TESMAN.  Competition!  Fancy  that,  Hedda! 

HEDDA  (leans  farther  back  in  her  chair).  Ah! 

TESMAN.  But  with  whom?  For  you  never  mean  to  say  with — 

BRACK.  Yes,  that's  just  it.  With  Ejlert  Lovborg. 

TESMAN  (clasps  his  hands  together).  No,  no— that  is  perfectly  inconceivable. 

Absolutely  impossible.  Eh? 

BRACK.  H'm— it  may  come  to  be  a  matter  of  experience  with  us. 
TESMAN.  No,  but,  Judge  Brack— that  would  show  the  most  incredible  want 

of  consideration  for  me!  (Gesticulating)  Yes,  for— consider— I  am  a  married 

man!  We  married  on  my  prospects,  Hedda  and  I.  Gone  off  and  spent  a  lot 

of  money.  Borrowed  money  from  Aunt  Julie  too.  For,  good  Lord!  I  had 

as  good  as  a  promise  of  the  appointment.  Eh? 
BRACK.  Well,  well,  well— and  you  will  get  the  appointment  all  the  same.  But 

there  will  be  a  contest  first. 
HEDDA  (motionless  in  the  arm-chair).  Think,  Tesman— it  will  be  almost  like  a 

kind  of  game. 

TESMAN.  But,  dearest  Hedda,  how  can  you  sit  there  and  be  so  calm  about  it? 
HEDDA  (as  before).  I  am  not  doing  so  at  all.  I  am  perfectly  excited  about  it. 
BRACK.  In  any  case,  Mrs.  Tesman,  it  is  best  that  you  should  know  how  matters 

stand.  I  mean— before  you  carry  out  those  little  purchases  that  I  hear  you 

are  intending. 

HEDDA.  That  can  make  no  difference. 
BRACK.  Really?  That  is  another  matter.  Good-by.  (To  TESMAN)  When  I  take 

my  afternoon  walk,  I  shall  come  in  and  fetch  you. 
TESMAN.  Oh,  yes,  yes — 

600        THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA  (lying  back,  stretches  out  her  hand).  Good-by,  Judge.  And  come  soon 

again. 

BRACK.  Many  thanks.  Good-by,  good-by. 
TESMAN  (follows  him  to  the  door).  Good-by,  dear  Judge!  You  must  really 

excuse  me.  (JUDGE  BRACK  goes  out  through  the  hall-door) 
TESMAN  (crosses  the  floor).  Oh,  Hedda— one  should  never  venture  into  fairy- 
land. Eh? 

HEDDA  (looks  at  him  and  smiles).  Is  that  what  you  are  doing? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  dear— there  is  no  denying  it— it  was  an  adventure  in  fairyland 

to  go  and  get  married  and  settle  into  a  house  on  mere  empty  prospects. 
HEDDA.  Perhaps  you  are  right  about  that. 
TESMAN.  Well,  at  all  events  we  have  our  comfortable  home,  Hedda!  Fancy 

—the  home  that  we  both  went  and  dreamed  about.  Raved  about,  I  may 

almost  say.  Eh? 
HEDDA  (rises  slowly  and  wearily).  That  was  the  agreement,  that  we  should 

be  in  society.  Keep  house. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  good  Lord!  how  I  have  looked  forward  to  that!  Fancy,  to  see 

you  as  a  hostess— in  a  select  circle!  Eh?  Yes,  yes,  yes,  for  the  present  we 

two  must  keep  ourselves  very  much  to  ourselves,  Hedda.  Merely  see  Aunt 

Julie  now  and  then.  Oh,  my  dear!  it  was  to  have  been  so  very,  very 

different 

HEDDA.  Of  course  I  shall  not  have  a  liveried  servant  now,  at  first. 

TESMAN.  Oh,  no— unfortunately.  We  can't  possibly  talk  about  keeping  a  man 

servant,  you  see. 

HEDDA.  And  the  horse  for  riding,  that  I  was  to  have 

TESMAN  (horrified).  The  horse  for  riding! 

HEDDA.  I  shall  not  think  of  having  now. 

TESMAN.  No,  good  gracious!— I  should  rather  think  not! 

HEDDA  (crosses  the  floor).  Well,  one  thing  I  have  to  amuse  myself  with 

meanwhile. 
TESMAN  (beaming  with  joy).  Oh,  God  be  praised  and  thanked  for  that!  And 

what  may  that  be,  Hedda?  Eh? 
HEDDA  (at  the  doorway,  looks  at  him  with  her  hand  concealed).  My  pistols, 

George. 

TESMAN  (in  an  agony).  The  pistols! 
HEDDA  (with  cold  eyes).  General  Gabler's  pistols.  (She  goes  through  the  back 

room  out  to  the  left) 
TESMAN  (runs  to  the  doorway  and  shouts  after  her).  No,  for  goodness  sake, 

dearest  Hedda,  don't  touch  the  dangerous  things!  For  my  sake,  Hedda! 

Eh? 

HEDDA   GABLER        601 


ACT   II 

The  room  at  TESMAN'S,  as  in  the  first  act,  only  that  the  pianoforte  is  taken 
away,  and  an  elegant  writing-table,  with  a  book-case,  is  put  in  the  place 
of  it.  A  smaller  table  is  placed  close  to  the  sofa,  to  the  left.  Most  of  the 
bouquets  of  flowers  have  been  removed.  MRS.  ELVSTED'S  bouquet  stands 
on  the  larger  table  in  the  front  of  the  floor.  It  is  afternoon.  HEDDA,  dressed 
to  receive  callers,  is  alone  in  the  room.  She  stands  by  the  open  glass  door, 
and  loads  a  revolver.  The  fellow  to  it  lies  in  an  open  pistol-case  on  the 
writing-table. 

HEDDA  (looks  down  the  garden,  and  shouts).  Good-day,  again,  Judge! 

JUDGE  BRACK  (is  heard  from  below).  The  same  to  you,  Mrs.  Tesman! 

HEDDA  (lifts  the  pistol  and  aims).  I  am  going  to  shoot  you,  Judge  Brack! 

BRACK  (shouts  out  below).  No,  no,  no— don't  stand  there  aiming  at  me! 

HEDDA.  That's  the  result  of  coming  in  the  back  way.  (She  fires) 

BRACK  (near).  Are  you  perfectly  mad? 

HEDDA.  Oh,  my  God!  Did  I  hit  you? 

BRACK  (still  outside).  Don't  play  such  silly  tricks! 

HEDDA.  Then  come  in,  Judge. 

(JUDGE  BRACK,  in  morning  dress,  comes  in  through  the  glass  door.  He  carries 

a  light  overcoat  on  his  arm) 
BRACK.  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  with  that  revolver?  What  are  you 

shooting? 

HEDDA.  Oh,  I  was  only  standing  and  shooting  up  into  the  blue  sky. 
BRACK  (takes  the  pistol  gently  out  of  her  hand).  Allow  me,  Mrs.  Tesman. 

(Looks  at  it)  Ah!— I  know  this  well.  (Looks  around)  Where  is  the  case? 

Ah,  yes.  (Puts  the  pistol  into  it,  and  closes  it)  For  we  are  not  going  to 

have  any  more  of  that  tomfoolery  today. 
HEDDA.  Well,  what  in  the  name  of  goodness  would  you  have  me  do  to  amuse 

myself? 

BRACK.  Have  you  had  no  visitors? 
HEDDA  (shuts  the  glass  door).  Not  a  single  one.  All  our  intimate  friends  are 

still  in  the  country. 

BRACK.  And  is  not  Tesman  at  home,  either? 
HEDDA  (stands  at  the  writing-table,  and  shuts  the  pistol-case  up  in  the 

drawer).  No.  Directly  after  lunch  he  ran  off  to  his  aunt's,  for  he  did  not 

expect  you  so  early. 

BRACK.  H'm.  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that.  It  was  stupid  of  me. 
HEDDA  (turns  her  head  and  looks  at  him).  Why  stupid? 
BRACK.  Because,  if  I  had  thought  of  it,  I  would  have  come  here  a  little- 
earlier. 

602        THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA  (crosses  the  floor).  Yes,  you  would  then  have  found  nobody  at  all.  For 

I  have  been  in  and  dressed  myself  for  the  afternoon. 
BRACK.  And  there  is  not  so  much  as  a  little  crack  of  a  door  that  one  could 

have  parleyed  through? 
HEDDA.  You  forgot  to  arrange  for  that. 
BRACK.  That  was  stupid  of  me,  too. 
HEDDA.  Now  let  us  sit  down  here  and  wait,  for  Tesman  is  sure  not  to  be 

home  for  a  good  while  yet. 
BRACK.  Well,  well— good  Lord,  I  shall  be  patient. 
(HEDDA  sits  in  the  sofa  corner.  BRACK  lays  his  paletot  over  the  back  of  the 

nearest  chair  and  sits  down,  but  keeps  his  fiat  in  his  hand.  Short  pause. 

They  look  at  one  another) 
HEDDA.  Well? 

BRACK  (in  the  same  tone).  Well? 
HEDDA.  It  was  I  who  asked  first. 
BRACK  (bends  forward  a  little).  Yes,  let  us  have  a  little  chat  together,  Mrs. 

Hedda. 
HEDDA  (leans  farther  back  in  the  sofa).  Does  it  not  seem  to  you  a  perfect  age 

since  we  had  a  talk  together  last?  Oh,  yes;  that  chatter  yesterday  evening 

and  this  morning— I  don't  count  that  as  anything. 
BRACK.  But  between  ourselves?  Tete-£-tete,  do  you  mean? 
HEDDA.  Oh,  yes.  That  sort  of  thing. 

BRACK.  Every  single  day  I  have  been  here,  longing  to  have  you  home  again. 
HEDDA.  And  all  the  time  I  have  been  wishing  the  same  thing. 
BRACK.  You?  Really,  Mrs.  Hedda?  And  I,  who  fancied  you  were  having 

such  a  delightful  time  on  your  journey. 
HEDDA.  Oh,  you  can  imagine  that. 

BRACK.  But  that  is  what  Tesman  always  said  in  his  letters. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  he!  For  him,  the  nicest  thing  in  the  world  is  to  go  and  rummage 

in  libraries.  And  to  sit  and  copy  out  of  old  pages  of  parchment— or  what- 
ever it  may  happen  to  be. 
BRACK  (rather  maliciously).  Well,  that  is  his  business  in  the  world— or  partly, 

at  least. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  it  is.  And  then  one  may,  perhaps— but  //  Oh,  no,  dear  Judge.  1 

have  been  horribly  bored. 

BRACK  (sympathetically).  Do  you  really  mean  that?  In  serious  earnest? 
HEDDA.  Yes.  You  can  fancy  for  yourself.  For  a  whole  half  year  not  to  meet 

a  single  person  who  knows  anything  about  our  set,  and  whom  one  can 

talk  to  about  our  own  affairs. 

BRACK.  No,  no— that  I  should  feel  was  a  great  deprivation. 
HEDDA.  And  then,  what  is  the  most  intolerable  of  all — 

HEDDA  GABLER        603 


BBACK.  Well? 

HEDDA.  Everlastingly  to  be  in  the  company  of— of  one  and  the  same 

BRACK  (nods  in  approval).  Late  and  early— yes.  Fancy— at  all  possible  times. 

HEDDA.  I  said  everlastingly. 

BRACK.  Yes.  And  yet,  with  our  excellent  Tesman,  I  should  have  thought 

that  one  could  have  managed — 
HEDDA.  Tesman  is— a  professional  person,  my  dear. 
BRACK.  Can't  deny  that. 
HEDDA.  And  professional  persons  are  not  amusing  to  travel  with.  Not  in  the 

long  run,  at  least.  . 

BRACK.  Not  even— the  professional  person— one  is  fyn  love  with? 

HEDDA.  Ugh!— don't  use  thai  hackneyed  phrase^ —  JH. 

BRACK  (startled).  What  now/Klrs.  Hedda? 

HEDDA  (half  in  laughter,  half  in  anger).  Yes,  just  you  try  it  for  yourself!  To 

hear  talk  about  the  history  of  civilization  from  the  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing till  the  last  thing  at  night 

BRACK.  Everlastingly 

HEDDA.  Yes,  yes,  yes!  And  then  about  the  domestic  industries  of  the  Middle 

Ages.  That  is  the  most  hideous  of  all! 
BRACK  (looks  searchingly  at  her).  But  tell  me,  how  am  I  really  to  understand 

that — ?  H'm. 

HEDDA.  That  I  and  George  Tesman  made  up  a  pair  of  us,  do  you  mean? 
BRACK.  Well,  let  us  express  it  so. 

HEDDA.  Good  Lord!  do  you  see  anything  so  wonderful  in  that? 
BRACK.  Both  yes  and  no,  Mrs.  Hedda. 
HEDDA.  I  had  really  danced  till  I  was  tired,  my  dear  Judge.  My  time  was 

over.  Oh,  no;  I  won't  exactly  say  that— nor  think  it,  either. 
BRACK.  You  have  positively  no  reason  whatever  for  thinking  so. 
HEDDA.  Oh— reason.  (Looks  searchingly  at  him)  And  George  Tesman— he 

must  be  admitted  to  be  a  presentable  person  in  every  respect. 
BRACK.  Presentable!  I  should  rather  think  so. 
HEDDA.  And  I  do  not  discover  anything  actually  ridiculous  about  him.  Do 

you? 

BRACK.  Ridiculous?  No-o,  that  is  not  quite  the  word  I  should  use. 
HEDDA.  Well,  but  he  is  an  awfully  industrious  collector,  all  the  same!  I  should 

think  it  was  possible  that  in  time  he  would  be  quite  a  success. 
BRACK  (looks  inquiringly  at  her).  I  supposed  you  thought  like  everybody 

else,  that  he  was  going  to  be  a  very  distinguished  man. 
HEDDA  (with  a  weary  expression).  Yes,  I  did.  And  then  he  would  go  and  make 

such  a  tremendous  fuss  about  being  allowed  to  provide  for  me.  I  did  not 

know  why  I  should  not  accept  it. 

604        THE  DRAMA 


BRACK.  No,  no.  Looked  at  from  that  point  of  view 

HEDDA.  It  was  more  than  my  other  friends  in  waiting  were  willing  to  do, 

Judge. 
BRACK  (laughs).  Yes.  I  cannot  positively  answer  for  all  the  others;  but,  as 

far  as  regards  myself,  you  know  very  well  that  I  have  always  nourished 

a— a  certain  respect  for  the  marriage  tie.  Generally  speaking,  Mrs.  Hedda. 
HEDDA  (mocking).  I  never  formed  any  expectations  with  respect  to  you. 
BRACK.  All  that  I  wish  for  is  to  have  a  pleasant,  confidential  circle  of  asso- 
ciates, whom  I  can  serve  by  word  and  deed,  and  be  allowed  to  go  in  and 

out  among—as  a  tried  friend 

HEDDA.  Of  the  man  of  the  house,  do  you  mean? 

BRACK  (bows).  To  say  the  truth— most  of  all  of  the  lady.  But  next  to  her,  of 

the  husband,  of  course.  Do  you  know  that  such  a— let  me  say  such  a 

three-cornered  arrangement— is  really  a  great  comfort  to  all  parties. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  I  have  often  realized  the  want  of  a  third,  while  we  have  been 

travelling.  Ugh!  to  sit  tete-k-tete  in  the  coup6. 

BRACK.  Happily,  the  wedding  journey  is  over  now 

HEDDA  (shakes  her  head).  The  journey  will  be  a  long  one— a  long  one  yet.  I 

have  merely  stopped  at  a  station  on  the  route. 
BRACK.  Well,  then  one  jumps  out.  And  one  amuses  one's  self  a  little,  Mrs. 

Hedda. 

HEDDA.  I  shall  never  jump  out. 
BRACK.  Really,  never? 

HEDDA.  No.  For  there  is  always  somebody  here,  who — 
BRACK  (laughing).  Who  looks  at  one's  legs,  do  you  mean? 
HEDDA.  Just  that. 
BRACK.  Well,  but,  dear  me — 
HEDDA  (with  a  forbidding  gesture).  Don't  like  it.  So  I  shall  stay  there  sitting 

—where  I  now  am.  Tete-a-tete. 

BRACK.  Well,  but  then  a  third  person  gets  in  and  joins  the  couple. 
HEDDA.  Ah  well!  That  is  another  question. 

BRACK.  A  tried,  experienced  friend 

HEDDA.  Entertaining  one  with  all  sorts  of  lively  subjects — 

BRACK.  And  not  a  trace  of  the  professional  personl 

HEDDA  (audibly  drawing  in  her  breath).  Yes,  that  certainly  is  a  relief. 

BRACK  (hears  the  outer  door  opened>  and  gives  a  glance).  The  triple  alliance 

is  concluded. 

HEDDA  (whispers).  And  so  the  train  starts  again. 
(GEORGE  TESMAN,  in  a  gray  walking-suit  and  soft  felt  hat,  comes  in  from  the 

hall.  He  has  a  number  of  unbound  books  under  his  arm  and  in  his  pockets) 
TESMAN  (walks  up  to  the  table  at  the  settee).  Puf  I  It  was  pretty  hot,  dragging 

HEDDA   GABLER         605 


all  these  things  here.  (Puts  the  book  down)  I  am  all  in  a  perspiration, 

Hedda.  Well,  well—so  you  have  come,  my  dear  Judge?  Eh?  Bertha  did 

not  tell  me  that. 

BRACK  (rises).  I  came  up  through  the  garden. 
HEDDA.  What  books  are  those  you  have  brought? 

TESMAN  (stands  and  turns  over  the  pages).  Some  new  professional  publica- 
tions I  was  obliged  to  get. 
HEDDA.  Professional  publications? 
BRACK.  Aha!  they  are  professional  publications,  Mrs.  Tesman.  (BRACK  and 

HEDDA  exchange  a  confidential  smile) 
HEDDA.  Do  you  need  any  more  professional  publications? 
TESMAN.  Yes.  My  dear  Hedda,  one  can  never  have  too  many.  One  must 

follow  what  is  written  and  printed. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  one  must. 
TESMAN  (handling  the  books).  And  look  here;  I  have  got  Ejlert  Lflvborg's 

new  book,  too.  (Passes  it  to  her)  Do  you  care  to  glance  at  it,  Hedda?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  No,  many  thanks.  Or—yes,  perhaps  I  will  presently. 
TESMAN.  I  looked  through  it  a  little  as  I  came  along. 
BRACK.  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it— as  a  professional  man? 
TESMAN.  I  think  it  is  wonderful  how  thoughtfully  it  is  worked  out.  He  never 

wrote  so  well  before.  (Collects  the  books  in  a  heap)  But  now  I  will  carry 

all  these  in.  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  cut  them  all  open!  And  I  must  change 

my  clothes  a  little.  (To  BRACK)  We  don't  need  to  start  just  this  moment? 

Eh? 

BRACK.  Oh,  dear  no;  there  is  not  the  slightest  hurry. 
TESMAN.  Very  well,  then  I  will  take  my  time.  (Goes  off  with  the  books,  but 

pauses  in  the  doorway  and  turns)  By  the  way,  Hedda,  Aunt  Julie  is  not 

coming  to  see  you  this  evening. 

HEDDA.  Why  not?  Is  it  that  affair  of  the  hat  which  prevents  her? 
TESMAN.  Oh,  dear  no.  How  can  you  think  such  a  thing  of  Aunt  Julie?  Fancy! 

But  Aunt  Rina  is  so  awfully  poorly,  you  see. 
HEDDA.  She  is  always  that. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  but  to-day  she  was  worse  than  usual,  poor  thing. 
HEDDA.  Well,  then  it  was  perfectly  reasonable  that  the  other  should  stay 

with  her.  I  will  put  up  with  it. 
TESMAN.  And  you  cannot  imagine  how  awfully  pleased  Aunt  Julie  was,  too, 

because  you  looked  so  well  after  your  journey. 
HEDDA  (aside,  rises).  Oh,  those  everlasting  aunts! 
TESMAN.  What? 

HEDDA  (goes  to  the  glass  doors).  Nothing. 

TESMAN.  By-by,  then.  (He  goes  through  the  back-room  out  to  the  right) 
BRACK.  What  was  that  you  were  saying  about  a  hat? 

606        TUB  DRAMA 


HEDDA.  Oh!  it  was  only  something  about  Miss  Tesman  yesterday.  She  threw 

her  hat  down  upon  a  chair.  (Looks  at  him  and  smiles)  And  so  I  pretended 

to  think  it  was  the  servant-maid's. 
BRACK  (shakes  his  head).  But  dear  Mrs.  Hedda,  how  could  you  do  it?  Such 

a  nice  old  lady! 
HEDDA  (nervously,  crosses  the  floor).  Yes,  you  see,  it  just  takes  me  like  that 

all  of  a  sudden.  And  then  I  can't  help  doing  it.  (Throws  herself  down  into 

the  arm-chair  near  the  stove)  Oh,  I  don't  know  how  I  am  to  explain  it. 
BRACK  (behind  the  arm-chair).  You  are  not  really  happy;  that  is  what  is  the 

matter. 
HEDDA  (looks  in  front  of  her).  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be— happy.  Or  can 

you  perhaps  tell  me? 
BRACK.  Yes;  among  other  reasons  because  you  have  got  just  the  home  that 

you  were  wishing  for. 
HEDDA  (looks  up  at  him  and  laughs).  Do  you,  too,  believe  in  that  story  of  the 

wish? 

BRACK.  Is  there  nothing  in  it,  then? 
HEDDA.  Yes,  to  be  sure;  there  is  something. 
BRACK.  Well? 
HEDDA.  There  is  this  in  it,  that  I  used  Tesman  to  take  me  home  from  evening 

parties  last  summer. 

BRACK.  Unfortunately,  I  lived  in  the  opposite  direction. 
HEDDA.  That  is  true.  You  went  in  the  opposite  direction  last  summer. 
BRACK  (laughs).  Shame  upon  you,  Mrs,  Heddal  Well,  but  you  and  Tesman—? 
HEDDA.  Yes,  well,  we  came  by  here  one  evening.  And  Tesman,  poor  fellow, 

he  was  at  his  wit's  end  to  know  what  to  talk  about.  So  I  thought  it  was 

too  bad  of  such  a  learned  person — 
BRACK  (smiling  dubiously).  Did  you?  H'm — 
HEDDA.  Yes,  I  positively  did.  And  so— in  order  to  help  him  out  of  his  misery 

I— happened,  quite  thoughtlessly,  to  say  that  I  should  like  to  live  in  this 

villa. 

BRACK.  Nothing  more  than  that? 
HEDDA.  Not  that  evening. 
BRACK.  But  afterward? 

HEDDA.  Yes.  My  thoughtlessness  had  consequences,  dear  Judge. 
BRACK.  Unfortunately,  your  thoughtlessnesses  only  too  often  have,  Mrs. 

Hedda. 
HEDDA.  Thanks!  But  it  was  in  this  enthusiasm  for  Mr.  Falk's  villa  that  George 

Tesman  and  I  found  common  ground,  do  you  see?  That  was  the  cause  of 

engagement,  and  marriage,  and  wedding-tour,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Yes, 

yes,  Judge,  one  builds  one's  nest  and  one  has  to  lie  in  it,  I  was  almost 

saying. 


BRACK.  That  is  extraordinary.  And  so  you  really  scarcely  cared  for  this  place 

at  all? 

HEDDA.  No,  goodness  knows  I  did  not. 
BRACK.   Yes,  but  now?  Now  that  you  have  got  it  arranged  like  a  home  for 

you? 
HEDDA.  Ugh!  there  seems  to  be  a  smell  of  lavender  and  pot  pourri  in  all  the 

rooms.  But  perhaps  Aunt  Julie  brought  that  smell  with  her. 
BRACK  (laughing).  No,  I  think  that  must  be  a  relic  of  Mrs.  Falk. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  it  belongs  to  some  dead  person.  It  reminds  me  of  flowers  at  a 

ball,  the  day  after.  (Folds  her  hands  behind  her  neck,  leans  back  in  the 

chair  and  looks  at  him)  Oh,  Judge,  you  cannot  conceive  how  frightfully 

bored  I  shall  be  out  here. 
BRACK.  Is  there  no  occupation  you  can  turn  to  to  make  life  interesting  to 

you,  Mrs.  Hedda? 

HEDDA.  An  occupation  in  which  there  might  be  something  attractive? 
BRACK.  Of  course. 
HEDDA.  Goodness  knows  what  sort  of  an  occupation  that  might  be.  I  often 

wonder  whether (Interrupts  herself)  But  it  will  never  come  to  anything, 

either. 

BRACK.  Who  knows?  Let  me  hear  what  it  is. 
HEDDA.  Whether  I  could  get  Tesman  to  take  to  politics,  I  mean. 
BRACK  (laughs).  Tesman!  No,  don't  you  know,  such  things  as  politics,  they 

are  not  the  sort  of  occupation  for  him,  not  the  least. 
HEDDA.  No,  I  believe  that  is  so.  But  could  I  not  make  him  take  them  up  all 

the  same? 
BRACK.  Yes,  what  satisfaction  would  that  be  to  you  if  he  is  not  a  success? 

Why  would  you  have  him  do  that? 
HEDDA.  Because  I  am  bored,  I  tell  you.  (After  a  pause)  Do  you  think  it 

would  be  absolutely  impossible  for  Tesman  to  become  a  cabinet  minister? 
BRACK.  H'm,  you  see,  dear  Mrs.  Hedda,  in  order  to  become  that  he  must, 

first  of  all,  be  a  tolerably  rich  man. 
HEDDA  (rising  impatiently).  Yes,  there  you  have  it!  It  is  this  poverty  that  I 

have  come  into.  (Crosses  the  floor)  It  is  that  which  makes  life  so  miser- 
able! So  perfectly  ludicrous!  For  that's  what  it  is. 
BRACK.  I  believe,  now,  that  the  fault  does  not  lie  there. 
HEDDA.  Where  then? 

BRACK.  In  the  fact  that  you  have  never  lived  through  anything  really  stimu- 
lating. 

HEDDA.  Anything  serious,  you  mean? 
BRACK.  Well,  you  may  call  it  so,  if  you  like.  But  now,  perhaps,  it  may  be 

coming. 
HEDDA.  Oh,  you  are  thinking  about  the  annoyances  with  regard  to  this 

608        THE  DRAMA 


wretched  post  of  professorl  But  that  is  Tesman's  own  affair.  1  shall  not 

waste  a  thought  on  that,  you  may  be  sure. 
BRACK.  No,  no,  never  mind  about  that.  But,  suppose,  now  there  were  created 

what  one,  in  the  loftier  style,  might  call  more  serious  and  more  responsible 

claims  upon  you?  (Smiles)  New  claims,  little  Mrs.  Hedda. 
HEDDA  (angry).  Be  quiet.  You  shall  never  live  to  see  anything  of  that  sort. 
BRACK  (cautiously).  We  will  talk  about  that  a  year  hence,  at  the  very  latest. 
HEDDA  (shortly).  I  have  no  plans  of  that  kind,  Judge.  Nothing  that  will  have 

any  claim  upon  me. 
BRACK.  Would  you  not,  like  most  women,  form  plans  for  a  vocation,  such 

do       '    ™ 

HEDDA  (away  near  the  glass  door).  Ah,  hold  your  tongue,  I  tell  youJ  It  often 

seems  to  me  that  the  only  vocation  I  have  in  the  world  is  for  one  single 

thing. 

BRACK  (comes  closer  to  her).  And  what  is  that,  if  I  may  ask? 
HEDDA  (stands  and  looks  out).  To  bore  the  life  out  of  myself.  Now  you  know 

it.  (Turns,  looks  toward  the  back-room  and  laughs)  Yes,  quite  right!  We 

have  the  professor. 

BRACK  (softly,  in  a  warning  voice).  Now,  now,  now,  Mrs.  Hedda. 
(GEORGE  TESMAN,  in  evening  dress,  with  gloves  and  hat  in  his  hand,  comes 

from  right  side  through  back-room) 

TESMAN.  Hedda,  has  anyone  come  with  a  message  from  Ejlert  Lovborg?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  No. 

TESMAN.  Well,  you  will  see  that  he  will  be  here  himself  in  a  little  while. 
BRACK.  Do  you  really  think  he  will  come? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  I  am  almost  sure  of  it.  For  those  are  only  flying  rumors  that 

you  were  repeating  this  morning. 
BRACK.  Indeed? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  at  all  events  Aunt  Julie  said  that  she  never  would  believe  that 

he  would  stand  in  my  way  after  to-day.  Fancy  that! 
BRACK.  Well,  then  it  is  all  right. 
TESMAN  (puts  his  hat  with  his  gloves  in  it  on  chair  to  right).  Yes,  but  I  must 

really  be  allowed  to  wait  for  him  as  long  as  there's  a  chance. 
BRACK.  We  have  plenty  of  time  for  that.  Nobody  comes  to  me  until  seven 

o'clock— half-past  seven. 
TESMAN.  Well,  then  we  can  keep  Hedda  company  till  then.  And  keep  an 

eye  on  the  time.  Eh? 
HEDDA  (carries  BRACK'S  overcoat  and  hat  over  to  the  settee).  And  if  the  worst 

comes  to  the  worst  Mr.  Lflvborg  can  sit  here  with  me. 
BRACK  (wishes  to  carry  the  things  himself).  Oh,  please  don't,  Mrs. — !  What 

do  you  mean  by  the  worst? 
HEDDA.  If  he  will  not  go  with  you  and  Tesman. 

HEDDA    GABLER         609 


TESMAN  (looks  dubiously  at  her).  But,  dear  Hedda,  do  you  think  it  would  be 
quite  the  thing  for  him  to  stay  here  with  you?  Eh?  Recollect  that  Aunt 
Julie  can't  come. 

HEDDA.  No,  but  Mrs.  Elvsted  is  coming.  And  so  we  three  can  have  a  cup  ot 
tea  together. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  in  that  case,  all  right. 

BRACK  (smiles).  And  that  would,  perhaps,  be  the  wisest  thing  for  him. 

HEDDA.  Why? 

BRACK.  Good  gracious,  Mrs.  Tesman,  you  have  teased  me  often  enough 
about  my  little  bachelor  parties.  You  ought  not  to  associate  with  any  but 
men  of  the  highest  principles,  you  used  to  say. 

HEDDA.  But  Mr.  Lovborg  has  the  highest  principles  possible  now.  A  sinner 
that  repents 

(BERTHA  appears  at  the  hall-door.) 

BERTHA.  Please,  ma'am,  there's  a  gentleman  that  wishes  to — 

HEDDA.  Yes,  show  him  in. 

TESMAN  (aside).  I  am  certain  it  is  he!  Fancy  that! 

(EJLEBT  LOVBORG  comes  in  from  the  hall  He  is  slim  and  thin;  the  same  age 
as  TESMAN,  but  looks  older  and  somewhat  worn.  Hair  and  beard  dark- 
brown;  face  long,  pale,  but  with  red  patches  on  the  cheek-bones.  He  is 
dressed  in  an  elegant,  black,  perfectly  new  visiting  suit.  Dark  gloves  and 
tall  hat  in  his  hand.  He  remains  standing  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  door 
and  bows  hastily.  Seems  a  little  embarrassed) 

TESMAN  (goes  to  him  and  shakes  hands).  Well,  dear  E jlert,  so  we  really  meet 
once  more! 

EJLERT  LOVBORG  (speaking  in  a  low  voice).  Thank  you  for  your  letter.  ( Ap- 
proaches HEDDA)  May  I  venture  to  hope  that  you,  too,  will  shake  hands 
with  me,  Mrs.  Tesman? 

HEDDA  (shakes  hands  with  him).  Welcome,  Mr.  Lovborg.  (With  a  gesture)  I 
don't  know  whether  you  two  gentlemen — ? 

LOVBORG  (bowing  slightly).  Mr.  Justice  Brack,  I  believe. 

BRACK  (in  the  same  way).  Certainly.  Some  years  ago. 

TESMAN  (to  LflvsoRG,  with  his  hands  on  his  shoulders).  And  now,  Ejlert,  you 
are  to  feel  exactly  as  if  you  were  at  home.  Isn't  he,  Hedda?  For  I  hear 
you  are  going  to  settle  down  here  in  town.  Eh? 

LftvBORG.  I  want  to. 

TESMAN.  Well,  that  is  very  natural.  Listen,  I  have  got  your  new  book.  But 
the  truth  is,  I  have  not  had  it  long  enough  to  read  it  through  yet. 

LttvBORG.  You  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble. 

TESMAN.  What  do  you  mean  by  that? 

.  Oh,  there  is  not  anything  much  in  it 

610       THE  DRAMA 


TESMAN.  No,  fancyl  you  yourself  say  that? 

BRACK.  But  it  is  being  tremendously  praised,  I  hear. 

LftvBORG.  That  is  what  I  wanted.  And  so  I  wrote  the  book  in  such  a  way 

that  everybody  could  agree  with  it. 
BRACK.  Very  sagacious. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  but— dear  Ejlert — I 

L6VBORG.  For  my  object  now  is  to  rebuild  a  position  for  myself.  Begin  afresh. 
TESMAN  (slightly  embarrassed).  Ah!  You  wish  to  do  that?  Eh? 
LOVBORG  (smiles,  puts  his  hat  down,  and  takes  a  packet  wrapped  up  in  paper 

out  of  his  coat  pocket).  But  when  this  is  published,  George  Tesman,  you 

must  read  this.  For  this  is  the  real  thing.  What  I  am  part  of  myself. 
TESMAN.  Indeed!  And  what  may  that  be? 
LftvBORG.  This  is  the  continuation. 
TESMAN.  The  continuation?  Of  what? 
LftvBORG.  Of  the  book. 
TESMAN.  Of  the  new  book? 
LOvBQRG.  Certainly. 

TESMAN.  Yes;  but,  Ejlert,  that  comes  down  to  our  days! 
LftvBORG.  Yes,  it  does.  And  this  treats  of  the  future. 
TESMAN.  Of  the  future?  But,  good  gracious,  we  don't  know  anything  about 

that! 
LOVBORG.  No.  But  there  are  several  things  though  can  be  said  about  it  all 

the  same.  (Opens  the  packet)  You  will  see  here — 
TESMAN.  That  is  not  your  handwriting. 
LOVBORG.  I  have  dictated  it.  (Turns  over  the  pages)  It  is  divided  into  two 

sections.  The  first  is  about  the  civilizing  forces  of  the  future.  And  the 

other  (goes  on  turning  the  pages)  is  about  the  civilizing  progress  of  the 

future. 
TESMAN.  Extraordinary!  It  would  never  have  occurred  to  me  to  write  about 

that. 

HEDDA  (at  the  glass  door.  Drums  on  the  panes).  H'm— no,  no! 
LftvBORG  (puts  the  papers  back  into  their  envelope  and  lays  the  package  on 

the  table).  I  brought  it  with  me  because  I  thought  I  would  read  you  a 

little  of  it  this  evening. 
TESMAN.  That  was  awfully  nice  of  you.  But— this  evening — (Looks  at  BRACK,) 

I  really  don't  know  what  to  say  about  that. 
LtiVBORG.  Well,  then,  another  time.  There  is  no  hurry. 
BRACK.  I  must  tell  you,  Mr,  Ltfvborg,  there  is  a  little  gathering  at  my  house 

this  evening.  Chiefly  for  Tesman,  you  understand. 
L6VBORG  (looking  for  his  hat).  Ah!  then  I  won't  stay  any  longer. 
BRACK.  No,  just  listen.  Will  you  not  give  me  the  pleasure  of  coming  too? 

HEDDA   GABLER        611 


LOVBORG  (short  and  firm).  No,  I  can't  do  that.  Thank  you  so  much. 
BRACK.  Oh,  now  do!  We  shall  be  a  little  select  circle.  And  you  may  depend 

upon  it  that  we  shall  make  it  "lively,"  as  Mrs.  Hed— ,  as  Mrs.  Tesman 

says. 

LOVBORG.  I  don't  doubt  that.  But  all  the  same 

BRACK.  You  might  bring  your  manuscript  and  read  it  to  Tesman  there  in  my 

house.  For  I  have  rooms  enough. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  think,  Ejlert,  you  might  do  that!  Eh? 
HEDDA  (joining  them).  But,  dear,  suppose  Mr.  Lovborg  does  not  wish  to.  I 

am  certain  Mr.  Lflvborg  would  like  much  better  to  stay  here  and  have 

dinner  with  me. 

L6VBORG  (gazes  at  her).  With  you,  Mrs.  Tesman? 
HEDDA.  And  with  Mrs.  Elvsted. 
LOVBORG.  Ah!  (With  a  gesture  of  refusal)  I  met  her  just  now  in  the  middle 

of  the  day. 
HEDDA.  Did  you?  Yes,  she  is  coming.  And  therefore  it  is  almost  a  matter  of 

necessity  that  you  should  stay,  Mr.  Lovborg.  Or  else  she  will  have  nobody 

to  see  her  home. 

L6VBORG.  That  is  true.  Yes,  many  thanks,  Mrs.  Tesman,  then  I  will  stay. 
HEDDA.  Then  I  will  just  give  the  servant  a  few  directions. 
(She  goes  over  to  the  hall-door  and  rings.  BERTHA  comes  in.  HEDDA  talks 

aside  to  her  and  points  to  the  back  room.  BERTHA  nods  and  goes  out 

again) 
TESMAN  (at  the  same  time  to  EJLERT  LOVBORG).  Tell  me,  Ejlert,  is  it  this  new 

subject—this  about  the  future— which  you  intend  to  lecture  about? 
L6VBORG.  Yes. 
TESMAN.  For  I  heard  at  the  bookseller's  that  you  are  to  deliver  a  course  of 

lectures  here  in  the  autumn. 

L6VBORG.  Yes,  I  am.  You  must  not  blame  me  for  that,  Tesman. 
TESMAN.  No,  of  course  not!  But — 

L6VBORG.  I  can  easily  understand  that  it  must  seem  rather  provoking  to  you. 
TESMAN.  Oh,  for  my  sake  I  cannot  expect  that  you — 
L6VBORG.  But  I  wait  until  you  have  got  your  nomination. 
TESMAN.  Are  you  going  to  wait?  Yes,  but— but— then  are  you  not  going  to 

contest  the  post  with  me?  Eh? 

LOVBORG.  No.  I  will  merely  triumph  over  you.  In  the  popular  judgment. 
TESMAN.  But,  good  Lord,  then  Aunt  Julie  was  right  all  along!  Oh,  yes,  I 

knew  that  was  how  it  would  be!  Hedda!  Fancy— Ejlert  Lflvborg  is  not 

going  to  oppose  us  after  all. 
HEDDA  (sharply).  Us?  Pray  keep  me  out  of  it. 
(She  crosses  to  the  back  room,  where  BERTHA  is  standing,  and  spreading  a 

612        THE  DRAMA 


table-cloth  with  decanters  and  glasses  on  the  table,  HEDDA  nods  approv- 
ingly and  crosses  back  again.  BERTHA  goes  out) 

TESMAN  (at  the  same  time).  But  you,  Judge  Brack,  what  do  you  say  to  this? 
Eh? 

BRACK.  Well,  I  say  that  honor  and  victory— h'm— they  may  be  monstrous  fine 
things — 

TESMAN.  Yes,  of  course,  they  may  be.  At  the  same  time 

HEDDA  (looks  at  TESMAN  with  a  cold  smile).  I  think  that  you  stand  there  and 
look  as  if  you  were  thunderstruck. 

TESMAN.  Yes— that's  about  it— I  almost  fancy 

BRACK.  But  that  was  a  thunder-storm  that  hung  over  us,  Mrs.  Tesman. 

HEDDA  (points  to  the  back  room).  Won't  you  gentlemen  go  in  and  take  a 
glass  of  cold  punch? 

BRACK  (looks  at  his  watch).  As  a  stirrup-cup?  Well,  that  won't  be  a  bad  idea. 

TESMAN.  Splendid,  Hedda!  Perfectly  splendid!  In  such  a  happy  mood  as  J 
now  feel  in 

HEDDA.  You  too,  I  hope,  Mr.  Lovborg? 

LOVBORG  (refusing).  No,  many  thanks.  Not  for  me.  % 

BRACK.  But,  good  Lord,  cold  punch  isn't  poison,  that  I  know  of. 

LOVBORG.  Perhaps  not  for  every  one. 

HEDDA.  I  shall  keep  Mr.  Lovborg  company  while  you  go  in. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  yes,  dear  Hedda,  do  that. 

(He  and  BRACK  go  into  the  back  room,  sit  down,  drink  punch,  smoke  cigar- 
ettes, and  talk  cheerfully  during  the  following  dialogue.  EJLERT  LOVBORG 
remains  standing  near  the  stove.  HEDDA  goes  to  the  writing-table) 

HEDDA  (raising  her  voice  a  little).  Now,  I  will  show  you  some  photographs, 
if  you  like.  For  Tesman  and  I— we  made  a  tour  through  the  Tyrol  as  we 
came  home. 

(She  comes  with  an  album,  which  she  places  on  the  table  near  the  sofa  and 
sits  on  the  upper  corner  of  the  latter.  EJLERT  LftvsoRG  goes  closer,  stops, 
and  gazes  at  her.  Then  he  takes  a  chair  and  sits  down  at  her  left  side  with 
his  back  to  the  farther  room) 

HEDDA  (opens  the  album).  Do  you  see  this  mountain  landscape,  Mr.  LSvborg? 
This  is  the  Ortler  group.  Tesman  has  written  it  underneath.  You  see  it 
here:  The  Ortler  Group,  near  Meran. 

LOVBORG  (who  has  gazed  at  her  all  this  time,  says  slowly  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice).  Hedda— Gabler! 

HEDDA  (glances  quickly  at  him).  Well!  Hushl 

LOVBORG  (repeats  softly).  Hedda  Gabler! 

HEDDA  (looks  in  the  album).  Yes,  that  used  to  be  my  name.  Then— when  we 
two  knew  one  another. 

HEDDA  GABLER    613 


L&VBORG.  And  henceforward—and  all  my  life  long— I  must  get  out  of  the 

habit  of  saying  Hedda  Gabler. 
HEDDA  (goes  on  turning  the  leaves).  Yes,  you  must.  And  I  think  you  ought 

to  practice  it  in  time.  The  sooner  the  better,  I  think. 
L&VBORG  (with  resentful  expression).  Hedda  Gabler  married!  And  to— George 

TesmanI 

HEDDA.  Yes,  that's  how  it  is. 

LOVBORG.  Oh,  Hedda,  Hedda!  how  could  you  throw  yourself  away  like  that? 
HEDDA  (looks  sharply  at  him).  Now!  None  of  that  here. 
LOVBORG.  None  of  what,  do  you  mean? 
(TESMAN  comes  in  and  approaches  sofa) 
HEDDA  (hears  him  coming  and  says  indifferently).  And  this,  Mr.  Lovborg, 

this  is  down  from  the  Ampezzo  Valley.  Just  look  at  the  peaks  there.  (Looks 

kindly  at  TESMAN)  What  are  these  wonderful  peaks  called,  dear? 
TESMAN.  Let  me  see.  Ohl  Those  are  the  Dolomites. 
HEDDA.  So  they  are,  yes.  Those  are  the  Dolomites,  Mr.  L6vborg. 
TESMAN.  Hedda,  dear,  I  was  just  going  to  ask  whether  we  should  not  bring 

you  in  a  little  punch?  For  yourself  at  all  events?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  Oh,  thanks.  And  one  or  two  biscuits  as  well,  perhaps. 
TESMAN.  No  cigarettes? 

HEDDA.  NO. 

TESMAN.  Very  well. 

(He  goes  into  the  back  room  and  out  to  right.  BRACK  sits  there  and  now  and 

then  glances  at  HEDDA  and  LOVBORG) 
LOVBORG  (in  a  low  voice,  as  before).  Answer  me,  Hedda.  How  could  you  go 

and  do  all  this? 
HEDDA  (apparently  absorbed  in  the  album).  If  you  go  on  saying  "thou"  to  me 

I  shall  not  talk  to  you  any  more. 

L6VBORG.  May  I  not  say  "thou"  when  we  are  by  ourselves? 
HEDDA.  No.  You  may  be  allowed  to  think  it.  But  you  must  not  say  it. 
LOVBORG.  Ahl  I  understand.  It  clashes  with  your  love— for  George  Tesman. 
HEDDA  (glances  at  him  and  smiles).  Love?  No,  that  is  a  joke! 
LOVBORG.  Not  love  then? 
HEDDA.  No  sort  of  unfaithfulness,  either!  I  won't  hear  of  anything  of  that 

kind. 

L6VBORG.  Hedda,  just  give  me  an  answer  about  one  thing. 
HEDDA.  Hushl 

(TESMAN,  with  a  serviette,  comes  from  the  back  room) 
TESMAN.  Come,  then!  Here  are  the  good  things.  (He  spreads  the  cloth  on 

the  table) 
HEDDA.  Why,  do  you  lay  the  cloth  yourself? 

614        THE  DRAMA 


TESMAN  (fills  up  the  glasses).  Yes,  because  it  seems  such  fun  to  wait  upon 

you,  Hedda. 
HEDDA.  But  now,  you  have  filled  both  glasses.  And  Mr.  Lflvborg  does  not 

wish  for  any. 

TESMAN.  No,  but  Mrs.  Elvsted  is  sure  to  come  in  a  minute. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  that  is  true— Mrs.  Elvsted — 
TESMAN.  Had  you  forgotten  her?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  We  were  so  absorbed  in  these  photographs.  (Shows  him  a  picture) 

Do  you  recollect  this  little  mountain-village? 
TESMAN.  Ah,  that  is  the  one  below  the  Brenner  Pass!  It  was  there  that  we 

stayed  all  night — 

HEDDA.  And  met  all  those  entertaining  tourists. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  to  be  sure,  it  was  there.  Fancy— if  we  could  have  had  you  with 

us,  Ejlert!  Well!  (He  goes  in  again  and  sits  down  by  BRACK) 
LOVBORG.  Just  give  me  an  answer  about  one  thing,  Hedda — 
HEDDA.  Well? 

LOVBORG.  Was  there  no  love  in  your  relation  to  me  either?  Not  a  splash- 
not  a  gleam  of  love  over  that  either? 
HEDDA.  I  wonder  if  there  really  was?  For  my  part  I  feel  that  we  were  two 

very  good  comrades.  Two  thoroughly  intimate  friends.   (Smiles)  You 

especially  were  awfully  frank. 
LftvBORG.  It  was  you  who  wished  it  to  be  so. 
HEDDA.  When  I  look  back  upon  it,  there  was  certainly  something  beautiful, 

something  fascinating— something  spirited  it  seems  to  me  there  was  about 

—about  that  secret  intimacy— that  comradeship,  which  no  living  human 

being  had  a  suspicion  of. 
LOVBORG.  Yes,  isn't  that  so,  Hedda!  Was  there  not?  When  I  used  to  come  up 

to  see  your  father  of  a  morning— and  the  general  sat  away  by  the  window 

and  read  the  papers— with  his  back  to  us. 
HEDDA.  And  we,  on  the  settee. 

L6VBORG.  Always  with  the  same  illustrated  newspaper  in  front  of  us — 
HEDDA.  For  want  of  an  album,  yes. 
LftvBORG.  Yes,  Hedda— and  when  I  used  to  confess  to  you.  Told  you  about 

myself,  things  that  nobody  else  knew  in  those  days.  Sat  there  and  admitted 

that  I  had  been  out  on  the  loose  for  whole  days  and  nights.  Ah,  Hedda, 

what  power  was  it  in  you  that  forced  me  to  acknowledge  things  like  that? 
HEDDA.  Do  you  think  it  was  a  power  in  me? 
LOVBORG.  Yes,  how  else  can  I  explain  it?  And  all  those— those  mysterious 

questions  that  you  used  to  ask  me — 
HEDDA.  And  which  you  understood  so  thoroughly. 
LOVBORG.  That  you  could  sit  and  ask  such  things!   Quite  boldly. 

HEDDA   GABLER         615 


HEDDA.  Mysteriously,  if  you  please. 

L&VBORG.  Yes,  but  boldly,  all  the  same.  Ask  me—about  things  of  that  kind. 

HEDDA.  And  that  you  could  answer,  Mr.  LCvborg. 

L&VBORG.  Yes,  that  is  just  what  I  do  not  understand— now  looking  back  upo 

it.  But  tell  me  then,  Hedda— was  not  love  at  the  basis  of  that  relation 

Had  not  you  an  idea  that  you  could  wash  me  clean,  if  only  I  came  to  yo 

in  confession?  Was  it  not  so? 
HEDDA.  No,  not  quite* 
LOVBORG.  Then  what  actuated  you? 
HEDDA.  Can't  you  understand  that  a  young  girl— if  it  can  be  done  in— i 

secret — 
L&VBORG.  Well? 

HEDDA.  Might  want  very  much  to  get  a  peep  into  a  world  which 

L6VBORG.  Which ? 

HEDDA.  Which  she  is  not  allowed  to  know  anything  about? 

L6VBORG.  Then  that  was  it? 

HEDDA.  That  too.  That  too— I  almost  fancy. 

LftVBORG.  Comradeship  in  the  desire  of  life.  But  why  could  it  not  be  that  a 

well? 

HEDDA.  That  was  your  own  fault. 
LOVBORG.  It  was  you  who  were  to  blame. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  there  was  the  impending  danger  that  the  real  thing  wouli 

assert  itself  in  our  relation.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Ejlert  Lovborg 

how  could  you  take  advantage  of  me— of  your  bold  comrade? 
LOVBORG  (wrings  his  hands).  Oh,  why  did  you  not  take  it  up  in  earnest!  Wh 

did  you  not  shoot  me  down  as  you  threatened  to  do? 
HEDDA.  I  was  so  afraid  of  the  scandal. 
L&VBORG.  Yes,  Hedda,  you  are  a  coward  at  heart. 
HEDDA.  A  frightful  coward.  (Moves)  But  that  was  fortunate  for  you.  And  no\ 

you  have  found  the  loveliest  consolation  up  at  Elvsted's. 
LftvBORG.  I  know  what  Thea  has  confided  to  you. 

HEDDA.  And  perhaps  you  have  confided  something  to  her  about  us  two? 
L&VBORG.  Not  a  word.  She  is  too  stupid  to  understand  that  sort  of  thin£ 
HEDDA.  Stupid? 

L6VBORG.  In  that  kind  of  thing  she  is  stupid. 
HEDDA.  And  I  am  cowardly.  (Bends  nearer  to  him  without  looking  him  in  th 

face,  and  says  in  a  lower  tone  of  voice)  But  now  I  will  confide  somethin; 

to  you. 
L&VBORG  (inquisitive).  Well? 

HEDDA.  That  I  dared  not  shoot  you  down 

L&VBORG.  Yes? 

616         THE   DRAMA 


HEDDA.  That  was  not  my  most  arrant  cowardice  that  evening. 

LftvBORG  (looks  at  her  a  moment,  understands,  and  passionately  whispers). 
Oh,  Heddal  Hedda  Gabler!  Now  I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hidden  reason 
of  our  comradeship.  You  and  I!  It  was  the  longing  for  life  in  you,  after 
all — 

HEDDA  (softly,  with  a  keen  expression).  Take  care!  Don't  believe  anything  of 
that!  (It  begins  to  grow  dark.  The  hall  door  is  opened  from  outside  by 
BERTHA.  HEDDA  shuts  the  album  and  calls  out,  smiling)  Now,  at  last!  Dear- 
est Thea,  come  in! 

(MRS.  ELVSTED  comes  from  the  hall.  She  is  dressed  for  the  evening.  The  door 
is  closed  behind  her) 

HEDDA  (from  the  sofa,  holds  out  her  arms  to  her).  Dear  Thea,  you  can't  think 
how  impatient  I  have  been  for  you! 

(During  this  time  MRS.  ELVSTED  has  exchanged  a  slight  greeting  with  the 
gentlemen  in  the  back  room,  then  goes  across  to  the  table,  and  holds  out 
her  hand  to  HEDDA.  EJLERT  LOVBORG  has  risen.  He  and  MRS.  ELVSTED  greet 
one  another  with  a  silent  nod) 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Ought  I  not  to  go  in  and  chat  a  little  with  your  husband? 

HEDDA.  By  no  means.  Let  those  two  sit  there.  They  will  soon  be  off. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Are  they  going? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  they  are  going  off  to  a  carouse. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (rapidly  to  LOVBORG).  You  as  well? 

LOVBORG.  NO. 

HEDDA.  Mr.  Lovborg— he  stays  with  us. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (takes  a  chair  and  is  going  to  sit  down  at  his  side).  Oh!  how 
nice  it  is  to  be  here. 

HEDDA.  No,  thanks,  my  little  Thea!  Not  there!  You  come  right  over  here  to 
me.  I  will  be  between  you. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  just  as  you  like.  (She  goes  round  the  table  and  sits  down 
on  the  sofa  on  the  left  side  of  HEDDA.  LOVBORG  sits  down  in  the  chair  again) 

LOVBORG  (after  a  short  pause,  to  HEDDA).  Is  she  not  lovely  to  sit  and  look  at? 

HEDDA  (strokes  her  hair  lightly).  Merely  to  look  at? 

LOVBORG.  Yes.  For  we  two— she  and  I— we  are  two  genuine  comrades.  We 
believe  implicitly  in  one  another.  And  so  we  can  sit  and  talk  so  confiden- 
tially to  one  another 

HEDDA.  Without  any  mystery,  Mr.  Lovborg? 

LOVBORG.  Well — 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (softly  clinging  to  HEDDA).  Oh,  how  fortunate  I  am,  Heddal 
For,  fancy,  he  says  that  I  inspire  him  too. 

HEDDA  (looks  at  her  with  a  smile).  No,  dear,  does  he  say  that? 

LOVBORG.  And  then  the  courage  in  action  that  she  has,  Mrs.  Tesman. 

HEDDA   GABLER         617 


MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  goodness!  I  couragel 

L&VBORG.  Immensely— when  it  refers  to  the  comrade. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  courage,  yes!  If  one  only  had  it. 

L&VBORG.  What  do  you  mean,  then? 

HEDDA.  Thenon^oul^perl^^aa^M^^^iy^jyjgy^.  (Turns  suddenly) 

But  i^w^m^  good  glass  of  cold 

punch. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  thanks,  I  never  drink  things  of  that  kind. 
HEDDA.  Well,  then,  you  at  least,  Mr.  Lftvborg. 
LftvBORG.  Thanks,  nor  I  either. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  nor  he  either. 
HEDDA  (looks  firmly  at  him).  But  if  I  wish  it? 
LftvsoRG.  Can't  help  it! 

HEDDA  (laughs).  Then  I  have  no  power  over  you  at  all,  poor  I? 
L^VBORG.  Not  in  that  direction. 
HEDDA.  Seriously  speaking,  I  think  you  ought  to  do  it  all  the  same.  For 

your  own  sake. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  but,  Hedda — I 
L6VBORG.  Why? 

HEDDA.  Or  for  other  people's  sake,  I  ought  to  say. 
LftvBORG.  Indeed? 
HEDDA.  Otherwise  people  might  easily  get  the  impression  that  you  did  not 

—really— feel  yourself  perfectly  confident— perfectly  sure  of  yourself. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (aside).  Oh,  no,  Hedda ! 

LftvBORG.  People  may  get  whatever  impression  they  choose  for  the  present. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (joyfully).  Yes,  is  it  not  so? 

HEDDA.  I  noticed  that  so  plainly  in  Judge  Brack  just  now. 

LftvBORG.  What  did  you  notice? 

HEDDA.  He  smiled  so  scornfully  when  you  dared  not  go  in  there  to  the  table. 

L6VBORG.  Dared  notl  I  preferred,  of  course,  to  stay  here  and  talk  to  you. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  That  was  so  natural,  Hedda! 

HEDDA.  But  the  Judge  could  not  possibly  know  that.  And  I  saw  that  he  gave 

a  smile  and  glanced  at  Tesman  when  you  dared  not  go  with  them  to 

that  wretched  little  banquet. 
LftvBORG.  Dared!  Do  you  say  that  I  did  not  dare? 
HEDDA.  Not  I.  But  that  is  how  Judge  Brack  understood  it. 
LftvBORG.  Well,  let  him. 
HEDDA.  Then  you  will  not  go  with  them? 
L6VBORG.  I  shall  stay  here  with  you  and  Thea. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  Hedda,  you  may  be  sure  that  is  best. 
HEDDA  (smiles  and  nods  with  approval  to  L6VBORG).  Firm  as  a  rock,  then! 

618        THB  DRAMA 


Rooted  in  principle  for  all  times  and  seasons!  There,  that's  what  a  man 

should  bel  (Turns  to  MRS.  ELVSTED  and  pats  her)  Well,  was  not  that  what 

I  said  when  you  came  here  so  awfully  anxious  this  morning? 
L6VBORG  (starting).  Anxious? 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (terrified).  Hedda,  Hedda,  then — 
HEDDA.  Just  look  yourself !  It  is  not  necessary  that  you  should  go  about  in 

this  mortal  dread — (Interrupting)  Well,  now  we  can  all  three  be  in  high 

spirits! 

LOVBORG.  Ah!  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  Mrs.  Tesman? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Good  gracious,  Hedda!  What  are  you  saying?  What  are  you 

doing? 
HEDDA.  Be  quiet!  That  disgusting  Judge  is  sitting  there  and  keeping  his 

eye  on  you. 

L6VBORG.  In  mortal  dread?  For  the  sake  of  me? 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (aside,  complaining).  Oh,  Hedda,  now  you  have  made  me  per- 
fectly miserable! 
LftvBORG  (looks  steadily  at  her  for  a  little  while.  His  face  is  gloomy).  Then 

that  was  my  comrade's  frank  faith  in  me. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (beseechingly).  Ah!  dearest  friend,  you  must  listen  to  me 

first 

LftvBORG  (takes  one  full  glass  of  punch,  lifts  it  and  says  softly,  with  husky 

voice).  Your  health,  Thea!  (He  empties  the  glass,  puts  it  down  and  takes 

the  other) 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (aside).  O  Hedda,  Hedda!  how  could  you  wish  for  this? 
HEDDA.  Wish!  I!  Are  you  mad? 
LftvsoRG.  And  a  health  to  you  also,  Mrs.  Tesman.  Thanks  for  the  truth.  The 

living  truth!  (He  drinks  and  wishes  to  refill  the  glass) 
HEDDA  (lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm).  There,  there!  No  more  for  the  moment. 

Remember,  that  you  are  going  to  the  party. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  no,  no! 

HEDDA.  Hush!  They  are  sitting  and  watching  you. 
LftvBORG  (puts  the  glass  away).  Thea,  now  tell  the  truth. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes! 

L6VBORG.  Had  the  Sheriff  any  idea  you  were  following  me? 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (wringing  her  hands).  Oh,  Hedda,  do  you  hear  what  he  asks? 

LOVBORG.  Was  it  an  agreement  between  him  and  you  that  you  should  come 
up  to  town  and  spy  after  me?  Perhaps  it  was  the  Sheriff  himself  that  made 
you  do  it?  Aha!  Perhaps  he  thought  he  could  make  use  of  me  in  his  office 
again!  Or  was  it  at  the  card-table  he  missed  me? 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (aside,  moaning).  Oh,  Lovborg,  Lovborg — 

L6VBORG  (snatches  a  glass  and  tries  to  fill  it).  A  health  to  the  old  Sheriff  too! 

HEDDA   GABLER        619 


HEDDA  (refusing).  No  more  now.  Remember,  you  have  to  go  and  read  aloud 

to  Tesman. 
L6VBORG  (quieter,  pushes  the  glass  away).  That  was  stupid  of  me,  Thea, 

that  was.  To  take  it  up  in  such  a  way,  I  mean.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  my 

dear,  dear  comrade.  You  shall  see— you  and  other  people—that  if  I  was 

fallen  now  I  am  up  again!  By  your  help,  Thea. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (beaming  with  delight).  Oh,  thank  God!  (Meanwhile  BRACK  has 

looked  at  his  watch.  He  and  TESMAN  get  up  and  come  into  the  drawing- 
room). 

BRACK  (takes  his  hat  and  overcoat).  Yes,  Mrs.  Tesman,  it  is  now  time  for  us. 
HEDDA.  That  is  all  right. 
LOVBORG  (gets  up).  For  me,  too,  Mr.  Justice. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (aside  entreating).  Oh,  Lovborg,  don't  do  it! 
HEDDA  (pinches  her  arm).  They  hear  you! 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (gives  a  slight  scream).  Au! 
LOVBORG  (to  BRACK).  You  were  so  kind  as  to  invite  me. 
BRACK.  Well,  will  you  come,  after  all? 
LftvBORG.  Yes,  many  thanks. 
BRACK.  I  shall  be  most  delighted. 
L&VBORG  (draws  the  packet  of  MS.  toward  him,  and  says  to  TESMAN).  For  I 

should  like  to  submit  one  or  two  points  to  you  before  I  send  it  off. 
TESMAN.  No,  fancy!  that  will  be  amusing!  But,  dear  Hedda,  how  will  Mrs. 

Elvsted  be  seen  home?  Eh? 

HEDDA.  Oh,  that  can  always  be  managed  somehow. 
LftvBORG  (looks  toward  the  ladies).  Mrs.  Elvsted?  Of  course  I  am  coming  back 

to  fetch  her.  (Closer)  About  ten  o'clock,  Mrs.  Tesman?  How  will  that  do? 
HEDDA.  Yes,  certainly.  That  will  do  splendidly. 
TESMAN.  Well,  then,  that  is  all  right.  But  you  must  not  expect  me  so  early, 

Hedda. 

HEDDA.  Oh,  my  dear,  stay  as  long— as  long  as  ever  you  like. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (in  concealed  agony).  Mr.  LCvborg,  I  shall  be  waiting  here 

until  you  come. 

L6VBORG  (with  his  hat  in  his  hand).  Of  course,  Mrs.  Elvsted. 
BRACK.  And  now  we  are  off  for  a  happy  day,  gentlemen!  I  hope  we  shall  make 

it  "lively,"  as  a  certain  lovely  lady  puts  it. 
HEDDA.  Ah!  if  only  the  lovely  lady  could  be  present  invisibly. 
BRACK.  Why  invisibly? 

HEDDA.  To  hear  a  little  of  your  unadulterated  liveliness,  Mr.  Justice. 
BRACK  (laughs).  I  would  not  advise  the  lovely  lady  to  do  that. 
TESMAN  (also  laughs).  Well,  that  is  a  good  joke,  Hedda!  Fancy  that! 
BRACK.  Now  good-by,  good-by,  ladies. 

620        THE  DRAMA 


L6VBORG  (bows  as  he  goes).  About  ten  o'clock,  then. 

(BRACK,  LftvsoRG,  and  TESMAN  go  out  through  the  hall  door.  At  the  same  time 

BERTHA  comes  from  the  back  room  with  a  lighted  lamp,  which  she  puts 

down  on  the  drawing-room  table  and  goes  out  the  same  way) 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (has  risen  and  walks  about  uneasily).  Hedda,  Hedda,  what 

will  be  the  end  of  all  this? 
HEDDA.  Ten  o'clock— when  he  is  coming  to  fetch  you.  I  see  him  before  me. 

With  vine-leaves  in  his  hair.  Hot  and  bold — 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  if  only  it  might  be  so. 
HEDDA.  And  you  see  he  has  regained  power  over  himself.  He  is  now  a  free 

man  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  goodness,  yes— if  he  might  only  come  back  as  you  see  him. 
HEDDA.  So,  and  not  otherwise  will  he  come!  (Rises  and  approaches  her)  You 

may  doubt  him  as  long  as  you  will.  I  believe  in  him.  And  now  we  shall 

try— 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  There  is  something  mysterious  about  you,  Hedda. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  there  is.  I  wish  for  once  in  my  life  to  have  power  over  the  fate 

of  a  human  being. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Have  you  not  got  that? 
HEDDA.  Haven't— and  never  have  had. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  But  not  over  your  husband? 
HEDDA.  Oh,  that  would  not  be  worth  taking  much  trouble  about.  Oh,  if  you 

could  only  know  how  poor  I  am.  And  you  are  allowed  to  be  so  rich.  (Looks 

passionately  at  her)  I  believe  I  shall  scorch  your  hair  off,  after  all. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Let  me  go!  let  me  go!  I  am  afraid  of  you,  Hedda. 
BERTHA  (in  the  doorway).  Tea  is  served  in  the  dining-room,  ma'am. 
HEDDA.  Very  well.  We  are  coming. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  no,  no!  I  wish  to  go  home  alone!  Now,  at  once! 
HEDDA.  Nonsense!  you  shall  have  tea  first,  you  little  simpleton.  And  then,  at 

ten  o'clock,  comes  Ejlert  Lovborg,  with  vine-leaves  in  his  hair.  (She  drags 

MRS.  ELVSTED  almost  by  force  to  the  doorway) 

ACT    III 

The  room  at  TESMAN'S.  The  curtains  are  drawn  in  front  of  the  doorway  and 
of  the  glass  door.  The  lamp,  with  a  shade  over  it,  burns,  half  turned  down, 
on  the  table.  In  the  stove,  the  door  of  which  is  open,  there  has  been  a  fire, 
which  is  now  almost  out. 

MRS.  ELVSTED,  wrapped  in  a  great  beaver  cloak,  and  with  her  feet  on  a 
footstool,  sits  close  to  the  stove,  sunken  back  in  the  arm-chair.  HEDDA  lies, 
dressed,  asleep  on  the  sofa,  with  a  rug  over  her. 

HEDDA   GABLER         621 


MRS.  ELVSTED  (after  a  pause,  sits  up  quickly  in  her  chair  and  listens  keenly. 

Then  sinks  wearily  back  again  and  softly  murmurs).  Not  yet!  O  Godl  O 

God!-not  yet! 
(BERTHA  comes  in  cautiously,  listening,  through  the  hall  door.  She  has  a 

letter  in  her  hand.) 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (turns  and  whispers  sharply).  Well,  has  anyone  been  here? 
BERTHA  (aside).  Yes,  just  now  a  girl  came  with  this  letter. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (quickly,  holding  out  her  hand).  A  letter!  Give  it  me! 
BERTHA.  No,  it  is  for  the  Doctor,  ma'am. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Ah! 

BERTHA.  It  was  Miss  Tesman's  maid  who  brought  it.  I  will  put  it  here  on  the 
table. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  do. 

BERTHA  (lays  down  the  letter).  I  had  better  put  out  the  lamp.  For  it  is  merely 

being  wasted. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  put  it  out.  It  will  soon  be  light  now. 
BERTHA  (puts  it  out).  It  is  quite  light,  ma'am. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  broad  daylight!  And  not  come  home  yet. 
BERTHA.  Oh,  goodness!  I  thought  that  that  was  what  would  happen. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Did  you  think  so? 
BERTHA.  Yes,  when  I  saw  that  a  certain  person  was  come  to  town  again— 

and  went  off  with  them.  We  have  heard  a  good  deal  about  that  gentleman 

before  now. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Don't  talk  so  loud.  You'll  wake  your  mistress. 
BERTHA  (looks  at  the  sofa  and  sighs).  No,  let  her  sleep,  poor  thing.  Shall  I 

make  up  the  fire  a  little? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Thanks,  not  for  me. 

BERTHA.  Very  well,  then.  (She  goes  out  softly  through  the  hall-door) 
HEDDA  (wakes  up  at  the  shutting  of  the  door9  and  looks  up).  What  is  it? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  It  was  only  the  servant. 
HEDDA  (looks  around).  Ah!  in  here!  yes,  I  recollect  now.  (Sits  up  on  the  sofa, 

stretches  herself,  and  rubs  her  eyes)  What  o'clock  is  it,  Thea? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  It  is  past  seven,  now. 
HEDDA.  When  did  Tesman  come? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  He  has  not  come  yet. 
HEDDA.  Not  come  home  yet? 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (rises).  Nobody  has  come. 

HEDDA.  And  we  who  sat  here  and  watched  and  waited  up  till  four  o'clock — 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (wrings  her  hands).  And  what  I  expected  of  him! 
HEDDA  (yawns,  and  says,  with  her  hand  before  her  mouth).  Ah,  yes,  we  might 

have  spared  ourselves  that  trouble. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Have  you  been  able  to  sleep  at  all? 

622        THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA.  Oh,  yes.  I  believe  I  have  had  a  very  good  sleep.  Didn't  you? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Not  one  moment.  I  could  not,  Hedda.  It  was  absolutely  impos- 
sible for  me. 

HEDDA  (rises  and  goes  across  to  her).  There,  there,  there!  There  is  nothing 
to  be  anxious  about.  I  know  perfectly  well  what  has  happened. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  what  do  you  suppose,  then?  Can  you  tell  me? 

HEDDA.  Well,  of  course  they  went  on  drinking  at  the  Judge's  for  a  frightful 
time — 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  dear,  yes— they  did  to  be  sure.  But  at  the  same  time — 

HEDDA.  And  so,  you  see,  Tesman  did  not  like  to  come  home  and  make  a  noise 
and  ring  us  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  (Laughs)  Perhaps  did  not  par- 
ticularly wish  to  show  himself,  either,  in  such  a  very  jovial  condition. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  But,  my  dear,  where  can  he  have  gone? 

HEDDA.  He  is  gone  up  to  his  aunt's,  of  course,  and  has  had  out  his  sleep 
there.  They  keep  up  his  old  room. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  he  can't  be  there.  For  a  letter  has  just  come  for  him  from 
Miss  Tesman.  There  it  is. 

HEDDA.  Really?  (Looks  at  the  address)  Yes,  it  certainly  is  from  Aunt  Julie 
herself.  Well,  then,  he  must  have  stayed  all  night  at  the  Judge's  house.  And 
Ejlert  Lovborg— he  is  sitting,  with  vine-leaves  in  his  hair,  and  reading 
aloud. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  Hedda,  you  merely  go  on  saying  what  you  don't  yourself 
believe  a  word  of. 

HEDDA.  You  really  are  a  little  ninny,  Thea. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  yes,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  suppose  I  am. 

HEDDA.  And  so  deadly  tired  out  you  look. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  I  am  deadly  tired,  too. 

HEDDA.  Well,  then,  you  shall  do  what  I  tell  you.  You  shall  go  into  my  room 
and  lie  down  on  the  bed  a  little. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  no,  no,  I  should  not  sleep  if  I  did. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  you  certainly  would. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  but  your  husband  is  sure  to  come  home  soon,  now.  And 
then  I  shall  want  to  know  at  once. 

HEDDA.  I  will  tell  you  when  he  comes. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Will  you  promise  me  that,  Hedda? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  you  can  depend  upon  that.  Just  go  in  and  sleep  until  then. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Thanks.  Well,  I  will  try  to.  (She  goes  in  through  the  back 
room) 

(HEDDA  goes  to  the  glass  door  and  draws  back  the  curtains.  Broad  daylight 
enters  the  room.  Thereupon  she  takes  a  little  hand-mirror  which  stands  on 
the  writing-table,  and  arranges  her  hair.  Then  goes  to  the  hall-door  and 
presses  the  button  of  the  bell.  BERTHA  soon  after  appears  at  the  door) 

HEDDA    GABLEK         623 


BERTHA.  Do  you  want  anything,  ma'am? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  you  must  make  up  the  fire  in  the  stove.  I  am  chilled  to  the  bone* 
BERTHA.  The  room  shall  be  warm  in  a  minute.  (She  draws  the  embers  to- 
gether, and  puts  more  fuel  on) 
BERTHA.  That  was  a  ring  at  the  street  door,  ma'am. 
HEDDA.  Well,  then  go  and  open  it.  I  will  attend  to  the  stove. 
BERTHA.  It  will  soon  burn  up.  (She  goes  out  through  the  hall-door.  HEDDA 

kneels  on  the  footstool  and  puts  several  pieces  of  fuel  into  the  stove) 
(  GEORGE  TESMAN  comes,  after  a  short  delay,  in  from  the  hall.  He  looks  tired 

and  rather  serious.  Walks  on  the  tips  of  his  toes  toward  the  doorway  and  is 

going  to  slip  in  between  the  curtains) 
HEDDA  (at  the  stove ,  without  looking  up).  Good-morning! 
TESMAN  (turns).  Hedda!  (Comes  nearer)  But  what  in  the  world  are  you  up 

so  early  for?  Eh? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  I  am  up  awfully  early  to-day. 
TESMAN.  And  I,  who  felt  so  certain  you  would  be  still  in  bed  and  asleep! 

Fancy,  Hedda! 

HEDDA.  Don't  talk  so  loud.  Mrs.  Elvsted  is  lying  in  my  room. 
TESMAN.  Has  Mrs.  Elvsted  been  here  all  night? 
HEDDA.  Yes,  nobody  came  to  fetch  her. 
TESMAN.  No,  nobody  did. 
HEDDA  (shuts  the  stove-door  and  rises).  Well,  did  you  amuse  yourself  at  the 

Judge's? 

TESMAN.  Have  you  been  anxious  about  me?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  No,  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  be  that.  But  I  asked  you  whether  you 

had  amused  yourself. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  tolerably.  For  once.  But  most  at  the  beginning,  I  think  now. 

Because  then  Ejlert  read  aloud  to  me.  We  arrived  an  hour  too  soon—fancy! 

And  Brack  had  so  many  things  to  arrange.  But  then  Ejlert  read. 
HEDDA.  Really?  Let  me  hear. 
TESMAN  (sits  down  on  an  ottoman  by  the  stove).  No,  Hedda,  you  could  never 

believe  what  a  book  it  is!  It  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  astonishing  things 

that  have  been  written.  Fancy  that! 
HEDDA.  Yes,  yes,  I  don't  care  about  that. 

TESMAN.  I  will  tell  you  one  thing,  Hedda.  When  he  had  finished  reading- 
something  ugly  came  over  me. 
HEDDA.  Something  ugly? 
TESMAN.  I  sat  and  envied  Ejlert,  for  having  been  able  to  write  like  that. 

Fancy  that,  Hedda. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  yes,  I  can  understand  that. 
TESMAN.  And  then,  you  know,  with  all  the  talent  that  he  has,  unfortunately 

he  is  utterly  irreclaimable  all  the  same. 


624 


THE   DRAMA 


HEDDA.  You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  he  has  more  of  the  courage  of  life  than 

the  others? 
TESMAN.  Good  Lord,  no!  He  can  scarcely  preserve  any  moderation  in  his 

pleasures,  you  see. 

HEDDA.  And  what  came  of  it  all—at  last? 
TESMAN.  Well,  I  almost  think  that  it  might  have  been  called  a  bacchanalian 

orgy,  Hedda.  \ 

HEDDA.  Had  he  vine-leaves  in  his  hair? 
TESMAN.  Vine-leaves?  No,  I  did  not  see  anything  of  that  sort.  But  he  kept  up 

a  long,  confused  story  about  the  woman  who  had  inspired  him  in  his  work. 

Yes,  that  was  how  he  expressed  himself. 
HEDDA.  Did  he  name  her? 
TESMAN.  No,  he  did  not  do  that.  But  I  can't  help  thinking  that  it  must  be 

Mrs.  Elvsted.  Do  you  agree? 
HEDDA.  Well,  where  did  you  leave  him? 
TESMAN.  On  the  way  back.  We  broke  up— the  last  of  us— at  the  same  time. 

And  Brack  walked  with  us  to  get  a  little  fresh  air.  And  then,  you  see,  we 

all  agreed  to  take  Ejlert  home.  Yes,  for  he  was  completely  overcome. 
HEDDA.  He  was? 
TESMAN.  But  now  for  the  most  extraordinary  part  of  it,  Hedda!  Or  the  sad 

part,  I  ought  to  say.  Oh!— I  am  almost  ashamed— for  Ejlert's  sake— to  tell 

you  about  it. 
HEDDA.  Well?  Well? 
TESMAN.  While  coming  back,  you  see,  I  was  by  accident  a  little  behind  the 

others.  Merely  for  a  minute  or  two,  fancy! 
HEDDA.  Yes,  yes,  Good  God!  But — 
TESMAN.  And  when  I  was  hurrying  after  the  others  what  do  you  think  I 

found  at  the  corner  of  the  road?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  No,  how  can  I  possibly  tell! 
TESMAN.  Be  sure  you  don't  tell  anybody,  Hedda.  Do  you  hear?  Promise  me 

that,  for  Ejlert's  sake.  (Takes  a  packet  wrapped  in  paper  out  of  his  coat 

pocket)  Fancy— I  found  this. 
HEDDA.  Is  not  that  the  packet  which  he  had  with  him  when  he  was  here 

yesterday? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  it  is  the  whole  of  his  precious,  irreparable  manuscript!  And  that 

he  had  gone  and  dropped  without  having  noticed  it.  Just  fancy  that, 

Hedda!  So  sad! 

HEDDA.  But  why  did  you  not  give  him  back  the  parcel  at  once? 
TESMAN.  No,  I  dared  not  do  that— in  the  condition  in  which  he  was. 
HEDDA.  Did  you  not  tell  any  of  the  others  that  you  had  found  it,  either? 
TESMAN.  Oh,  no,  indeed.  You  may  be  sure  I  never  would  do  that,  for  Ejlert's 

sake. 

HEDDA    GABLER         625 


HEDDA.  So  that  nobody  knows  that  you  have  Ejlert  LOvborg's  papers? 

TESMAN.  No.  And  nobody  must  know  either. 

HEDDA.  What  have  you  said  to  him  since? 

TESMAN.  I  had  no  more  conversation  whatever  with  him.  For  when  we 

came  into  the  streets  he  and  one  or  two  others  went  quite  away  from  us. 

Fancy  that! 

HEDDA.  Ah!  Then  they  must  have  taken  him  home. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  they  were  going  to  do  that.  And  Brack  went  back  to  his  own 

house. 

HEDDA.  And  where  have  you  been  racketing  since  then? 
TESMAN.  Well,  I  and  some  of  the  others  we  went  up  to  the  rooms  of  one 

of  these  jolly  chaps  and  had  an  early  cup  of  coffee  with  him.  Or  a  very  late 

cup  of  coffee  it  might  more  properly  be  called.  Eh?  But  when  I  have 

rested  a  little—and  when  I  can  suppose  that  Ejlert,  poor  fellow,  has  had 

his  sleep  out,  I  must  go  over  to  his  place  to  take  this  back  to  him. 
HEDDA.  No,  don't  give  it  from  yourself.  Not  at  once,  I  mean.  Let  me  read 

it  first. 

TESMAN.  No,  dear  darling  Hedda,  I  really  dare  not  do  that. 
HEDDA.  Do  you  not  dare? 
TESMAN.  No,  for  you  can  well  imagine  how  perfectly  in  despair  he  will  be 

when  he  wakens  and  misses  the  manuscript.  For  he  has  no  copy  of  it, 

you  must  know!  He  said  so  himself. 
HEDDA  (looks  searchingly  at  him).  Can't  a  thing  of  that  kind,  then,  be  written 

over  again?  Once  more? 
TESMAN.  No,  I  don't  believe  that  would  ever  answer.  For  the  inspiration— 

you  see — 
HEDDA.  Yes,  yes— of  course  there  is  that.  (Rejecting  the  idea)  But  by  the  way, 

there  is  a  letter  here  for  you. 
TESMAN.  No,  fancy  that! 

HEDDA  (hands  him  the  letter).  It  came  early  this  morning. 
TESMAN.  From  Aunt  Julie!  What  can  it  be?  (Puts  the  packet  of  MS.  on  the 

other  ottoman,  opens  the  letter,  runs  through  it  and  jumps  up)  Oh,  Hedda, 

she  writes  to  say  that  poor  Aunt  Rina  is  dying! 
HEDDA.  Well,  that  was  to  be  expected. 
TESMAN.  And  that  if  I  wish  to  see  her  once  again  I  must  make  haste.  I  will 

rush  off  to  them  at  once. 
HEDDA  (suppresses  a  smile).  Must  you  rush? 
TESMAN.  Oh,  dearest  Hedda,  if  you  only  could  make  up  your  mind  to  come 

with  me!  Do! 
HEDDA  (rises  and  says  wearily).  No,  no,  don't  ask  me  to  do  such  a  thing 


626 


THE   DRAMA 


I  don't  want  to  look  upon  disease  and  death.  Let  me  be  kept  from  every* 

thing  that  is  ugly.  """""          """ 

TESMAN.  Yes, 'good  Lord,  then — !  (Walks  about)  My  hat?— my  overcoat? 

Ah!  in  the  hall.  I  do  hope  that  I  shall  not  arrive  too  late,  Hedda?  Eh? 
HEDDA.  Well,  then  rush — ! 

BERTHA.  Mr.  Justice  Brack  is  outside  asking  if  he  may  come  in. 
TESMAN.  At  this  hour!  No,  I  cannot  possibly  receive  him. 
HEDDA.  But  I  can.  (To  BERTHA)  Show  Mr.  Brack  in.  (BERTHA  goes) 
HEDDA  (rapidly,  whispering).  The  packet,  Tesman!  (She  snatches  it  from  the 

ottoman) 

TESMAN.  Yes,  give  it  me! 

HEDDA.  No,  no,  I  will  hide  it  till  you  come  back.  (She  goes  up  to  the  writing- 
table  and  pushes  it  into  the  book-case.  TESMAN  fidgets  about  and  cannot 

get  his  gloves  on) 
(JUDGE  BRACK  enters  from  the  hall) 
HEDDA  (nods  to  him).  Well,  you  are  an  early  bird. 

BRACK.  Yes,  don't  you  think  so?  (To  TESMAN)  Are  you  going  out,  then? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  it  is  absolutely  necessary  I  should  go  over  to  my  aunts'.  Fancy! 

the  sick  one  is  dying,  poor  thing. 
BRACK.  Oh,  dear  me,  is  she  really?  But  in  that  case  you  must  not  let  me 

detain  you.  At  such  a  serious  moment — 
TESMAN.  Yes,  I  must  really  run.  Good-by,  good-by!  (He  hurries  out  through 

the  hall-door) 
HEDDA.  It  must  have  been  more  than  lively  at  your  house  last  night,  Mr. 

Brack. 

BRACK.  I  have  not  got  out  of  my  clothes,  Mrs.  Hedda. 
HEDDA.  Haven't  you  really? 
BRACK.  No,  as  you  see.  But  how  much  has  Tesman  told  you  of  the  night's 

festivities? 
HEDDA.  Oh,  some  tiresome  stuff.  Merely  that  he  had  been  up  somewhere 

drinking  coffee. 
BRACK.  I  have  heard  all  about  that  coffee-drinking.  Ejlert  Ltfvborg  was  not 

of  the  party,  I  believe? 

HEDDA.  No,  they  had  already  taken  him  home. 
BRACK.  Tesman  as  well? 
HEDDA.  No,  but  some  of  the  others,  he  said. 

BRACK  (smiles).  George  Tesman  is  really  an  innocent  creature,  Mrs.  Hedda. 
HEDDA.  Oh,  my  goodness,  I  should  think  he  was.  But  is  there  any  mystery 

in  it,  then? 
BRACK.  Yes,  there  is  to  a  certain  extent. 

HEDDA  GABLER        627 


HEDDA.  Reallyl  Let  us  sit  down,  dear  Judge.  Then  you  will  talk  more  com- 
fortably. (She  sits  at  the  left  side  of  the  table.  BRACK  close  to  her) 
HEDDA.  Well!  now  what  is  it? 
BRACK.  I  had  particular  reasons  for  tracking  my  guests— or,  more  properly, 

a  portion  of  my  guests  last  night. 
HEDDA.  And  was  Ejlert  Lovborg  one  of  them? 
BRACK.  I  must  confess  that  he  was. 
HEDDA.  Now  you  are  making  me  fearfully  inquisitive. 
BRACK.  Do  you  know  where  he  and  some  of  the  others  spent  the  rest  of  the 

night,  Mrs.  Hedda? 

HEDDA.  If  you  are  going  to  tell  me,  tell  me. 
BRACK.  Dear  me,  it  can  be  very  well  told.  Yes,  they  took  part  in  a  singularly 

animated  soiree. 
HEDDA.  Of  the  lively  kind? 
BRACK.  Of  the  liveliest  conceivable. 
HEDDA.  Let  me  know  a  little  more  about  it,  Judge. 
BRACK.  Lovborg  had  received  an  invitation  beforehand,  he  too.  I  knew  all 

about  that.  But  then  he  had  declined  to  come.  For  now,  as  you  know,  he 

has  become  a  reformed  character. 

HEDDA.  Up  at  Sheriff  Elvsted's,  yes.  But  then  he  did  go,  after  all? 
BRACK.  Yes,  you  see,  Mrs.  Hedda,  unfortunately  the  spirit  came  upon  him 

last  evening  up  at  my  house 

HEDDA.  Yes,  I  hear  he  became  very  inspired. 

BRACK.  Inspired  to  a  somewhat  violent  degree.  Well,  he  changed  his  mind, 

I  suppose.  For  we  men,  we  are  unfortunately  not  so  firm  in  our  principles 

as  we  ought  to  be. 
HEDDA.  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  are  an  exception,  Mr.  Brack.  But  now  about 

Lovborg 

BRACK.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  he  found  a  haven  at  last  in  Miss 

Diana's  parlors. 
HEDDA.  Miss  Diana's? 
BRACK.  It  was  Miss  Diana  who  gave  the  party.  To  a  select  circle  of  admirers 

and  female  friends. 
HEDDA.  Is  she  a  red-haired  girl? 
BRACK.  Just  so. 

HEDDA.  Such  a  sort  of  opera-singer? 
BRACK.  Oh,  yes— that  as  well.  And  with  it  all  a  mighty  huntress-after  the 

gentlemen— Mrs.  Hedda.  You  must  have  heard  of  her.  Ejlert  Lovborg 

was  one  of  her  warmest  protectors  in  his  influential  days. 
HEDDA.  And  how  did  all  this  end? 
BRACK.  Not  quite  so  amiably,  I  must  confess.  Miss  Diana  passed  from  the 

tenderest  greetings  to  mere  loggerheads 

628        THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA.  Toward  Lflvborg? 

BRACK.  Yes.  He  accused  her  or  her  friends  of  having  robbed  him.  He  declared 

that  his  pocket-book  was  gone.  And  other  things,  too.  In  short,  he  made 

a  horrible  spectacle  of  himself. 
HEDDA.  And  what  did  that  lead  to? 
BRACK.  That  led  to  a  general  rumpus  between  all  the  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

Happily,  the  police  came  up  at  last. 
HEDDA.  What,  did  the  police  come? 

BRACK.  Yes.  But  it  was  a  costly  joke  for  that  mad  fellow,  Ejlert  Lflvborg. 
HEDDA.  How? 
BRACK.  He  made  a  violent  resistance.  Then  he  struck  one  of  the  constables 

in  the  ear,  and  tore  his  coat  to  pieces.  So  then  he  was  walked  off  to  the 

police-station.  / 

HEDDA.  How  do  you  know  all  this?  y  I/ 

BRACK.  From  the  police  themselves. 
HEDDA  (looks  before  her).  So  that  is  how  it  has  all  happened.  Then  he  did 

not  have  vine-leaves  in  his  hair? 
BRACK.  Vine-leaves,  Mrs.  Hedda? 
HEDDA  (changes  her  tone).  But  now,  tell  me,  Judge,  why,  really,  do  you  go 

about  in  this  way,  tracking  and  spying  after  Ejlert  Lovborg? 
BRACK.  In  the  first  place,  it  can  be  no  matter  of  indifference  to  me  that  when 

it  comes  before  the  magistrates,  it  should  appear  that  he  came  straight 

from  my  house. 

HEDDA.  Then  it  will  come  before  the  magistrates? 
BRACK.  Of  course.  Besides,  whatever  my  reason  may  have  been,  I  thought 

that  it  was  only  my  duty,  as  a  friend  of  the  house,  to  let  you  and  Tesman 

have  a  full  account  of  his  nocturnal  exploits. 
HEf>DA.  But  precisely  why,  Mr.  Brack? 
BRACK.  Well,  because  I  have  a  lively  suspicion  that  he  will  use  you  as  a  sort 

of  screen. 

HEDDA.  No,  but  how  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing? 
BRACK.  Oh,  good  Lord,  we  are  not  blind,  Mrs.  Hedda.  Just  look  here!  This 

Mrs.  Elvsted,  she  is  in  no  hurry  to  leave  town. 
HEDDA.  Well,  if  there  was  anything  between  those  two,  there  are  many  other 

places  where  they  can  meet. 
BRACK.  No  family.  Every  respectable  house  will  from  this  time  forth  be 

closed  to  Ejlert  Lovborg. 
HEDDA.  And  so  ought  mine  to  be,  you  think? 
BRACK.  Yes.  I  confess  that  it  will  be  more  than  distressing  for  me  if  this 

gentleman  fixes  himself  here.  If  he,  as  a  superfluous  and  an  irrelevant 

element  should  force  himself  into 

HEDDA.  Into  the  triple  alliance? 


HEDDA  GABLER 


BRACK,  Just  so.  It  would  be  the  same  for  me  as  being  homeless. 

HEDDA.  So,  to  be  sole  cock  of  the  walk,  that  is  your  object? 

BRACK  (nods  slowly  and  lowers  his  voice).  Yes,  that  is  my  object.  And  that 
object  I  will  fight  for  with  all  the  means  I  have  at  my  disposal. 

HEDDA  (while  her  smile  fades  away).  You  are  certainly  a  dangerous  person, 
when  it  comes  to  the  point. 

BRACK.  Do  you  think  so? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  I  begin  to  think  so  now.  And  I  am  glad  of  it  with  all  my  heart- 
so  long  as  you  do  not  in  any  way  get  a  hold  over  me. 

BRACK  (laughs  ambiguously).  Yes,  yes,  Mrs.  Hedda,  you  are  perhaps  right 
about  that.  Who  knows  whether  I  may  not  be  man  enough  to  get  such 
a  hold. 

HEDDA.  No,  but  listen  to  me,  Mr.  Brack!  It  is  almost  as  though  you  were 
sitting  there  and  threatening  me. 

BRACK  (rises).  Oh,  far  from  it!  The  triple  alliance  you  see  is  best  confirmed 
and  defended  by  voluntary  action. 

HEDDA.  That  is  my  opinion,  too. 

BRACK.  Yes,  and  now  I  have  said  what  I  wanted  to  say,  and  I  must  be  getting 
back.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Hedda.  (He  goes  to  the  glass  door) 

HEDDA.  Are  you  going  through  the  garden? 

BRACK.  Yes,  it  is  the  nearer  way  for  me. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  and  then  it  is  the  back  way  too. 

BRACK.  Very  true.  I  have  no  objection  to  back  ways.  At  the  proper  moment 
they  may  be  piquant  enough. 

HEDDA.  When  there  is  firing  with  shot  going  on. 

BRACK  (in  the  door,  laughs  to  her).  Oh!  one  does  not  shoot  one's  domestic 
fowls! 

HEDDA  (laughs  also).  Oh,  no!  if  one  has  not  more  than  the  one,  then 

(They  nod,  as  they  laugh,  and  say  good-by.  He  goes.  She  shuts  the  door 
after  him.  HEDDA  stands  for  a  while,  gravely,  and  looks  out.  Then  she 
goes  and  peeps  in  through  the  curtains  to  the  back  room.  Then  goes  to 
the  writing-table,  takes  LtfvBORc's  packet  down  from  the  book-case,  and 
begins  to  turn  the  pages.  BERTHA'S  voice  is  heard  loud  in  the  hall.  HEDDA 
turns  and  listens.  Then  rapidly  locks  the  packet  up  in  the  drawer  and 
puts  the  key  in  the  plate  of  the  inkstand.  EJLERT  L6VBORG,  with  his  over- 
coat on  and  his  hat  in  his  hand,  bursts  the  hall-door  open.  He  looks 
somewhat  confused  and  excited) 

LftVBORG  (turning  toward  the  hall).  And  I  tell  you  I  must  and  I  will  go  in  I 
There!  (He  shuts  the  door,  turns,  sees  HEDDA;  he  immediately  regains 
his  self-command  and  bows) 

HEDDA  (at  the  writing-table).  Well,  Mr.  Lflvborg,  you  are  pretty  late  in  com- 
ing to  fetch  Thea. 


630 


THB  DRAMA 


LOVBORG.  Or  else  it  is  pretty  early  to  be  calling  on  you.  I  hope  you  will 

excuse  me. 

HEDDA.  How  do  you  know  she  is  still  here? 

L^VBORG.  They  told  me  at  her  lodgings  that  she  had  been  out  all  night. 
HEDDA  (crosses  to  the  drawing-room  table).  Did  you  notice  how  the  people 

looked  when  they  said  that? 

LftvBORG  (looks  inquiringly  at  her).  How  the  people  looked? 
HEDDA.  I  mean  whether  they  seemed  to  think  it  was  odd? 
LdvBORG  (suddenly  comprehending).  Oh,  yes,  that  is  quite  true!  I  drag  her 

down  with  me!  At  the  same  time  I  did  not  notice  anything.  Has  Tesman 

hot  got  up  yet? 
HEDDA.  No,  I  don't  think  so. 
L6VBORG.  When  did  he  get  home? 
HEDDA.  Awfully  late. 
LOVBORG.  Did  he  tell  you  anything? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  I  heard  that  you  had  had  a  very  jolly  time  at  Mr.  Brack's. 
LOVBORG.  Nothing  else? 

HEDDA.  No,  I  don't  think  so.  Besides  I  was  so  fearfully  sleepy. 
(MRS.  ELVSTED  comes  in  through  the  curtains  in  the  background) 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (goes  toward  him).  Ah,  Lovborgl  At  last ! 

LOVBORG.  Yes,  at  last!  And  too  late! 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (sees  the  anguish  in  his  face).  What  is  too  late? 

L6VBORG.  All  is  too  late  now.  It  is  all  over  with  me. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  no,  no— don't  say  that! 

L6VBORG.  You  will  say  it  yourself,  when  you  have  heard— 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  I  will  hear  nothing! 

HEDDA,  Perhaps  you  would  like  best  to  talk  to  her  alone?  If  so,  111  go. 

LOVBORG.  No,  stay—you  too.  I  beg  you  to  stay. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  but  I  don't  wish  to  hear  anything,  I  tell  you. 

LOVBORG.  It  is  not  last  night's  adventures  that  I  wish  to  speak  about. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  What  is  it,  then? 

LOVBORG.  It  is  about  this— that  our  paths  must  now  be  parted. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Parted? 

HEDDA  (involuntarily).  I  knew  itl 

L&VBORG.  For  I  have  no  more  use  for  you,  Thea. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  And  you  can  stand  here  and  say  that!  No  more  use  for  me! 

Can't  I  help  you  just  as  I  did  before?  Can't  we  go  on  working  together? 
LftvBORG.  I  don't  mean  to  do  any  work  after  to-day. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (in  despair).  Then  what  shall  I  do  with  my  life? 
L6VBORG.  You  must  try  to  live  your  life  as  if  you  had  never  known  me. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  But  I  cannot  do  that! 
L6VBORG.  Try  whether  you  can,  Thea.  You  must  go  home  again. 

HEDDA   GABLER         631 


MRS.  ELVSTED  (in  agitation).  Never  in  this  world!  Where  are  you,  there  will  I 
also  be!  I  will  not  allow  myself  to  be  hunted  away  like  that!  I  will  stay 
here  where  I  am!  Be  with  you,  when  the  book  comes  out. 

HEDDA  (aside,  in  suspense).  Ah!  the  book— yes! 

LftvBORG  (looks  at  her).  My  book  and  Thea's.  For  that's  what  it  is. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes.  I  feel  it  is  that.  And  therefore  I  have  a  right  to  be  with 
you  when  it  comes  out!  I  wish  to  see  to  it  that  esteem  and  honor  are 
poured  out  over  you  again.  And  the  joy— the  joy,  that  I  will  share  with  you. 

L5VBORG.  Thea— our  book  will  never  come  out. 

HEDDA.  Ah! 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Never  come  out? 

LOvsoRG.  Can  never  come  out. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (in  agonized  foreboding).  Lflvborg— what  have  you  done  with 
the  sheets? 

HEDDA  (looks  excitedly  at  him).  Yes,  the  sheets — ? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Where  have  you  put  them? 

L6VBORG.  Oh,  Thea— don't  ask  me  that. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  know.  I  have  a  right  to  be  told  at  once. 

LOVBORG.  The  sheets!  Well  then—the  sheets,  I  have  torn  them  into  a  thou- 
sand fragments. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (screams).  Oh,  no,  no — ! 

HEDDA  (involuntarily).  But  it  is  not 

L6VBORG  (looks  at  her).  Not  true,  do  you  think? 

HEDDA  (recovers  herself).  Yes,  indeed.  Of  course.  When  you  yourself  say  it. 
But  it  sounded  so  improbable. 

L&VBORG.  True  all  the  same. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (wrings  her  hands).  Oh,  God!  Oh,  God!  Hedda— torn  his  own 
work  to  pieces. 

LttvBORG.  I  have  torn  my  own  life  to  pieces.  So  that  I  might  as  well  tear  my 
life's  work  to  pieces  too — 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  And  did  you  do  that  last  night? 

LftvBORG.  Yes,  I  tell  you!  Into  a  thousand  pieces.  And  scattered  them  on  the 
fjord.  Far  out!  There  is,  in  any  case,  fresh  salt  water  there.  Let  them  drift 
out  into  it.  Drift  in  the  tide  and  wind.  And  then  in  a  little  while  they  sink. 
Deeper  and  deeper.  As  I  am  doing,  Thea. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Do  you  know,  Lovborg,  that  this  about  the  book— all  my  life 
it  will  present  itself  to  me,  as  if  you  had  killed  a  little  child. 

L6VBORG.  You  are  right  in  that.  It  is  a  sort  of  infanticide. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  But  how  could  you  then — ?  I  had  my  part,  too,  in  the  child. 

HEDDA  (almost  inaudible).  Ah,  the  child 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (breathing  heavily).  It's  all  over.  Yes,  yes,  now  I  am  going, 
Hedda. 

632        THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA.  But  you  are  not  going  away  from  town? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Ohl  I  don't  know  myself  what  I  shall  do.  Everything  is  dark 

before  me  now.  (She  goes  out  through  the  hall  door) 
HEDDA  (stands  and  waits  a  little).  You  are  not  going  to  go  home  with  her, 

then,  Lovborg? 
L6VBORG.  I?  Through  the  streets?  Do  you  suppose  people  ought  to  see  her 

walking  with  me? 
HEDDA.  I  don't  know  what  else  happened  last  night.  But  is  it  so  absolutely 

irretrievable? 
L6VBORG.  It  is  not  merely  last  night.  I  know  that  perfectly  well.  But  it  is  this, 

that  I  don't  want  to  live  that  kind  of  life  either.  Not  now  over  again.  It  is 

the  courage  of  life  and  the  defiance  of  life  that  she  has  snapped  in  me. 
HEDDA  (looking  in  front  of  her).  The  sweet  little  simpleton  has  had  her  fingers 

in  the  destinies  of  a  man.  (Looks  at  him)  But  how  could  you  be  so  heart- 
less to  her,  all  the  same? 
L6VBORG.  Oh,  don't  say  that  it  was  heartless! 
HEDDA.  Go  and  destroy  what  has  filled  her  thoughts  for  such  a  long,  long 

time!  You  don't  call  that  heartless? 
LdvBORG.  To  you  I  can  speak  the  truth,  Hedda. 
HEDDA.  The  truth? 
LOVBORG.  Promise  me  first— give  me  your  word  upon  it,  that  what  I  now 

confide  to  you,  you  will  never  let  Thea  know. 
HEDDA.  You  have  my  word  upon  it. 
LOVBORG.  Good.  Then  I  will  tell  you  that  that  was  not  true  which  I  stood 

here  and  declared. 
HEDDA.  That  about  the  sheets? 
LOVBORG.  Yes.  I  have  not  torn  them  into  fragments.  I  have  not  thrown  them 

into  the  fjord  either. 

HEDDA.  No,  no—But— where  are  they,  then? 
LOVBORG.  I  have  destroyed  them  all  the  same!  To  all  intents  and  purposes, 

Hedda. 

HEDDA.  I  don't  understand  that. 
LOVBORG.  Thea  said  that  what  I  had  done  was  the  same  to  her  as  murdering 

a  child. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  that's  what  she  said. 

L6VBORG.  But,  to  kill  one's  child— that  is  not  the  worst  thing  you  can  do  to  it. 
HEDDA.  That  not  the  worst? 
LOVBORG.  No.  That  is  the  worse  which  I  wished  to  shield  Thea  from  hearing 

about. 

HEDDA.  And  what  then  is  this  worst? 
LOVBORG.  Suppose  now,  Hedda,  that  a  man— about  such  an  hour  in  the 

morning  as  this—after  a  wild  night  of  carouse,  came  home  to  the  mother 

HEDDA  GABLER    633 


of  his  child  and  said:  Listen—I  have  been  here  and  there.  In  this  place 

and  that  place.  And  I  Bave  taken  your  child  with  me.  I'o  this  pla^g^md 
^that  place.ljbawjost  the  cl^ild.JJttgrlv  lost  it.  The  Devi}  knows  JnST 

whose  hands  it  has  t  a  lien.  Who  may  have  had  their  fingers  in  it. 
HEDDA.  Ah!  but,  after  all— this  was  nothing  more  than  a  book — 
L6VBORG.  The  pure  soul  of  Thea  was  in  that  book. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  I  understand  that. 
L$VBORG.  And  therefore  you  understand  also  that  between  her  and  me  there 

is  no  future  henceforward. 
HEDDA.  And  which  way  will  you  go? 
L6VBORG.  No  way.  Merely  see  how  I  can  make  an  end  altogether.  The  sooner 

the  better. 

HEDDA  (a  step  nearer).  Ejlert  LGvborg— now  listen  to  me.  Could  you  not  con- 
trive—that it  should  be  done  beautifully? 
LftvBORG.  Beautifully?  (Smiles)  With  vme-lej^yes  in  Tpy^aiV,  as  you  used  to 

fancy 

HEDDA.  Oh,  no!  The  vine-leaf— I  don't  think  anything  more  about  that!  But, 

beautifully,  all  the  same!  Just  for  once— Good-by!  You  must  go  now.  And 

don't  come  here  any  more. 
LftvBORG.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Tesman.  And  give  a  message  to  George  Tesman 

from  me.  (He  is  going) 
HEDDA.  No,  wait!  You  shall  take  with  you  a  keepsake  from  me.  (She  goes  to 

the  writing-table  and  opens  the  drawer  and  pistol-case.  Comes  back  to 

Lovborg  with  one  of  the  pistols) 
L&VBORG  (looking  at  her).  This?  Is  this  the  keepsake? 
HEDDA  (nods  slowly).  Do  you  recollect  it?  It  was  aimed  at  you  once. 
L6VBORG.  You  should  have  used  it  then. 
HEDDA.  Look  here!  You  use  it  now. 
LOVBORG  (puts  the  pistol  into  his  breast  pocket).  Thanks! 
HEDDA.  And  do  it  beautifully,  Ejlert  Lovborg.  Only  promise  me  that! 
LOVBORG.  Good-by,  Hedda  Gabler. 
(He  goes  out  through  the  hall  door.  She  then  goes  to  the  writing-table  and 

takes  out  the  packet  with  the  manuscript,  peeps  into  the  envelope,  pulls 

one  or  two  of  the  leaves  half  out,  and  glances  at  them.  She  then  takes 

the  whole  of  it  and  sits  down  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  stove.  She  holds  the 

packet  in  her  lap.  After  a  pause,  she  opens  the  door  of  the  stove,  and  then 

the  packet  also) 
HEDDA  (throws  one  of  the  sheets  into  the  fire  and  whispers  to  herself).  Now  I 

am  burning  your  child,  Thea!  You  with  your^  curly  hair!  (Throws* several 
'sheets  into  the  fire)  Xpur  child  aiKLJi4ifirtlLQvbQrg>s  child.  (Throws  the 

rest  in)  Now  I  am  burning— am  burning  the  child. 


634 


THE  DRAMA 


ACT   IV 

Same  room  at  TESMAN'S.  It  is  evening.  The  drawing-room  is  in  darkness.  The 
back-room  is  lighted  up  by  the  chandelier  over  the  table.  The  curtains  in 
front  of  the  glass  door  are  drawn. 

HEDDA,  in  black,  goes  to  and  fro  over  the  floor  in  the  darkened  room.  Then 
she  passes  into  the  back-roomy  and  crosses  over  to  the  left  side.  There  are 
heard  some  chords  on  the  piano.  Then  she  comes  in  again  and  enters  the 
drawing-room.  BERTHA  comes  from  the  left,  through  the  back-room,  with 
a  lighted  lamp,  which  she  puts  on  the  table  in  front  of  the  settee  in  the 
drawing-room.  Her  eyes  are  red  with  weeping,  and  she  has  black  ribands 
in  her  cap.  She  walks  quietly  and  carefully  out  to  the  left.  HEDDA  goes  to 
the  glass  door,  moves  the  curtain  a  little  to  one  side,  and  looks  out  into 
the  darkness.  Soon  after,  MISS  TESMAN  arrives,  in  black,  with  hat  and  veil 
on,  in  from  the  hall.  HEDDA  goes  toward  her  with  her  hands  outstretched. 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  Hedda,  I  come  in  the  colors  of  sorrow.  For  at  last  my 

poor  sister  has  found  rest. 

HEDDA.  I  know  it  already,  as  you  see.  Tesman  sent  me  a  card. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  he  promised  me  he  would.  But  I  thought,  all  the  same, 

that  to  Hedda,  here— in  the  house  of  life— I  ought  myself  to  be  the  herald 

of  death. 

HEDDA.  That  was  very  kind  of  you. 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  Rina  ought  not  to  have  left  us  just  now.  Hedda's  house 

ought  not  to  be  weighed  down  with  grief  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
HEDDA  (diverting  her).  She  died  very  quietly,  didn't  she,  Miss  Tesman? 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  so  exquisitely— so  peacefully  she  departed.  And  then,  the 

unspeakable  joy  that  she  saw  George  once  more,  and  was  able  really  to 

say  good-by  to  him!  Has  he  not  come  home  yet? 

HEDDA.  No.  He  wrote  that  I  must  not  expect  him  at  once.  But  do  sit  down. 
MISS  TESMAN.  No,  thanks,  dear,  blessed  Hedda!  I  should  so  like  to.  But 

I  have  so  little  time.  Now  I  have  to  lay  her  out  and  adorn  her  as  well  as 

I  can.  She  shall  go  down  to  her  grave  looking  really  nice. 
HEDDA.  Can't  I  help  you  with  anything? 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh!  don't  you  think  of  that!  Hedda  Tesman  must  not  touch 

such  work!  Nor  let  her  thoughts  fasten  upon  it  either.  Not  at  this  time,  no! 

HEDDA.  Oh!  one's  thoughts— they  don't  obey  such  masters 

MISS  TESMAN  (continuing).  Yes,  dear  Lord,  that  is  how  the  world  goes.  At 

home  with  me  we  must  now  be  sewing  linen  for  Rina.  And  here  there  will 

soon  be  seen  sewing  too,  I  can  very  well  imagine.  But  that  will  be  of 

another  sort,  that  will,  thank  God! 
(GEORGE  TESMAN  enters  through  the  hall-door) 

HEDDA   GABLER        635 


HEDDA.  Well,  that  is  a  good  thing,  you  have  come  at  last. 

TESMAN.  Are  you  here,  Aunt  Julie?  With  Hedda?  Fancy  thatl 

MISS  TESMAN.  I  was  just  going  away,  my  dear  boy.  Well,  have  you  arranged 

everything  as  you  promised  me? 
TESMAN.  No,  I  am  really  afraid  I  have  forgotten  half  of  it,  dear.  I  shall  rush 

over  to  you  again  to-morrow.  For  to-day  my  head  seems  absolutely  be- 
wildered. I  can't  keep  my  thoughts  together. 
MISS  TESMAN.  But,  dear  George,  you  must  not  take  it  in  this  way. 
TESMAN.  What?  How  do  you  mean? 
MISS  TESMAN.  You  must  rejoice  even  in  grief.  Glad  for  what  has  happened. 

As  I  am. 

TESMAN.  Oh!  yes,  yes.  You  are  thinking  about  Aunt  Rina. 
HEDDA.  It  will  be  lonesome  for  you  now,  Miss  Tesman. 
MISS  TESMAN.  The  first  few  days,  yes.  But  that  won't  last  very  long;  dear 

Rina's  little  room  will  not  always  be  empty,  that  I  know. 
TESMAN.  Indeed?  Who  is  going  to  move  into  it?  Eh? 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh,  there  is  always  some  poor  invalid  or  other,  who  needs  to 

be  looked  after  and  tended,  unfortunately. 
HEDDA.  Will  you  really  take  such  a  burden  upon  you? 
MISS  TESMAN.  Burden?  God  forgive  you,  child,  that  has  never  been  a  burden 

to  me. 

HEDDA.  But  now  if  a  stranger  should  come,  then  surely — 
MISS  TESMAN.  Oh!  one  soon  becomes  friends  with  sick  people.  And  I  haven't 

any  such  great  need  to  have  anyone  to  live  for,  either.  No,  God  be  praised 

and  thanked— here  in  the  house  there  will  be  this  and  that  going  on  that 

an  old  aunt  may  have  a  hand  in. 
HEDDA.  Oh,  don't  speak  about  our  house. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  fancy,  what  a  lovely  time  we  three  can  have  together,  if 

HEDDA.  If ? 

TESMAN  (unquiet).  Oh,  nothing.  That  will  arrange  itself  all  right.  Let  us 
hope  so.  Eh? 

MISS  TESMAN.  Yes,  yes.  You  two  have  something  to  chat  about,  I  can  well 
understand.  (Smiles)  And  Hedda  has  also  something  to  tell  you,  perhaps, 
George.  Good-by!  Now  I  must  go  home  to  Rina.  (Turns  at  the  door) 
Goodness,  how  strange  it  is  to  think  that  Rina  is  at  home  with  me  and  is 
with  poor  Jochum  as  well! 

TESMAN.  Yes,  fancy  that,  Aunt  Julie!  Eh? 

(MISS  TESMAN  goes  out  through  the  hall-door) 

HEDDA  (follows  TESMAN  coldly  and  critically  with  her  eyes).  I  almost  thinV 
that  the  death  upsets  you  more  than  it  does  her. 

TESMAN.  Oh,  it  is  not  the  death  alone.  It  is  Ejlert  whom  I  am  so  uneasy  about. 


636 


THE  DRAMA 


HEDDA  (quickly).  Is  there  anything  new  about  him? 

TESMAN.  I  wanted  to  run  up  and  tell  him  this  afternoon  that  the  manuscript 

was  in  safe-keeping. 
HEDDA.  Well?  Did  you  not  find  him? 
TESMAN.  No.  He  was  not  at  home.  But  afterward  I  met  Mrs.  Elvsted,  and 

she  told  me  he  had  been  here  early  this  morning. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  directly  after  you  went. 

TESMAN.  And  he  had  said  that  he  had  torn  his  manuscript  to  bits.  Eh? 
HEDDA.  Yes,  that's  what  he  declared. 
TESMAN.  Well,  but  he  must  have  been  completely  out  of  his  mind.  And  then 

did  you  not  give  it  back  to  him  either,  Hedda? 
HEDDA.  No,  he  did  not  get  it. 
TESMAN.  But  you  told  him  that  we  had  it? 
HEDDA.  No.  (Quickly)  Did  you  tell  Mrs.  Elvsted? 
TESMAN.  No,  I  would  not  do  that.  But  you  ought  to  have  told  him  himself. 

Fancy  if,  in  despair,  he  should  go  away  and  do  himself  an  injury!  Let  me 

have  the  manuscript,  Hedda!  I  will  rush  round  with  it  to  him  at  once. 

Where  is  the  package? 
HEDDA  (cold  and  immovable,  supported  by  the  arm-chair)  I  haven't  got  it 

any  longer. 

TESMAN.  Haven't  got  it?  What  in  the  world  do  you  mean? 
HEDDA.  I  have  burned  it  all  up— the  whole  of  it. 

TESMAN  (breaks  into  a  shriek).  Burned!  Burned,  Ejlert's  manuscript! 
HEDDA.  Don't  shriek  so.  The  servant  might  hear  you. 

TESMAN.  Burned!  But,  good  God — !  No,  no,  no— this  is  absolutely  impossible. 
HEDDA.  Well,  it  is  so,  anyhow. 
TESMAN.  But  do  you  know  what  you  have  been  doing,  Hedda?  It  is  an  illegal 

proceeding  with  goods  found.  Think  of  that!  Yes,  if  you  only  ask  Judge 

Brack,  he  will  tell  you  what  it  is. 
HEDDA.  It  is  certainly  best  that  you  should  say  nothing  about  it,  neither  to 

the  Judge  nor  to  anyone  else. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  but  how  could  you  go  and  do  anything  so  monstrous?  How 

could  such  a  thing  come  into  your  mind?  How  could  it  occur  to  you? 

Answer  me  that.  Eh? 
HEDDA  (suppresses  an  almost  imperceptible  smile).  I  did  it  for  your  sake, 

George. 

TESMAN.  For  my  sake! 
HEDDA.  When  you  came  home  yesterday  and  said  that  he  had  been  reading 

aloud  to  you 

TESMAN.  Yes,  yes,  well? 

HEDDA.  Then  you  acknowledged  that  you  envied  him  the  work. 

HEDDA   GABLER        837 


TESMAN.  Oh,  my  goodness,  I  didn't  mean  that  literally. 

HEDDA.  All  the  same,  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  anyone  else  should  put 
you  into  the  shade. 

TESMAN  (in  an  outburst  between  doubt  and  joy).  Hedda,  oh!  is  that  the 
truth  you  are  sayingl  Yes,  but— yes,  but— I  never  noticed  that  your  love 
took  that  form  before.  Fancy  that! 

HEDDA.  Well,  it  is  best  that  you  should  know— that  just  at  this  time (Breaks 

off)  No,  no— you  can  ask  Aunt  Julie  for  yourself.  She  will  give  you  infor- 
mation enough. 

TESMAN.  Oh,  I  almost  believe  that  I  understand  you,  Hedda!  (Clasps  his 
hands  together)  No,  good  lord,  is  that  possible!  Eh? 

HEDDA.  Don't  shout  so.  The  servant  might  hear. 

TESMAN  (laughing  in  excess  of  joy).  The  servant!  No,  you  really  are  fun, 
Hedda!  The  servant— is  just  Bertha!  I  will  go  out  and  tell  Bertha  myself. 

HEDDA  (wrings  her  hands  as  if  in  despair).  Oh,  it's  killing  me,  it's  killing  me, 
all  this! 

TESMAN.  What  is,  Hedda?  Eh? 

HEDDA  (coldly,  in  self-command).  All  this  ridiculous  nonsense,  George. 

TESMAN.  Ridiculous?  That  I  am  so  intensely  happy!  But  at  the  same  time- 
perhaps  it  is  not  worth  while  that  I  should  say  anything  to  Bertha. 

HEDDA.  Oh,  no,  why  should  you  not  do  so? 

TESMAN.  No,  no,  not  yet.  But  Aunt  Julie  must  undoubtedly  be  told.  And  then, 
that  you  begin  to  call  me  George  as  well!  Fancy  that!  Oh,  Aunt  Julie, 
she  will  be  so  happy,  so  happy! 

HEDDA.  When  she  hears  that  I  have  burned  Ejlert  L6vborg's  papers  for  your 
sake? 

TESMAN.  No,  that's  true  too!  That  affair  with  the  papers,  of  course  nobody 
must  know  about  that.  But  that  you  burned  for  me,  Hedda— Aunt  Julie 
must  really  have  her  share  in  that!  But  now  I  should  like  to  know  whether 
that  sort  of  thing  is  usual  with  young  wives?  Eh? 

HEDDA.  You  ought  to  ask  Aunt  Julie  about  that  too,  it  seems  to  me. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  I  really  will  do  so  when  I  have  an  opportunity.  (Looks  uneasy 
and  pensive  again)  No,  but— no,  but  the  manuscript  then!  Good  lord,  it 
is  frightful  to  think  of  poor  Ejlert,  all  the  same. 

(MRS.  ELVSTED,  dressed  as  during  her  first  visit,  with  hat  and  mantle,  comes 
in  through  the  hall-door) 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (greets  them  hurriedly  and  says,  with  agitation).  Oh,  dear 
Hedda,  don't  be  angry  with  me  for  coming  again. 

HEDDA.  What  has  happened  to  you,  Thea? 

TESMAN.  Is  there  anything  wrong  again  with  Ejlert  LOvborg?  Eh? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  yes— I  am  so  dreadfully  afraid  that  a  misfortune  has  hap- 
pened to  him. 

638         THK   DRAMA 


HEDDA  (seizes  her  arm).  Ah!— do  you  think  so? 

TESMAN.  No,  but  good  lord— how  can  you  imagine  such  a  thing,  Mrs.  Elvsted? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  for  I  heard  them  talking  about  him  in  the  pension,  just 

as  I  came  in.  Oh,  the  most  hideous  rumors  about  him  are  going  around  the 

town  to-day. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  fancy,  I  heard  that  too!  And  I  can  bear  witness  that  he  walked 

straight  home  and  went  to  bed.  Fancy! 
HEDDA.  Well,  what  did  they  say  in  the  pension? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh!  I  could  not  get  any  clear  account.  Either  they  knew 

nothing  exact,  or  else—They  stopped  talking  when  they  saw  me.  And 

I  did  not  dare  to  ask. 
TESMAN  (uneasily  about  the  floor).  We  must  hope—we  must  hope  that  you 

heard  wrong,  Mrs.  Elvsted. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  no,  I  am  certain  that  it  was  him  they  were  talking  about. 

And  then  I  heard  them  say  something  about  the  hospital  or 

TESMAN.  The  hospital! 

HEDDA.  No— that  is  quite  impossible! 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  I  was  so  deadly  frightened  about  him.  And  then  I  went 

up  to  his  lodgings  and  asked  for  him  there. 
HEDDA.  Could  you  persuade  yourself  to  do  that,  Thea? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  what  else  could  I  do?  For  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that 

I  could  endure  the  uncertainty  any  longer. 
TESMAN.  But  you  did  not  find  him,  even  there?  Eh? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No.  And  the  people  knew  nothing  about  his  movements.  He 

had  not  been  home  since  yesterday  afternoon,  they  said. 
TESMAN.  Yesterday!  Fancy  their  saying  that! 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  I  think  that  nothing  else  is  possible  but  that  something 

wrong  must  have  happened  to  him! 
TESMAN.  What  do  you  say,  Hedda— to  my  going  and  making  inquiries  at 

various  places 

HEDDA.  No,  no— don't  you  mix  yourself  up  in  this  affair. 

(JUDGE  BRACK,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  comes  in  through  the  hall-door,  which 

BERTHA  opens  and  closes  behind  him.  He  looks  grave,  and  bows  in  silence) 
TESMAN.  Oh,  is  that  you,  dear  Judge?  Eh? 

BRACK.  Yes,  of  course  I  felt  obliged  to  come  to  you  this  evening. 
TESMAN.  I  can  see  that  you  have  had  a  message  from  Aunt  Julie. 
BRACK.  Yes,  I  have. 
TESMAN.  Isn't  it  sad?  Eh? 

BRACK.  Well,  dear  Tesman,  that  depends  on  the  way  in  which  one  takes  it. 
TESMAN  (looks  inquiringly  at  him).  Has  anything  else  happened? 
BRACK.  Yes,  there  has. 
HEDDA  (eagerly).  Anything  distressing,  Mr.  Brack? 

HEDDA    GABLER         639 


BRACK.  Again,  that  depends  on  how  one  takes  it,  Mrs.  Tesman. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (in  an  involuntary  outburst).  Oh!  it  has  something  to  do  with 

Ejlert  Lovborgl 
BRACK  (looks  slightly  at  her).  What  makes  you  think  that,  madame?  Perhaps 

you  already  know  something? 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (distracted).  No,  no,  I  don't  in  any  way;  but — 
TESMAN.  But,  good  gracious,  do  tell  us  what  it  is! 
BRACK.  Well,  unhappily,  Ejlert  Lovborg  has  been  taken  to  the  hospital.  He 

lies  there  at  the  point  of  death. 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (shrieks).  O  God!  O  God! 
TESMAN.  To  the  hospitall  And  at  the  point  of  death! 
HgDDA  (involuntarily ).  Sn^njddy  tn^ 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (wailingjTAnd  we,  who  parted  in  anger,  Hedda! 
HEDDA  (whispers).  But  Thea— Thea  there! 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (paying  no  attention  to  her).  I  must  go  to  him.  I  must  see  him 

alive! 

BRACK.  It  is  of  no  use,  madame.  No  one  may  see  him. 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  but  only  tell  me,  what  has  happened  to  him?  What  is  it? 
TESMAN.  Yes,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  he  has—himself— Eh? 

am  certain   hat  he  has. 
TESMAN.  Hedda, 

BRACK  (keeps  his  eyes  -fixed  upon  her).  Perhaps  you  have  guessed  quite  cor- 
rectly, Mrs.  Tesman. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  how  horrible  1 
TESMAN.  Himself  too!  Fancy  thatl 
HEDDA.  Shot  himself[ 

BRACK.  Guessed  right  again,  Mrs.  Tesman. 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (tries  to  be  calm).  When  did  it  happen,  Mr.  Brack? 
BRACK.  This  afternoon,  between  three  and  four. 
TESMAN.  But,  good  lord— where  did  he  do  it,  then!  Eh? 
BRACK  (a  little  hesitating).  Where?  Yes,  my  dear  Tesman— he  must  have  done 

it  in  hi.'  own  lodgings. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  that  can't  be  right.  For  I  was  there  between  six  and 

seven. 
BRACK.  Well,  then  somewhere  else.  I  don't  exactly  know.  I  only  know  he  was 

found— He  had  shot  himself— through  the  breast. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  how  terrible  to  think  of!  That  he  should  come  to  such 

an  end. 

HEDDA  (to  BRACK).  Was  it  through  the  breast? 
BRACK.  Yes,  as  I  say.  ~~~       ^  ,      A 

HEDDA.  Than  not  {hrniiffh  the  temple? 

*•"-—- :^ f— 
«*^jJ55BH55— !~53H«BKB 

640         THE   DRAMA 


BRACK.  Through  the  breast,  Mrs.  Tesman. 

HEDDA.  Yes,  yes—the  breast  is  al 

BRACK,  What,  Mrs.Tesman? 

HEDDA  (evasively).  Oh,  no,  nothing. 

TESMAN.  And  the  wound  is  dangerous,  you  say?  Eh? 

BRACK.  The  wound  is  absolutely  mortal.  It  is  probably  all  over  with  him  by 

this  time. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  y^J  havp  i  fnirlwIinflT  It  is  all/)vej!  All  over!  Oh, 

Hedda — 1 

TESMAN.  But  tell  me— where  did  you  learn  all  this? 

BRACK  (shortly).  Through  one  of  the  police.  One  whom  I  had  to  speak  to. 
HEDDA  (half  aloud).  At  last  a  positive  act! 

TESMAN  (terrified).  God  save  us— Hedda,  what  are  you  saying? 
HEDDA.  I  say  that  there  is  something  beautiful  in  this. 
BRACK.  Hum,  Mrs.  Tesman — 
TESMAN.  Beautiful.  No,  fancy  that! 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  Hedda,  how  can  you  talk  about  beauty  in  such  a  matter? 
HEDDA.  Ejlert  LOvborg  has  settled  the  account  with  himself.  He  has  had  the 

courage  to  do  what— what  had  to  be  done. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  No,  never  believe  that  that  is  what  has  happened.  What  he 

has  done,  he  has  done  in  his  delirium. 
TESMAN.  In  despair  he  has  done  it! 
HEDDA.  That  he  has  not.  I  am  certain  of  that. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  he  has!  In  delirium!  Just  as  when  he  tore  our  sheets  to 

fragments. 
BRACK  (starting).  The  sheets?  The  manuscript,  do  you  mean?  Has  he  torn 

that  into  fragments? 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  he  did  that  last  night. 

TESMAN  (whispers  softly).  Oh,  Hedda,  we  shall  never  get  clear  of  this. 
BRACK.  H'm,  that  was  extraordinary. 
TESMAN  (crosses  the  floor).  Only  to  think  of  E  jlert's  going  out  of  the  world  in 

this  way!  And  not  to  leave  behind  him  what  would  have  given  such  a 

lasting  reputation  to  his  name — 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  if  it  only  could  be  put  together  again! 
TESMAN.  Yes,  think,  if  it  only  could!  I  don't  know  what  I  would  give — 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Perhaps  it  can,  Mr.  Tesman. 
TESMAN.  What  do  you  mean? 
MRS.  ELVSTED  (searches  in  the  pocket  of  her  mantle).  Look  here.  I  hid  the 

loose  scraps  which  he  used  when  he  dictated. 
HEDDA  (a  step  closer).  Ah — ! 
TESMAN.  You  have  kept  them,  Mrs.  Elvsted?  Eh? 

HEDDA   GABLEB         641 


MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  I  have  them  here,  I  took  them  with  me  when  I  left  home. 
And  they  have  been  lying  here  in  my  pocket — 

TESMAN.  Oh,  do  just  let  me  see  theml 

MBS.  ELVSTED  (passes  him  a  bundle  of  small  pages).  But  they  are  in  such  dis- 
order! All  higgledy-piggledy. 

TESMAN.  Fancy,  if  we  could  only  arrange  them.  Perhaps  if  we  two  set  our 
heads  together 

MBS.  ELVSTED,  Yes,  let  us  try,  at  all  events. 

TESMAN.  It  shall  come  right!  It  must  come  right!  I  will  dedicate  my  life  to 
this  task! 

HEDDA.  You,  George?  Your  life? 

TESMAN.  Yes,  or  more  properly  speaking,  all  the  time  I  can  spare.  Lord,  there 
is  no  use  in  wailing  over  what  has  happened.  Eh?  We  will  try  to  quiet 
ourselves  down  as  much  as  possible  and — 

MBS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Tesman,  I  will  do  the  best  I  can. 

TESMAN.  Well,  then  come  here.  We  must  see  about  the  notices  at  once. 
Where  shall  we  sit?  Here?  No,  in  there  in  the  back-room.  Excuse  us,  my 
dear  Brack!  Come  with  me,  then,  Mrs.  Elvsted. 

MBS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  God— if  it  only  might  be  possible! 

(TESMAN  and  MBS.  ELVSTED  come  into  the  back-room.  She  takes  off  her  hat 
and  mantle.  They  both  sit  down  at  the  table  under  the  chandelier,  and 
become  absorbed  in  an  eager  examination  of  the  papers.  HEDDA  crosses  to 
the  stove  and  sits  down  in  the  arm-chair.  A  little  later  BBACK  crosses  to  her) 

HEDDA  (in  a  low  voice).  Oh,  Judge— what  a  relief  this  is  about  Ejlert  LOvborg. 

BBACK.  Relief,  Mrs.  Hedda?  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  a  relief  for  him 

HEDDA.  I  mean,  for  me.  A  relief  to  know  that  it  is  still  possiblefor  an  act  of 

I  voluntary  courage  to  take  place  in  this  worlcL  Some  over  which  tfiefe 
I  ^alls  a  veil  of"  unintentional  beauty. 

BRACK  (smiles).  H'm— dear  Mrs.  Hedda 

HEDDA.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  For  you  are  a  kind  of  pro- 
fessional person,  you  too,  like— well! 

BBACK  (looks  firmly  at  her).  Ejlert  L6vborg  has  been  more  to  you  than, 
perhaps,  you  are  willing  to  admit  to  yourself.  Or  is  that  a  mistake  of  mine? 

HEDDA.  I  don't  answer  you  such  questions  as  that.  I  only  know  that  Ejlert 
Lflvborg  has  had  the  courage  to  live  his  life  after  his  own  fashion.  And 
then  now— the  great  act!  That  over  which  the  sense  of  beauty  falls! 
That  he  had  force  and  will  enough  to  break  away  from  the  banquet  of 
life— so  early. 

BRACK.  I  am  sorry,  Mrs.  Hedda— but  I  am  obliged  to  destroy  this  pretty  piece 
of  imagination  of  yours. 

HEDDA.  Imagination? 

642        THE  DRAMA 


BRACK.  Which  in  any  case  you  would  soon  abandon  for  yourself. 

HEDDA.  And  what  is  it  then? 

BRACK.  He  has  not  shot  himself—  voluntarily. 

HEDDA.  Not  voluntarily? 

BRACK.  No.  The  affair  about  Ejlert  L6vborg  does  not  run  on  quite  the  sam< 

lines  that  I  drew  just  now. 

HEDDA  (excitedly).  Have  you  concealed  something?  What  is  it? 
BRACK.  For  poor  Mrs.  Elvsted's  sake  I  used  a  few  small  circumlocutions. 
HEDDA.  What  are  they? 
BRACK.  First,  that  he  is  really  already  dead. 
HEDDA.  At  the  hospital? 

BRACK.  Yes.  And  without  regaining  consciousness. 
HEDDA.  What  more  have  you  concealed? 
BRACK.  This,  that  the  event  did  not  occur  in  his  room. 
HEDDA.  Well,  that  is  of  no  particular  consequence. 
BRACK.  You  are  mistaken.  For  I  have  to  tell  you—  Ejlert  Lovborg  was  fount 

shot  in—  in  Miss  Diana's  boudoir. 
HEDDA  (will  jump  up,  but  sinks  back  again).  That  is  impossible,  Mr.  Brack 

He  cannot  have  been  there  again  to-day! 
BRACK.  He  was  there  this  afternoon.  He  came  to  beg  for  something,  he  said 

which  had  been  taken  away  from  him.  Talked  wildly  about  a  child,  tha 

was  lost  — 
HEDDA.  Ahl 
BRACK.  I  thought  that  perhaps  it  might  be  his  manuscript.  But  that,  I  hear 

he  himself  destroyed.  So  that  it  must  have  been  the  pocketbook. 
HEDDA.  Yes,  no  doubt.  And  there—  so  there  he  was  found. 
BRACK.  Yes,  there.  With  a  discharged  pistol  in  his  breast  pocket.  The  sho 

had  been  fatal. 

HEDDA.  In  the  breast—  yes. 

/  MA 
BRACK.  No—  it  struck  him  in  the  abdomen.  ^  — 

HEDDA  (  looks  up  at  him  with  an  expression  of  disgust).  That  tool  Oh,  whgfi 
curse  of  ridicule  and  of  vulgarity  hangs  over  everything  that  I  merel) 


BRACK.  There  is  one  point  more,  Mrs.  Hedda.  Something  which  also  may  be 

looked  upon  as  rather  squalid. 
HEDDA.  And  what  is  that? 
BRACK.  The  pistol  which  he  carried  — 
HEDDA  (breathless).  Well!  What  then? 
BRACK.  He  must  have  stolen  it. 

HEDDA  (leaps  up).  Stolen!  That  is  not  true!  He  did  not  steal  itl 
BRACK.  No  other  solution  is  possible.  He  must  have  stolen  it.  Hush! 

HEDDA   GABLER        643 


(TESMAN  and  MRS.  ELVSTED  have  risen  from  the  table  in  the  back-room,  and 
enter  the  drawing-room) 

TESMAN  (with  the  papers  in  both  his  hands).  Hedda,  dear,  it  is  hardly  possi- 
ble for  me  to  see  there  under  the  chandelier.  Think  of  that! 

BRACK.  Yes,  I  am  thinking. 

TESMAN.  Would  you  mind  our  sitting  for  a  little  while  at  your  writing-table? 
Eh? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  (Rapidly)  Now,  wait!  Let  me  clear  it 
first! 

TESMAN.  Oh,  that  doesn't  matter  at  all,  Hedda.  There  is  plenty  of  room. 

HEDDA.  No,  no,  let  me  just  clear  it  first,  I  say.  Carry  all  these  things  in,  and 
put  them  on  the  piano.  There! 

(She  has  pushed  an  object,  covered  with  note-paper,  under  the  bookcase, 
puts  several  other  papers  on,  and  carries  the  whole  into  the  back-room. 
TESMAN  lays  the  scraps  of  manuscript  on  the  writing-table  and  moves  the 
lamp  then  from  the  corner  table.  He  and  MRS.  ELVSTED  sit  down  and  pro- 
ceed with  their  work.  HEDDA  returns) 

HEDDA  (behind  MRS.  ELVSTED'S  chair,  gently  strokes  her  hair).  Well,  my  sweet 
Thea,  how  goes  it  with  Ejlert  LOvborg's  monument? 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (looks  dispiritedly  up  at  her).  Oh,  goodness,  it  will  be  awfully 
hard  to  make  it  all  out. 

TESMAN.  It  must  be  done.  There  is  nothing  else  for  it.  And  this,  to  set  other 
people's  papers  in  order,  is  just  the  work  I  am  fitted  for. 

(HEDDA  goes  over  to  the  stove  and  seats  herself  on  one  of  the  ottomans. 
BRACK  stands  over  her,  leaning  on  the  arm-chair) 

HEDDA  (whispers).  What  was  that  you  said  about  the  pistol? 

BRACK  (softly).  That  he  must  have  stolen  it. 

HEDDA.  Why  must  he  have  stolen  it? 

BRACK.  Because  no  other  explanation  can  be  possible,  Mrs.  Hedda. 

HEDDA.  Ah,  really! 

BRACK  (glances  at  her).  Ejlert  Ltivborg  was  here  this  morning,  of  course. 
Isn't  that  so? 

HEDDA.  Yes. 

BRACK.  Were  you  alone  with  him? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  part  of  the  time. 

BRACK.  Did  you  leave  this  room  while  he  was  here? 

HEDDA.  No. 

BRACK.  Just  consider.  Were  you  not  out  of  the  room  a  moment? 

HEDDA.  Yes,  perhaps  just  a  moment— out  in  the  hall. 

BRACK.  And  where  was  your  pistol-case  during  that  time? 

HEDDA.  I  had  that  down  in — 

BRACK.  Well,  Mrs.  Hedda? 

644        THE   DRAMA 


HEDDA.  The  case  stood  there  away  on  the  writing-table. 

BRACK.  Have  you  looked  there  since  to  see  whether  both  the  pistols  are  there? 

HEDDA.  No. 

BRACK.  There  is  no  need.  I  saw  the  pistol  Lflvborg  had  carried.  And  I  knew 

it  again  at  once  from  yesterday.  And  from  before  that  too. 
HEDDA.  Have  you  got  it  with  you,  perhaps? 
BRACK.  No,  the  police  have  it. 
HEDDA.  What  will  the  police  do  with  the  pistol? 
BRACK.  Search  till  they  find  out  who  was  the  proprietor. 
HEDDA.  Do  you  think  that  that  can  be  discovered? 
BRACK  (bends  over  her  and  whispers).  No,  Hedda  Gabler— not  so  long  as  I 

hold  my  tongue. 

HEDDA  (looks  shyly  at  him).  And  if  you  do  not  hold  your  tongue— what  then? 
BRACK  (shrugs  his  shoulders).  There  is  always  the  theory  that  the  pistol  was 

stolen.  /  II        j^/y^fa 

HEDDA  (rapidly). <Rgihe£;dj£^  ^ 

BRACK  (smiles).  TnSR'^liat^people  say.  But  nobody  does  it. 
HEDDA  (without  replying).  And  supposing  that  the  pistol  was  not  stolen,  and 

the  proprietor  is  discovered.  What  will  happen  then? 
BRACK.  Yes,  Hedda— then  the  scandal  comes. 

HEDDA.  The  scandal ? 

BRACK.  Yes,  the  scandal,  about  which  you  are  now  in  such  a  mortal  terror. 

You  will,  of  course,  be  brought  into  court.  Both  you  and  Miss  Diana.  She 

will  have  to  explain  what  the  whole  matter  was  about.  Whether  it  was  an 

accidental  shot  or  murder.  Was  he  trying  to  take  the  pistol  out  of  his 

pocket  to  fire  at  her?  And  then  did  the  shot  go  off?  Or  did  she  tear  the 

pistol  out  of  his  hand,  shoot  him,  and  then  push  the  pistol  back  into  his 

pocket?  That  would  be  quite  like  her.  For  she  is  a  stout  wench,  this  same 

Miss  Diana. 

HEDDA.  But  all  this  repulsive  business  does  not  affect  me. 
BRACK.  No.  But  you  will  have  to  answer  the  question:  Why  did  you  give 

Ejlert  Lovborg  the  pistol?  And  what  conclusions  will  people  form  from 

the  fact  that  you  did  give  it  to  him? 

HEDDA  (lets  her  head  sink).  That  is  true.  I  did  not  think  of  that. 
BRACK.  Well,  fortunately  there  is  no  danger,  so  long  as  I  hold  my  tongue. 
HEDDA  (looks  up  at  him).  So  I  am  in  your  power,  Judge.  You  have  me  bound 

hand  and  foot  from  this  time  forward. 
BRACK  (whispers  softly).  Dearest  Hedda— believe  me— I  shall  not  misuse  my 

position. 
HEDDA.  All  the  same— entirely  in  your  power.  Subject  to  your  desire  and 

will.  A  slave.  A  slave,  thenl  (Rises  impetuously)  No— I  wiU  not  endure  the 

thought  of  thatl  Never. 

HEDDA   GABLER         645 


BRACK  (looks  half-mockingly  at  her).  One  gets  used  to  the  inevitable. 
HEDDA  (returns  his  look).  Yes,  perhaps.  (She  crosses  to  the  writing-table) 
HEDDA  (suppresses  an  involuntary  smile  and  imitates  TESMAN'S  tone  of  voice) 

Well?  is  it  a  success,  George?  Eh? 

TESMAN.  Lord  knows,  dear.  In  any  case  it  will  be  the  work  of  entire  months. 
HEDDA  (as  before).  No,  fancy  that!  (Passes  her  hands  softly  through  MRS. 

ELVSTED'S  hair)  Is  it  not  a  strange  thing,  Thea?  You  are  sitting  here  with 

Tesman  just  in  the  same  way  as  you  used  to  sit  with  Ejlert  Ltivborg. 
MRS.  ELVSTED.  Oh,  goodness,  if  I  could  only  inspire  your  husband  in  the 

same  way. 

HEDDA.  Oh,  that  will  come— in  time. 
TESMAN.  Yes,  do  you  know,  Hedda— it  really  does  seem  as  if  I  was  beginning 

to  perceive  something  of  that  kind.  But  go  and  sit  down  again  with  Brack! 
HEDDA.  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  here  to  make  myself  useful  to  you  two? 
TESMAN.  No,  nothing  in  the  world.  (Turns  his  head)  For  the  rest  of  the 

evening  you  must  be  kind  enough,  dear  Judge,  to  supply  Hedda  with 

society. 

BRACK  (with  a  glance  at  HEDDA).  It  will  be  an  immense  pleasure  to  me. 
HEDDA.  Thanks.  But  I  am  tired  this  evening.  I  will  go  in  and  lie  down  on  the 

sofa  a  little. 

TESMAN.  Yes,  do  so,  dear.  Eh? 
(HEDDA  goes  into  the  back-room  and  draws  the  curtains  to  behind  her.  Short 

pause.  Suddenly  she  is  heard  playing  a  wild  dance-music  within  on  the 

piano) 

MRS.  ELVSTED  (rises  from  her  chair).  Ugh,  what  is  that? 
TESMAN  (runs  to  the  doorway).  But,  dearest  Hedda— don't  play  dance-music 

this  evening!  Just  think  of  Aunt  Rina!  And  of  Ejlert  too! 
HEDDA  (puts  her  head  out  between  the  curtains).  And  of  Aunt  Julie.  And  of 

all  the  rest  of  them.  I  will  be  quiet  after  this.  (Closes  the  curtains  again) 
TESMAN  (at  the  writing-table).  She  does  not  like  to  see  us  at  this  distressing 

work.  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Elvsted,  you  shall  move  in  to  Aunt  Julie's,  and 

then  I  shall  be  able  to  come  up  in  the  evenings.  And  then  we  can  sit  and 

work  there.  Eh? 

MRS.  ELVSTED.  Yes,  perhaps  that  would  be  best — 
HEDDA  (in  the  back-room).  I  hear  what  you  are  saying,  Tesman.  But  how 

am  I  to  get  through  the  evenings  out  here? 
TESMAN  (turning  over  the  papers).  Oh,  Mr.  Brack  is  so  kind,  that  I  have  no 

doubt  he  will  look  after  you. 
BRACK  (in  the  arm-chair,  shouts  vivaciously).  Every  blessed  evening,  with  all 

my  heart,  Mrs.  Tesman.  We  will  have  great  fun  here  together,  we  two! 
HEDDA  (clearly  and  firmly).  Yes,  do  you  not  cherish  that  hope,  Judge?  You, 

646        THE  DRAMA 


as  sole  cock  of  the  walk.  (A  shot  is  heard  within.  TESMAN,  MRS.  ELVSTED, 

and  BRACK  leap  to  their  feet) 
TESMAN.  Oh,  now  she  is  fingering  those  pistols  again.  (He  throws  the  curtains 

aside,  and  runs  in,  followed  by  MRS.  ELVSTED.  HEDDA  lies  extended  lifeless 

on  the  sofa.  Confusion  and  noise.  BERTHA  comes  in  from  the  right) 
TESMAN  (shrieks  to  BRACK).  Shot  herself!  She  shot  herself  in  the  temple. 

Fancy  that!  t        " 

BRACK  (half-fainting  in  the  arm-chair).  But,  may  God  take  pity  on  us,  people 

don't  do  such  things  as  that. 


EUGENE    O  NEILL 


Bound  east  for  Cardiff 


£*?  Relatively  few  dramas  produced  in 
America  during  the  twentieth  century 
seem  vital  one  year— let  alone  ten  or 
twenty— after  their  first  presentation. 
Only  a  few  such  works  may  be  read 
after  plays  by  Sophocles,  Shakespeare, 
and  Ibsen  without  giving  the  reader  a 
woeful  sense  of  complete  anticlimax. 
One  of  the  few  is  Bound  East  for  Car- 
diff (1916),  an  outstanding  work  by  a 
playwright  generally  considered  the 
finest  our  country  has  brought  forth. 

Eugene  O'Neill  was  a  product  of  a 
movement  in  the  American  theater 
which  had  begun  less  than  a  decade  be- 
fore Bound  East  for  Cardiff  appeared. 
Distressed  by  the  commercialization  of 
our  theater  and  stimulated  by  produc- 
tions which  they  had  seen  in  experi- 
mental theaters  abroad,  a  number  of 
young  playwrights  and  directors  had 
founded  "Little  Theaters'  or  "Art  The- 
aters" in  many  parts  of  the  country  and 
had  begun  presenting  plays  in  them. 
The  plays  which  they  staged  were  of- 
ten more  serious  in  intention  and  more 
experimental  in  method  than  those  pre- 
sented in  commercial  theaters. 


Amateur  though  it  was,  the  move- 
ment in  time  profoundly  influenced  the 
commercial  stage.  It  battled  against 
stale  techniques.  It  cultivated  a  taste  on 
the  part  of  at  least  some  theatergoers 
for  the  unusual  in  play  writing,  acting, 
and  producing.  And  it  trained  theatrical 
groups  which  could  satisfy  such  a  taste. 
One  such  group  was  the  Provincetown 
Players,  founded  in  1915.  When  this 
group  brought  to  New  York  some  of  its 
authors,  directors,  and  actors  from  the 
Cape  Cod  fish-house  which  it  had  been 
using  for  a  theater,  its  dramatic  produc- 
tions won  immediate  attention  and  re- 
spect. Eugene  O'Neill  was  the  most 
notable  playwright  active  in  the  Prov- 
incetown Players.  His  first  produced 
play,  Bound  East  for  Cardiff,  was  pre- 
sented in  Provincetown  in  1916.  This 
was  followed  by  others  such  as  The 
Moon  of  the  Caribbees,  The  Long  Voy- 
age Home,  He,  and  Where  the  Cross  Is 
Made  before  Beyond  the  Horizon  and 
Emperor  Jones,  in  1920,  and  Anna 
Christie,  in  1921,  established  him  as  a 
successful  writer  for  the  commercial 
theater. 


BOUND  EAST   FOR  CARDIFF 


647 


Part  of  an  autobiographical  sketch 
indicates  the  variety  of  O'Neill's  expe- 
riences before  he  became  a  playwright: 
"My  undergraduate  college  education 
was  confined  to  a  freshman  year  at 
Princeton  University,  class  of  1910.  I 
went  with  a  mining  engineer  on  a  gold 
prospecting  trip  to  Spanish  Honduras, 
Central  America,  At  the  end  of  six 
months  I  was  invalided  home—tropical 
malarial  fever— no  gold.  After  that  I  be- 
came assistant  manager  of  a  theatrical 
company  touring  the  East  and  Middle 
West.  My  first  voyage  to  sea  followed: 
sixty-five  days  on  a  Norwegian  barque, 
Boston  to  Buenos  Aires.  In  Argentina  I 
worked  at  various  occupations— in  the 
draughting  department  of  the  Westing- 
house  Electrical  Company,  in  the  wool 
house  of  a  packing  plant  in  La  Plata, 
in  the  office  of  the  Singer  Sewing  Ma- 
chine Company  in  Buenos  Aires.  Fol- 
lowed another  voyage  at  sea,  tending 
mules  in  a  cattle  steamer,  Buenos  Aires 
to  Durban,  South  Africa,  and  return. 
After  that  a  lengthy  period  of  complete 
destitution  in  Buenos  Aires— 'on  the 
beach'— terminated  by  my  signing  on  as 
ordinary  seaman  on  a  British  tramp 
steamer  bound  home  for  New  York.  My 
final  experience  at  sea  followed  soon 
after  this— able  seaman  on  the  Ameri- 
can Line,  New  York-Southampton.  The 
next  winter  I  played  a  part  in  my  fa- 
ther's vaudeville  version  of  The  Count 
of  Monte  Cristo,  touring  the  Far  West. 
Then  I  worked  as  reporter  on  the  New 
London,  Connecticut,  Telegraph.  My 
health  broke  down,  my  lungs  being  af- 
fected, and  I  spent  six  months  in  a  san- 
atorium thinking  it  over.  It  was  in  this 
enforced  period  of  reflection  that  the 
urge  to  write  first  came  to  me.  The  next 


fall -I  was  twenty-four— I  began  my 
first  play-The  Web:  In  1914-1915  1 
was  a  student  in  Professor  Baker's  Eng- 
lish 47  at  Harvard.  The  summer  1916 
1  spent  at  Provincetown.  It  was  dur- 
ing that  summer  the  Provincetown 
Players,  who  have  made  the  original 
productions  of  nearly  all  my  short 
plays  in  New  York,  were  first  organ- 
ized." 

The  Players'  first  staging  of  Bound 
East  for  Cardiff  was  assisted  by  the 
natural  setting  of  Wharf  Theater:  a 
fog  was  on  the  harbor  and  the  high 
tide  washed  in  under  the  floor  of  the 
erstwhile  fish-house.  George  Cram 
Cook,  the  dominating  figure  in  the 
group,  played  Yank;  O'Neill  played  the 
Second  Mate.  Two  leading  members  of 
the  Players  testified  to  the  original  im- 
pact of  the  play.  Said  Frank  Shay: 
"The  effect  produced  on  us  was  so 
strong  we  all  felt  instinctively  we  had 
had  o  profound  experience"  Said  Su- 
san Glaspell:  '7  may  see  it  through 
memories  too  emotional,  but  it  seems 
to  me  I  never  sat  through  a  more  mov- 
ing production  than  Bound  East  for 
Cardiff."  Barrett  H.  Clark,  O'Neill's  bi- 
ographer, asserts,  UO/  the  score  of  plays 
written  by  O'Neill  during  the  first  three 
years  [of  his  career],  this  is  easily  the 
best.  ...  An  unpretentious  episode, 
moving  and  tense,  yet  with  hardly  a 
vestige  of  'theater  in  the  conventional 
sense  of  the  word." 

This  and  three  other  sea  plays  in 
which  the  same  characters  appeared 
were  presented  as  a  group  in  Province- 
town  and  New  York  in  1924  and  were 
revived  in  New  York  in  1929.  Bound 
East  for  Cardiff  has  since  been  given 
frequently. 


648 


THE   DRAMA 


CHARACTERS 

YANK 

DRISCOLL 

COCKY 

DAVIS 

SCOTTY 

OLSON 

PAUL 

SMITTY 

IVAN 

THE   CAPTAIN 

THE   SECOND   MATE 

Scene:  The  seamen's  forecastle  of  the  British  tramp  steamer  Glencairn  on  a 
foggy  night  midway  on  the  voyage  between  New  York  and  Cardiff.  An 
irregular  shaped  compartment,  the  sides  of  which  almost  meet  at  the  far 
end  to  form  a  triangle.  Sleeping  bunks  about  six  feet  long,  ranged  three 
deep  with  a  space  of  three  feet  separating  the  upper  from  the  lower,  are 
built  against  the  sides.  On  the  right  above  the  bunks  three  or  four  port 
holes  can  be  seen.  In  front  of  the  bunks,  rough  wooden  benches.  Over  the 
bunks  on  the  left,  a  lamp  in  a  bracket.  In  the  left  foreground,  a  doorway. 
On  the  floor  near  it,  a  pail  with  a  tin  dipper.  Oilskins  are  hanging  from  a 
hook  near  the  doorway. 

The  far  side  of  the  forecastle  is  so  narrow  that  it  contains  only  one  series  of 
bunks. 

In  under  the  bunks  a  glimpse  can  be  had  of  seachests,  suit  cases,  seaboots, 
etc.,  jammed  in  indiscriminately. 

At  regular  intervals  of  a  minute  or  so  the  blast  of  the  steamers  whistle  can 
be  heard  above  all  the  other  sounds. 

Five  men  are  sitting  on  the  benches  talking.  They  are  dressed  in  dirty 
patched  suits  of  dungaree,  flannel  shirts,  and  all  are  in  their  stocking  feet. 
Four  of  the  men  are  pulling  on  pipes  and  the  air  is  heavy  with  rancid 
tobacco  smoke.  Sitting  on  the  top  bunk  in  the  left  foreground,  a  Nor- 
wegian, PAUL,  is  softly  playing  some  folk  song  on  a  battered  accordion. 
He  stops  from  time  to  time  to  listen  to  the  conversation. 

In  the  lower  bunk  in  the  rear  a  dark-haired,  hard-featured  man  is  lying  ap- 
parently asleep.  One  of  his  arms  is  stretched  limply  over  the  side  of  the 
bunk.  His  face  is  very  pale,  and  drops  of  clammy  perspiration  glisten  on 
his  forehead. 

It  is  nearing  the  end  of  the  dog  watch— about  ten  minutes  to  eight  in  the 
evening. 

BOUND   EAST    FOR    CARDIFF         649 


COCKY  (a  weazened  runt  of  a  man.  He  is  telling  a  story.  The  others  are  listen- 
ing with  amused,  incredulous  faces,  interrupting  him  at  the  end  of  each 
sentence  with  loud  derisive  guffaws).  Makin'  love  to  me,  she  was!  It's 
Gawd's  truth!  A  bloomin'  nigger!  Greased  all  over  with  cocoanut  oil,  she 
was.  Gawd  blimey,  I  couldn't  stand  'er.  Bloody  old  cow,  I  says;  and  with 

that  I  fetched  'er  a  biff  on  the  ear  wot  knocked  'er  silly,  an' (He  is 

interrupted  by  a  roar  of  laughter  from  the  others ) 

DAVIS  (a  middle-aged  man  with  black  hair  and  mustache).  You're  a  liar, 
Cocky. 

SCOTTY  (a  dark  young  fellow).  Ho-ho!  Ye  werr  neverr  in  New  Guinea  in 
yourr  life,  I'm  thinkin'. 

OLSON  (a  Swede  with  a  drooping  blond  mustache— with  ponderous  sar- 
casm). Yust  tink  of  it!  You  say  she  wass  a  cannibal,  Cocky? 

DRISCOLL  (a  brawny  Irishman  with  the  battered  features  of  a  prizefighter). 
How  cud  ye  doubt  ut,  Ollie?  A  quane  av  the  naygurs  she  musta  been 
surely.  Who  else  wud  think  herself  aqual  to  f allin'  in  love  wid  a  beauthiful, 
divil-may-care  rake  av  a  man  the  loike  av  Cocky?  (A  burst  of  laughter 
from  the  crowd ) 

COCKY  (indignantly).  Gawd  strike  me  dead  if  it  ain't  true,  every  bleedin' 
word  of  it.  'Appened  ten  year  ago  come  Christmas. 

SCOTTY.  'Twas  a  Christmas  dinner  she  had  her  eyes  on. 

DAVIS.  He'd  a  been  a  tough  old  bird. 

DRISCOLL.  Tis  lucky  for  both  av  ye  ye  escaped;  for  the  quane  av  the  cannibal 
isles  wad  'a  died  av  the  belly  ache  the  day  after  Christmas,  divil  a  doubt 
av  ut.  (The  laughter  at  this  is  long  and  loud) 

COCKY  (sullenly).  Blarsted  fat  'eads!  (The  sick  man  in  the  lower  bunk  in 
the  rear  groans  and  moves  restlessly.  There  is  a  hushed  silence.  All  the 
men  turn  and  stare  at  him ) 

DRISCOLL.  Ssshh!  (In  a  hushed  whisper)  We'd  best  not  be  talkin'  so  loud  and 
him  tryin'  to  have  a  bit  av  a  sleep.  (He  tiptoes  softly  to  the  side  of  the 
bunk)  Yank!  You'd  be  wantin'  a  drink  av  wather,  maybe?  (YANK  does  not 
reply.  DRISCOLL  bends  over  and  looks  at  him)  It's  asleep  he  is,  sure  enough. 
His  breath  is  chokin'  in  his  throat  loike  wather  gurglin'  in  a  poipe.  (He 
comes  back  quietly  and  sits  down.  All  are  silent,  avoiding  each  other's 
eyes) 

COCKY  (after  a  pause).  Pore  devil!  It's  over  the  side  for  'im,  Gawd  'elp  'im. 

DRISCOLL.  Stop  your  croakin'!  He's  not  dead  yet  and,  praise  God,  he'll  have 
many  a  long  day  yet  before  him. 

SCOTTY  (shaking  his  head  doubtfully).  He's  bod,  mon,  he's  verry  bod. 

DAVIS.  Lucky  he's  alive.  Many  a  man's  light  woulda  gone  out  after  a  fall  like 
that. 

OLSON.  You  saw  him  fall? 

650        THE   DRAMA 


DAVIS.  Right  next  to  him.  He  and  me  was  goin'  down  in  number  two  hold 
to  do  some  chippin'.  He  puts  his  leg  over  careless-like  and  misses  the  lad- 
der and  plumps  straight  down  to  the  bottom.  I  was  scared  to  look  over 
for  a  minute,  and  then  I  heard  him  groan  and  I  scuttled  down  after  him. 
He  was  hurt  bad  inside  for  the  blood  was  drippin'  from  the  side  of  his 
mouth.  He  was  groanin'  hard,  but  he  never  let  a  word  out  of  him. 

COCKY.  An'  you  blokes  remember  when  we  'auled  'im  in  'ere?  Oh,  'ell,  'e  says, 
oh,  'ell—like  that,  and  nothink  else. 

OLSON.  Did  the  captain  know  where  he  iss  hurted? 

COCKY.  That  silly  ol'  josser!  Wot  the  'ell  would  'e  know  abaht  anythink? 

SCOTTY  (scornfully).  He  fiddles  in  his  mouth  wi'  a  bit  of  glass. 

DRISCOLL  (angrily).  The  divil's  own  life  ut  is  to  be  out  on  the  lonely  sea 
wid  nothin'  betune  you  and  a  grave  in  the  ocean  but  a  spindle-shanked, 
gray-whiskered  auld  fool  the  loike  av  him.  'Twas  enough  to  make  a  saint 
shwear  to  see  him  wid  his  gold  watch  in  his  hand,  tryin'  to  look  as  wise  as 
an  owl  on  a  tree,  and  all  the  toime  he  not  knowin'  whether  'twas  cholery 
or  the  barber's  itch  was  the  matther  wid  Yank. 

SCOTTY  ( sardonically ) .  He  gave  him  a  dose  of  salts,  na  doot? 

DRISCOLL.  Divil  a  thing  he  gave  him  at  all,  but  looked  in  the  book  he  had 
wid  him,  and  shook  his  head,  and  walked  out  widout  sayin'  a  word,  the 
second  mate  afther  him  no  wiser  than  himself,  God>s  curse  on  the  two  av 
thim! 

COCKY  (after  a  pause).  Yank  was  a  good  shipmate,  pore  beggar.  Lend  me 
four  bob  in  Noo  Yark,  'e  did. 

DRISCOLL  (warmly).  A  good  shipmate  he  was  and  is,  none  betther.  Ye  said 
no  more  than  the  truth,  Cocky.  Five  years  and  more  ut  is  since  first  I 
shipped  wid  him,  and  we've  stuck  together  iver  since  through  good  luck 
and  bad.  Fights  we've  had,  God  help  us,  but  'twas  only  when  we'd  a  bit 
av  drink  taken,  and  we  always  shook  hands  the  nixt  mornin'.  Whativer 
was  his  was  mine,  and  many's  the  toime  I'd  a  been  on  the  beach  or  worse, 

but  for  him.  And  now (His  voice  trembles  as  he  fights  to  control  his 

emotion)  Divil  take  me  if  I'm  not  startin'  to  blubber  loike  an  auld  woman, 
and  he  not  dead  at  all,  but  goin'  to  live  many  a  long  year  yet,  maybe. 

DAVIS.  The  sleep'll  do  him  good.  He  seems  better  now. 

OLSON.  If  he  wude  eat  someting 

DRISCOLL.  Wud  ye  have  him  be  eatin'  in  his  condishun?  Sure  it's  hard  enough 
on  the  rest  av  us  wid  nothin'  the  matther  wid  our  insides  to  be  stomachin' 
the  skoff  on  this  rusty  lime-juicer. 

SCOTTY  (indignantly).  It's  a  starvation  ship. 

DAVIS.  Plenty  o'  work  and  no  food— and  the  owners  ridin'  around  in  car- 
riages 1 

OLSON.  Hash,  hashl  Stew,  stewl  Marmalade,  py  damnl  (He  spits  disgustedly) 

BOUND  EAST    FOR  CARDIFF        651 


COCKY.  Bloody  swill!  Fit  only  for  swine  is  wot  I  say. 

DRISCOLL.  And  the  dishwather  they  disguise  wid  the  name  av  tea!  And  the 
putty  they  call  bread!  My  belly  feels  loike  I'd  swalleyed  a  dozen  rivets  at 
the  thought  av  ut!  And  sea-biscuit  that'd  break  the  teeth  av  a  lion  if  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  take  a  bite  at  one!  (Unconsciously  they  have  all 
raised  their  voices,  forgetting  the  sick  man  in  their  sailor's  delight  at  find- 
ing something  to  grumble  about) 

PAUL  (swings  his  feet  over  the  side  of  his  bunk,  stops  playing  his  accordion, 
and  says  slowly):  And  rot-ten  po-tay-toes!  (He  starts  in  playing  again. 
The  sick  man  gives  a  groan  of  pain) 

DRISCOLL  (holding  up  his  hand).  Shut  your  mouths,  all  av  you.  'Tis  a  hell  av 
a  thing  for  us  to  be  complainin'  about  our  guts,  and  a  sick  man  maybe 
dyin'  listenin'  to  us.  (Gets  up  and  shakes  his  fist  at  the  Norwegian)  God 
stiffen  you,  ye  squarehead  scut!  Put  down  that  organ  av  yours  or  111  break 
your  ugly  face  for  you.  Is  that  banshee  schreechin'  fit  music  for  a  sick  man? 
(The  Norwegian  puts  his  accordion  in  the  bunk  and  lies  back  and  closes 
his  eyes.  DRISCOLL  goes  over  and  stands  beside  YANK.  The  steamers  whistle 
sounds  particularly  loud  in  the  silence] 

DAVIS.  Damn  this  fog!  ( Reaches  in  under  a  bunk  and  yanks  out  a  pair  of  sea- 
boots,  which  he  pulls  on)  My  lookout  next,  too.  Must  be  nearly  eight  bells, 
boys.  (With  the  exception  of  OLSON,  all  the  men  sitting  up  put  on  oilskins, 
soiiwesters9  seaboots,  etc.,  in  preparation  for  the  watch  on  deck.  OLSON 
crawls  into  a  lower  bunk  on  the  right) 

SCOTTY.  My  wheel. 

OLSON  (disgustedly).  Nothin*  but  yust  dirty  weather  all  dis  voyage.  I  yust 
can't  sleep  when  weestle  blow.  ( He  turns  his  back  to  the  light  and  is  soon 
fast  asleep  and  snoring) 

SCOTTY.  If  this  fog  keeps  up,  I'm  tellin'  ye,  well  no  be  in  Carrdiff  for  a  week 
or  more. 

DRISCOLL.  Twas  just  such  a  night  as  this  the  auld  Dover  wint  down.  Just 
about  this  toime  ut  was,  too,  and  we  all  sittin'  round  in  the  f  o'castle,  Yank 
beside  me,  whin  all  av  a  suddint  we  heard  a  great  slitherin'  crash,  and  the 
ship  heeled  over  till  we  was  all  in  a  heap  on  wan  side.  What  came  afther  I 
disremimber  exactly,  except  'twas  a  hard  shift  to  get  the  boats  over  the 
side  before  the  auld  teakittle  sank.  Yank  was  in  the  same  boat  wid  me,  and 
sivin  morthal  days  we  drifted  wid  scarcely  a  drop  of  wather  or  a  bite  to 
chew  on.  'Twas  Yank  here  that  held  me  down  whin  I  wanted  to  jump  into 
the  ocean,  roarin'  mad  wid  the  thirst.  Picked  up  we  were  on  the  same  day 
wid  only  Yank  in  his  senses,  and  him  steerin*  the  boat. 

COCKY  (protestingly).  Blimey  but  you're  a  cheerful  blighter,  Driscoll!  Talkin' 
abaht  shipwrecks  in  this  'ere  blushin'  fog.  (YANK  groans  and  stirs  uneasily, 
opening  his  eyes.  DRISCOLL  hurries  to  his  side) 

652        THE  DRAMA 


DRISCOLL.  Are  ye  feelin'  any  betther,  Yank? 

YANK  (in  a  weak  voice).  No. 

DRISCOLL.  Sure,  you  must  be.  You  look  as  sthrong  as  an  ox.  ( Appealing  to  the 
others)  Am  I  tellin'  him  a  lie? 

DAVIS.  The  sleep's  done  you  good. 

COCKY.  You'll  be  'avin  your  pint  of  beer  in  Cardiff  this  day  week. 

SCOTTY.  And  fish  and  chips,  mon! 

YANK  (peevishly).  What're  yuh  all  lyin'  fur?  D'yuh  think  I'm  scared  to 

(He  hesitates  as  if  frightened  by  the  word  he  is  about  to  say ) 

DRISCOLL.  Don't  be  thinkin'  such  things!  (The  ship's  bell  is  heard  heavily  toll- 
ing eight  times.  From  the  forecastle  head  above  the  voice  of  the  lookout 
rises  in  a  long  wail:  Aaall's  welll.  The  men  look  uncertainly  at  YANK  as  if 
undecided  whether  to  say  good-by  or  not) 

YANK  (in  an  agony  of  fear).  Don't  leave  me,  Drisc!  I'm  dyin',  I  tell  yuh.  I 
won't  stay  here  alone  with  every  one  snorin'.  I'll  go  out  on  deck.  (He 
makes  a  feeble  attempt  to  rise,  but  sinks  back  with  a  sharp  groan.  His 
breath  comes  in  wheezy  gasps).  Don't  leave  me,  Drisc!  (His  face  grows 
white  and  his  head  falls  back  with  a  jerk) 

DRISCOLL.  Don't  be  worrying  Yank.  I'll  not  move  a  step  out  av  here— and  let 
that  divil  av  a  bosun  curse  his  black  head  off.  You  speak  a  word  to  the 
bosun,  Cocky.  Tell  him  that  Yank  is  bad  took  and  I'll  be  stayin'  wid  him  a 
while  yet. 

COCKY.  Right-o.  (COCKY,  DAVIS,  and  SCOTTY  go  out  quietly) 

COCKY  (from  the  alleyway).  Gawd  blimey,  the  fog's  thick  as  soup. 

DRISCOLL.  Are  ye  satisfied  now,  Yank?  ( Receiving  no  answer,  he  bends  over 
the  still  form)  He's  fainted,  God  help  him!  (He  gets  a  tin  dipper  from  the 
bucket  and  bathes  YANK'S  forehead  with  the  water.  YANK  shudders  and 
opens  his  eyes) 

YANK  (slowly).  1  thought  I  was  goin'  then.  Wha'  did  yuh  wanta  wake  me  up 
fur? 

DRISCOLL  (with  forced  gayety).  Is  it  wishful  for  heaven  ye  are? 

YANK  (gloomily).  Hell,  I  guess. 

DRISCOLL  (crossing  himself  involuntarily).  For  the  love  av  the  saints  don't  be 
talkin'  loike  that!  You'd  give  a  man  the  creeps.  It's  chippin'  rust  on  deck 
you'll  be  in  a  day  or  two  wid  the  best  av  us.  (YANK  does  not  answer,  but 
closes  his  eyes  wearily.  The  seaman  who  has  been  on  lookout,  SMITTY,  a 
young  Englishman,  comes  in  and  takes  off  his  dripping  oilskins.  While  he 
is  doing  this  the  man  whose  turn  at  the  wheel  has  been  relieved  enters.  He 
is  a  dark  burly  fellow  with  a  round  stupid  face.  The  Englishman  steps 
softly  over  to  DRISCOLL.  The  other  crawls  into  a  lower  bunk) 

SMITTY  (whispering).  How's  Yank? 

DRISCOLL.  Betther.  Ask  him  yourself.  He's  awake. 

BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF    653 


YANK.  I'm  all  right,  Smitty. 

SMTTTY.  Glad  to  hear  it,  Yank  (He  crawls  to  an  upper  bunk  and  is  soon 

asleep) 
IVAN  ( The  stupid-faced  seaman  who  came  in  after  SMITTY  twists  his  head  in 

the  direction  of  the  sick  man).  You  feel  gude,  Jank? 
YANK  (wearily).  Yes,  Ivan. 

IVAN.  Dot's  gude.  (He  rolls  over  on  his  side  and  falls  asleep  immediately) 
YANK  (after  a  pause  broken  only  by  snores—with  a  bitter  laugh).  Good-by 

and  good  luck  to  the  lot  of  you! 
DRISCOLL.  Is  ut  painin'  you  again? 
YANK.  It  hurts  like  hell— here.  (He  points  to  the  lower  part  of  his  chest  on  the 

left  side)  I  guess  my  old  pump's  busted.  Ooohh!  (A  spasm  of  pain  con- 

tracts  his  pale  features.  He  presses  his  hand  to  his  side  and  writhes  on  the 

thin  mattress  of  his  bunk.  The  perspiration  stands  out  in  beads  on  his  fore- 

head) 
DRISCOLL  (terrified).  Yank!  Yank!  What  is  ut?  (Jumping  to  his  feet)  111  run 

for  the  captain.  (He  starts  for  the  doorway) 
YANK  (sitting  up  in  his  bunk,  frantic  with  fear).  Don't  leave  me,  Driscl  For 

God's  sake  don't  leave  me  alone!  (He  leans  over  the  side  of  his  bunk  and 

spits.  DRISCOLL  comes  back  to  him ) .  Blood!  Ugh! 
DRISCOLL.  Blood  again!  I'd  best  be  gettin'  the  captain. 
YANK.  No,  no,  don't  leave  me!  If  yuh  do  I'll  git  up  and  follow  you.  I  ain't  no 

coward,  but  I'm  scared  to  stay  here  with  all  of  them  asleep  and  snorin'. 

(DRISCOLL,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  sits  down  on  the  bench  beside  him.  He 

grows  calmer  and  sinks  back  on  the  mattress)  The  captain  can't  do  me  no 

good,  yuh  know  it  yourself.  The  pain  ain't  so  bad  now,  but  I  thought  it 

had  me  then.  It  was  like  a  buzz-saw  cuttin'  into  me. 
DRISCOLL  (fiercely).  God  blarst  ut! 
(The  CAPTAIN  and  the  SECOND  MATE  of  the  steamer  enter  the  forecastle.  The 

CAPTAIN  is  an  old  man  with  gray  mustache  and  whiskers.  The  MATE  is 

clean-shaven  and  middle-aged.  Both  are  dressed  in  simple  blue  uniforms) 
THE  CAPTAIN  ( taking  out  his  watch  and  feeling  YANK'S  pulse ) .  And  how  is  the 

sick  man? 

YANK  (feebly).  All  right,  sir. 
THE  CAPTAIN.  And  the  pain  in  the  chest? 
YANK.  It  still  hurts,  sir,  worse  than  ever. 
THE  CAPTAIN  (taking  a  thermometer  from  his  pocket  and  putting  it  into 

YANK'S  mouth).  Here.  Be  sure  and  keep  this  in  under  your  tongue,  not 

over  it. 
THE  MATE  (after  a  pause).  Isn't  this  your  watch  on  deck,  Driscoll? 

DRISCOLL.  Yes,  sorr,  but  Yank  was  fearin'  to  be  alone,  and , 

THE  CAPTAIN.  That's  all  right,  Driscoll. 

654 


DRISCOLL.  Thank  ye,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN  (stares  at  his  watch  for  a  moment  or  so;  then  takes  the  ther- 
mometer from  YANK'S  mouth  and  goes  to  the  lamp  to  read  it.  His  expres- 
sion grows  very  grave.  He  beckons  the  MATE  and  DRISCOLL  to  the  corner 
near  the  doorway.  YANK  watches  them  furtively.  The  CAPTAIN  speaks  in  a 
low  voice  to  the  MATE).  Way  up,  both  of  them.  (To  DRISCOLL)  Has  he 
been  spitting  blood  again? 

DRISCOLL.  Not  much  for  the  hour  just  past,  sorr,  but  before  that 

THE  CAPTAIN.  A  great  deal? 

DRISCOLL.  Yes,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  He  hasn't  eaten  anything? 

DRISCOLL.  No,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  Did  he  drink  that  medicine  I  sent  him? 

DRISCOLL.  Yes,  sorr,  but  it  didn't  stay  down. 

THE  CAPTAIN  (shaking  his  head).  I'm  afraid—he's  very  weak.  I  can't  do  any- 
thing else  for  him.  It's  too  serious  for  me.  If  this  had  only  happened  a  week 
later  we'd  be  in  Cardiff  in  time  to 

DRISCOLL.  Plaze  help  him  some  way,  sorr! 

THE  CAPTAIN  (impatiently).  But,  my  good  man,  I'm  not  a  doctor.  (More 
kindly  as  he  sees  DRISCOLL'S  grief )  You  and  he  have  been  shipmates  a  long 
time? 

DRISCOLL.  Five  years  and  more,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN.  I  see.  Well,  don't  let  him  move.  Keep  him  quiet  and  we'll  hope 
for  the  best.  I'll  read  the  matter  up  and  send  him  some  medicine,  some- 
thing to  ease  the  pain,  anyway.  (Goes  over  to  YANK)  Keep  up  your  cour- 
age! You'll  be  better  to-morrow.  (He  breaks  down  lamely  before  YANK'S 
steady  gaze)  We'll  pull  you  through  all  right— and—hm— well— coming, 
Robinson?  Dammit!  (He  goes  out  hurriedly,  followed  by  the  MATE) 

DRISCOLL  (trying  to  conceal  his  anxiety).  Didn't  I  tell  you  you  wasn't  half 
as  sick  as  you  thought  you  was?  The  Captain'll  have  you  out  on  deck 
cursin'  and  swearin'  loike  a  trooper  before  the  week  is  out. 

YANK.  Don't  lie,  Drisc.  I  heard  what  he  said,  and  if  I  didn't  I  c'd  tell  by  the 

way  I  feel.  I  know  what's  goin'  to  happen.  I'm  goin'  to ( He  hesitates 

for  a  second— then  resolutely )  I'm  goin'  to  die,  that's  what,  and  the  sooner 
the  better! 

DRISCOLL  (wildly).  No,  and  be  damned  to  you,  you're  not.  I'll  not  let  you. 

YANK.  It  ain't  no  use,  Drisc.  I  ain't  got  a  chance,  but  I  ain't  scared.  Gimme  a 
drink  of  water,  will  yuh,  Drisc?  My  throat's  burnin'  up.  (DRISCOLL  brings 
the  dipper  full  of  water  and  supports  his  head  while  he  drinks  in  great 
gulps) 

DRISCOLL  (seeking  vainly  for  some  word  of  comfort).  Are  ye  feelin'  more  aisy 
loike  now? 

BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF    655 


YANK.  Yes— now— when  I  know  it's  all  up.  (A  pause)  You  mustn't  take  it  so 
hard,  Drisc.  I  was  just  thinkin'  it  ain't  as  bad  as  people  think— dyin'.  I  ain't 
never  took  much  stock  in  the  truck  them  sky-pilots  preach.  I  ain't  never 
had  religion;  but  I  know  whatever  it  is  what  comes  after  it  can't  be  no 
worser'n  this.  I  don't  like  to  leave  you,  Drisc,  but— that's  all. 

DRISCOLL  (with  a  groan).  Lad,  lad,  don't  be  talkin'. 

YANK.  This  sailor  life  ain't  much  to  cry  about  leavin'— just  one  ship  after 
another,  hard  work,  small  pay,  and  bum  grub;  and  when  we  git  into  port, 
just  a  drunk  endin'  up  in  a  fight,  and  all  your  money  gone,  and  then  ship 
away  again.  Never  meetin'  no  nice  people;  never  gittin'  outa  sailor  town, 
hardly,  in  any  port;  travel lin'  all  over  the  world  and  never  seein'  none  of 
it;  without  no  one  to  care  whether  you're  alive  or  dead.  (With  a  bitter 
smile )  There  ain't  much  in  all  that  that'd  make  yuh  sorry  to  lose  it,  Drisc. 

DRISCOLL  (gloomily).  It's  a  hell  av  a  life,  the  sea. 

YANK  (musingly).  It  must  be  great  to  stay  on  dry  land  all  your  life  and  have 
a  farm  with  a  house  of  your  own  with  cows  and  pigs  and  chickens,  'way  in 
the  middle  of  the  land  where  yuh'd  never  smell  the  sea  or  see  a  ship.  It 
must  be  great  to  have  a  wife,  and  kids  to  play  with  at  night  after  supper 
when  your  work  was  done.  It  must  be  great  to  have  a  home  of  your  own, 
Drisc. 

DRISCOLL  (with  a  great  sigh).  It  must,  surely;  but  what's  the  use  av  thinkin' 
av  ut?  Such  things  are  not  for  the  loikes  av  us. 

YANK.  Sea-farm'  is  all  right  when  you're  young  and  don't  care,  but  we  ain't 
chickens  no  more,  and  somehow,  I  dunno,  this  last  year  has  seemed  rotten, 
and  I've  had  a  hunch  I'd  quit— with  you,  of  course— and  we'd  save  our  coin, 
and  go  to  Canada  or  Argentine  or  some  place  and  git  a  farm,  just  a  small 
one,  just  enough  to  live  on.  I  never  told  yuh  this  cause  I  thought  you'd 
laugh  at  me. 

DRISCOLL  (enthusiastically).  Laugh  at  you,  is  ut?  When  I'm  havin'  the  same 
thoughts  myself,  toime  afther  toime.  It's  a  grand  idea  and  we'll  be  doin'  ut 
sure  if  you'll  stop  your  crazy  notions— about— about  bein'  so  sick. 

YANK  (sadly).  Too  late.  We  shouldn'ta  made  this  trip,  and  then How'd 

all  the  fog  git  in  here? 

DRISCOLL.  Fog? 

YANK.  Everything  looks  misty.  Must  be  my  eyes  gittin'  weak,  I  guess.  What 
was  we  talkin'  of  a  minute  ago?  Oh,  yes,  a  farm.  It's  too  late.  ( His  mind 
wandering)  Argentine,  did  I  say?  D'yuh  remember  the  times  we've  had 
in  Buenos  Aires?  The  moving  pictures  in  Barracas?  Some  class  to  them, 
d'yuh  remember? 

DRISCOLL  (with  satisfaction).  I  do  that;  and  so  does  the  piany  player.  He'll 
not  be  forgettin'  the  black  eye  I  gave  him  in  a  hurry. 

656         THE   DRAMA 


YANK.  Remember  the  time  we  was  there  on  the  beach  and  had  to  go  to 
Tommy  Moore's  boarding  house  to  git  shipped?  And  he  sold  us  rotten  oil- 
skins and  seaboots  full  of  holes,  and  shipped  us  on  a  skysail  yarder  round 
the  Horn,  and  took  two  months'  pay  for  it.  And  the  days  we  used  to  sit  on 
the  park  benches  along  the  Paseo  Colon  with  the  vigilantes  lookin'  hard 
at  us?  And  the  songs  at  the  Sailor's  Opera  where  the  guy  played  ragtime— 
d'yuh  remember  them? 

DRISCOLL.  I  do,  surely. 

YANK.  And  La  Plata—phew,  the  stink  of  the  hides!  I  always  liked  Argentine 
—all  except  that  booze,  cana.  How  drunk  we  used  to  git  on  that,  remem- 
ber? 

DRISCOLL.  Cud  I  forget  ut?  My  head  pains  me  at  the  menshun  av  that  divil's 
brew. 

YANK.  Remember  the  night  I  went  crazy  with  the  heat  in  Singapore?  And 
the  time  you  was  pinched  by  the  cops  in  Port  Said?  And  the  time  we  was 
both  locked  up  in  Sydney  for  fightin'? 

DRTSCOLL.  I  do  SO. 

YANK.  And  that  fight  on  the  dock  at  Cape  Town ( His  voice  betrays  great 

inward  perturbation) 

DRISCOLL  ( hastily ) .  Don't  be  thinkin'  av  that  now.  'Tis  past  and  gone. 
YANK.  D'yuh  think  He'll  hold  it  up  against  me? 
DRISCOLL  ( mystified ) .  Who's  that? 
YANK.  God.  They  say  He  sees  everything.  He  must  know  it  was  done  in  fair 

fight,  in  self-defense,  don't  yuh  think? 
DRISCOLL.  Av  course.  Ye  stabbed  him,  and  be  damned  to  him,  for  the  skulkin' 

swine  he  was,  afther  him  tryin'  to  stick  you  in  the  back,  and  you  not  sus- 

pectin'.  Let  your  conscience  be  aisy.  I  wisht  I  had  nothin'  blacker  than 

that  on  my  sowl.  I'd  not  be  afraid  av  the  angel  Gabriel  himself. 
YANK  (with  a  shudder).  I  c'd  see  him  a  minute  ago  with  the  blood  spurtin' 

out  of  his  neck.  Ugh! 
DRISCOLL.  The  fever,  ut  is,  that  makes  you  see  such  things.  Give  no  heed 

tout. 

YANK  (uncertainly).  You  don't  think  He'll  hold  it  up  agin  me— God,  I  mean. 
DRISCOLL.  If  there's  justice  in  hiven,  no!  (YANK  seems  comforted  by  this 

assurance ) 
YANK  (after  a  pause).  We  won't  reach  Cardiff  for  a  week  at  least.  I'll  be 

buried  at  sea. 

DRISCOLL  (putting  his  hands  over  his  ears).  Ssshh!  I  won't  listen  to  you. 
YANK  (as  if  he  had  not  heard  him).  It's  as  good  a  place  as  any  other,  I  s'pose 

—only  I  always  wanted  to  be  buried  on  dry  land.  But  what  the  helFll  I 

care— then?  ( Fretfully )  Why  should  it  be  a  rotten  night  like  this  with  that 

BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF    657 


damned  whistle  blowin'  and  people  snorin'  all  round?  I  wish  the  stars  was 
out,  and  the  moon,  too;  I  c'd  lie  out  on  deck  and  look  at  them,  and  it'd 
make  it  easier  to  go— somehow. 

DRISCOLL.  For  the  love  av  God  don't  be  talkin'  loike  that! 

YANK.  Whatever  pay's  comin'  to  me  yuh  can  divvy  up  with  the  rest  of  the 
boys;  and  you  take  my  watch.  It  ain't  worth  much,  but  it's  all  I've  got. 

DRISCOLL.  But  have  ye  no  relations  at  all  to  call  your  own? 

YANK.  No,  not  as  I  know  of.  One  thing  I  forgot:  You  know  Fanny  the  bar- 
maid at  the  Red  Stork  in  Cardiff? 

DRISCOLL.  Sure,  and  who  doesn't? 

YANK.  She's  been  good  to  me.  She  tried  to  lend  me  half  a  crown  when  I  was 
broke  there  last  trip.  Buy  her  the  biggest  box  of  candy  yuh  c'n  find  in 
Cardiff.  (Breaking  down— in  a  choking  voice)  It's  hard  to  ship  on  this 
voyage  I'm  goin'  on— alone!  (DRISCOLL  reaches  out  and  grasps  his  hand. 
There  is  a  pause,  during  which  both  fight  to  control  themselves)  My 
throat's  like  a  furnace.  (He  gasps  for  air)  Gimme  a  drink  of  water,  will 
yuh,  Drisc?  (DRISCOLL  gets  him  a  dipper  of  water)  I  wish  this  was  a  pint 
of  beer.  Oooohh!  (He  chokes,  his  face  convulsed  with  agony,  his  hands 
tearing  at  his  shirt  front.  The  dipper  falls  from  his  nerveless  fingers) 

DRISCOLL.  For  the  love  av  God,  what  is  ut,  Yank? 

YANK  (speaking  with  tremendous  difficulty).  S'long,  Drisc!  (He  stares 
straight  in  front  of  him  with  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets)  Who's  that? 

DRISCOLL.  Who?  What? 

YANK  (faintly).  A  pretty  lady  dressed  in  black.  (His  face  twitches  and  his 
body  writhes  in  a  final  spasm,  then  straightens  out  rigidly ) 

DRISCOLL  (pale  with  horror).  Yank!  Yank!  Say  a  word  to  me  for  the  love  av 
hiven!  (He  shrinks  away  from  the  bunk,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 
Then  comes  back  and  puts  a  trembling  hand  on  YANK'S  chest  and  bends 
closely  over  the  body) 

COCKY  (from  the  alleyway).  Oh,  Driscoll!  Can  you  leave  Yank  for  arf  a  mo' 
and  give  me  a  'and? 

DRISCOLL  (with  a  great  sob).  Yank!  (He  sinks  down  on  his  knees  beside  the 
bunk,  his  head  on  his  hands.  His  lips  move  in  some  half-remembered 
prayer) 

COCKY  (enters,  his  oilskins  and  sou'wester  glistening  with  drops  of  water). 
The  fog's  lifted.  (  COCKY  sees  DRISCOLL  and  stands  staring  at  him  with  open 
mouth.  DRISCOLL  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  again ) 

COCKY  (mockingly).  Sayin'  'is  prayers!  (He  catches  sight  of  the  still  figure  in 
the  bunk  and  an  expression  of  awed  understanding  comes  over  his  face. 
He  takes  of  his  dripping  sou'wester  and  stands,  scratching  his  head) 

COCKY  (in  a  hushed  whisper).  Gawd  blimey! 

658        THE  DRAMA 


CHRISTOPHER    FRY 


A  phoenix  too  frequent 


'To  whom  conferred  a  peacock's  undecent, 
A  squirrel's  harsh,  a  phoenix  too  frequent.' 
Robert  Burton  quoting  Martial 


$+>  Eugene  O'Neill  once  said  of  the 
reading  he  did  during  his  apprentice- 
ship as  a  playwright:  "I  read  about 
everything  I  could  lay  hands  on:  the 
Greeks,  the  Elizabethans— practically 
all  the  classics— and  of  course  the  mod- 
erns. Ibsen  and  Strindberg,  especially 


Strindberg."  The  last  two  authors 
named  were  influential  not  only  on  the 
young  O'Neill  but  also  upon  a  vast  ma- 
jority of  writers  of  drama  contempora- 
neous with  him.  Plays  were  predom- 
inantly realistic  and  naturalistic— prosaic 
in  their  plots  and  their  language.  Most 


A  Phoenix  Too  Frequent 


A    PHOENIX   TOO   FREQUENT 


659 


authors  were  much  concerned  with 
verisimilitude,  with  psychological  moti- 
vation, with  social  preachments. 

Some  dramatists,  however— including 
O'Neill  at  times— were  dissatisfied  with 
prevalent  aims  and  methods.  They 
turned  to  legend  and  history  for  set- 
tings and  stories,  attempted  to  uni- 
versalize characters  and  themes,  and 
employed  poetic  prose  or  even  metrical 
forms.  Authors  such  as  Synge  and  Yeats 
in  Ireland,  for  example,  and  Maxwell 
Anderson  in  the  United  States  wrote 
poetic  dramas  which  were  well  received 
by  critics  and  theater-going  audiences 
alike.  In  very  recent  times,  metrical 
drama  has  been  given  new  life  by  a 
small  but  talented  group  of  writers  in 
England.  Most  notable  of  these  have 
been  two  men—T.  S.  Eliot,  already  fa- 
mous as  a  poet,  whose  verse  plays  in- 
clude Murder  in  the  Cathedral  and 
The  Cocktail  Party,  and  Christopher 
Fry. 

Fry's  work  benefited  from  a  long- 
standing interest  in  and  association  with 
the  stage.  He  wrote  his  first  play,  it  is 
said,  at  eleven,  his  first  verse  play  at 
fourteen.  At  seventeen  he  was  a  teacher 
for  a  brief  time,  and  then  went  into 
theatrical  work—as  a  member  of  a 
repertory  company,  a  cabaret  enter- 
tainer, an  understudy,  an  actor,  and 
eventually  a  playwright.  His  best  known 
verse  plays  include  The  Boy  with  a 
Cart,  The  Tower,  Thursday's  Child,  A 
Phoenix  Too  Frequent,  The  Lady's  Not 
for  Burning,  and  Venus  Observed. 

Fry,  like  most  other  authors  of 
dramas  in  verse,  is  antirealistic.  Says 
he:  "The  realistic  play  is  not  realistic  at 
all,  but  just  a  slice  off  the  top  of  exist- 
ence. Writing  a  realistic  play  is  like 
meeting  a  human  being  for  the  first 
time.  The  realist  would  observe  that  this 
is  Mr.  So-and-So,  that  he  has  a  beard 


and  an  accent  and  a  mole  on  his  face. 
But  the  human  being  is  far  more  pe- 
culiar, something  that  has  gone  on  since 
the  beginning  of  time,  now  miraculous- 
ly summed  up  in  the  strange  sort  of 
mysterious  creature  that  stands  before 
us.  .  .  .  In  my  plays  I  want  to  look  at 
life— at  the  commonplaces  of  existence— 
as  if  we  had  just  turned  a  corner  and 
run  into  it  for  the  first  time."  The  uni- 
versal, rather  than  the  particular,  in 
other  words,  is  what  he  hopes  to  dis- 
cover and  to  convey  in  his  dramas. 

Fry's  versified  plays,  like  those  of  El- 
iot, are  in  the  vein  of  modern  poetry. 
They  are  influenced  by  seventeenth- 
century  authors  who  are  so  generally 
admired  and  at  times  imitated  by  the 
poets  of  today:  the  story  of  A  Phoenix 
Too  Frequent  came  from  Jeremy  Tay- 
lor, the  title  from  Robert  Burton.  Typ- 
ically wit  and  humor  are  mingled  with 
high  seriousness,  the  humor  benefiting 
from  Fry's  natural  tendency  toward 
playfulness.  Typically,  too,  there  are 
sharp  descents  from  the  language  of 
poetry  to  that  of  the  vernacular.  The 
figures  of  speech  are  often  startling; 
sometimes  they  are  rather  wild  con- 
ceits; and  the  packed  lines  often  take  a 
good  deal  of  thinking  about  to  be  un- 
derstood. And  even  in  a  play  like  the 
one  which  follows,  the  plot  of  which  is 
essentially  that  of  a  comedy,  Fry's  char- 
acters—and Fry  himself— are  often  con- 
cerned with  very  serious  implications 
and  problems. 

A  Phoenix  Too  Frequent  was  first 
produced  in  the  Mercury  Theatre  in 
London  in  the  spring  of  1946.  It  was 
revived  in  the  Arts  Theatre,  London,  in 
the  autumn  of  the  same  year.  It  had  its 
American  premiere  in  New  "York  in 
1950,  and  since  then  it  has  been  fre- 
quently presented  elsewhere  in  the 
United  States. 


THE   DRAMA 


CHARACTERS 

DYNAMENE 

DOTO 

TEGEUS-CHROMIS 

Scene:  The  tomb  of  Virilius,  near  Ephesus;  night 

Note:  The  story  was  got  from  Jeremy  Taylor  who  had  it  from  Petronius 

An  underground  tomb,  in  darkness  except  for  the  very  low  light  of  an  oil- 
lamp.  Above  ground  the  starlight  shows  a  line  of  trees  on  which  hang  the 
bodies  of  several  men.  It  also  penetrates  a  gate  and  falls  on  to  the  first  of 
the  steps  which  descend  into  the  darkness  of  the  tomb.  DOTO  talks  to  her- 
self in  the  dark. 

DOTO.  Nothing  but  the  harmless  day  gone  into  black 

Is  all  the  dark  is.  And  so  what's  my  trouble? 

Demons  is  so  much  wind.  Are  so  much  wind. 

I've  plenty  to  fill  my  thoughts.  All  that  I  ask 

Is  don't  keep  turning  men  over  in  my  mind, 

Venerable  Aphrodite.  I've  had  my  last  one 

And  thank  you.  I  thank  thee.  He  smelt  of  sour  grass 

And  was  likeable.  He  collected  ebony  quoits. 
(An  owl  hoots  near  at  hand) 

0  Zeus!  O  some  god  or  other,  where  is  the  oil? 
Fire's  from  Prometheus.  I  thank  thee.  If  I 
Mean  to  die  I'd  better  see  what  I'm  doing. 

(She  fills  the  lamp  with  oil.  The  flame  burns  up  brightly  and  shows  DYNA- 
MENE, beautiful  and  young,  leaning  asleep  beside  a  bier) 
Honestly,  I  would  rather  have  to  sleep 
With  a  bald  bee-keeper  who  was  wearing  his  boots 
Than  spend  more  days  fasting  and  thirsting  and  crying 
In  a  tomb.  I  shouldn't  have  said  that.  Pretend 

1  didn't  hear  myself.  But  life  and  death 

Is  cat  and  dog  in  this  double-bed  of  a  world. 

My  master,  my  poor  master,  was  a  man 

Whose  nose  was  as  straight  as  a  little  buttress, 

And  now  he  has  taken  it  into  Elysium 

Where  it  won't  be  noticed  among  all  the  other  straightness. 


A  Phoenix  Too  Frequent  by  Christopher  Fry.  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  pub- 
lishers, Oxford  University  Press,  London. 

A  PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT        661 


(The  owl  cries  again  and  wakens  DYNAMENE) 
Oh,  them  owls.  Those  owls.  It's  woken  her. 

DYNAMENE.  Ah!  I'm  breathless.  I  caught  up  with  the  ship 
But  it  spread  its  wings,  creaking  a  cry  of  Dew, 
Dewl  and  flew  figurehead  foremost  into  the  sun. 

DOTO.  How  crazy,  madam. 

DYNAMENE.  Doto,  draw  back  the  curtains. 

I'll  take  my  barley-water. 

DOTO.  We're  not  at  home 

Now,  madam.  It's  the  master's  tomb. 

DYNAMENE.  Of  COUrSel 

Oh,  I'm  wretched.  Already  I  have  disfigured 

My  vigil.  My  cynical  eyelids  have  soon  dropped  me 

In  a  dream. 

DOTO.  But  then  it's  possible,  madam,  you  might 

Find  yourself  in  bed  with  him  again 
In  a  dream,  madam.  Was  he  on  the  ship? 

DYNAMENE.  He  was  the  ship. 

DOTO.  Oh.  That  makes  it  different. 

DYNAMENE.  He  was  the  ship.  He  had  such  a  deck,  Doto, 
Such  a  white,  scrubbed  deck.  Such  a  stern  prow, 
Such  a  proud  stern,  so  slim  from  port  to  starboard. 
If  ever  you  meet  a  man  with  such  fine  masts 
Give  your  life  to  him,  Doto.  The  figurehead 
Bore  his  own  features,  so  serene  in  the  brow 
And  hung  with  a  little  seaweed.  O  Virilius, 
My  husband,  you  have  left  a  wake  in  my  soul. 
You  cut  the  glassy  water  with  a  diamond  keel. 
I  must  cry  again. 

DOTO.  What,  when  you  mean  to  join  him? 

Don't  you  believe  he  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  madam? 
Thankful  to  see  you,  I  should  imagine,  among 
Them  shapes  and  shades;  all  shapes  of  shapes  and  all 
Shades  of  shades,  from  what  I've  heard.  I  know 
I  shall  feel  odd  at  first  with  Cerberus, 
Sop  or  no  sop.  Still,  I  know  how  you  feel,  madam. 
You  think  he  may  find  a  temptation  in  Hades. 
I  shouldn't  worry.  It  would  help  him  to  settle  down. 

(DYNAMENE  weeps) 

It  would  only  be  fun,  madam.  He  couldn't  go  far 
With  a  shade. 

DYNAMENE.  He  was  one  of  the  coining  men. 


THE   DRAMA 


He  was  certain  to  have  become  the  most  well-organized  provost 

The  town  has  known,  once  they  had  made  him  provost. 

He  was  so  punctual,  you  could  regulate 

The  sun  by  him.  He  made  the  world  succumb 

To  his  daily  revolution  of  habit.  But  who, 

In  the  world  he  has  gone  to,  will  appreciate  that? 

0  poor  Virilius!  To  be  a  coming  man 
Already  gone— it  must  be  distraction. 

Why  did  you  leave  me  walking  about  our  ambitions 
Like  a  cat  in  the  ruins  of  a  house?  Promising  husband, 
Why  did  you  insult  me  by  dying?  Virilius, 
Now  I  keep  no  flower,  except  in  the  vase 
Of  the  tomb. 
DOTO.  O  poor  madam!  O  poor  master! 

1  presume  so  far  as  to  cry  somewhat  for  myself 
As  well.  I  know  you  won't  mind,  madam.  It's  two 
Days  not  eating  makes  me  think  of  my  uncle's 

Shop  in  the  country,  where  he  has  a  hardware  business, 

Basins,  pots,  ewers,  and  alabaster  birds. 

He  makes  you  die  of  laughing.  O  madam, 

Isn't  it  sad?  (They  both  weep) 
DYNAMENE.  How  could  I  have  allowed  you 

To  come  and  die  of  my  grief?  Doto,  it  puts 

A  terrible  responsibility  on  me.  Have  you 

No  grief  of  your  own  you  could  die  of? 
DOTO.  Not  really,  madam. 

DYNAMENE.  Nothing? 

DOTO.  Not  really.  They  was  all  one  to  me. 

Well,  all  but  two  was  all  one  to  me.  And  they, 
Strange  enough,  was  two  who  kept  recurring. 
I  could  never  be  sure  if  they  had  gone  for  good 
Or  not;  and  so  that  kept  things  cheerful,  madam. 
One  always  gave  a  wink  before  he  deserted  me, 
The  other  slapped  me  as  it  were  behind,  madam; 
Then  they  would  be  away  for  some  months. 

DYNAMENE.  Oh  DotO, 

What  an  unhappy  life  you  were  having  to  lead. 
DOTO.  Yes,  I'm  sure.  But  never  mind,  madam, 
It  seemed  quite  lively  then.  And  now  I  know 
It's  what  you  say;  life  is  more  big  than  a  bed 
And  full  of  miracles  and  mysteries  like 
One  man  made  for  one  woman,  etcetera,  etcetera. 

A  PHOENIX   TOO   FREQUENT        663 


Lovely.  I  feel  sung,  madam,  by  a  baritone 

In  mixed  company  with  everyone  pleased. 

And  so  I  had  to  come  with  you  here,  madam, 

For  the  last  sad  chorus  of  me.  It's  all 

Fresh  to  me.  Death's  a  new  interest  in  life, 

If  it  doesn't  disturb  you,  madam,  to  have  me  crying. 

It's  because  of  vis  not  having  breakfast  again. 

And  the  master,  of  course.  And  the  beautiful  world. 

And  you  crying  too,  madam.  Oh— Oh! 

DYNAMENE.  I  can't  forbid  your  crying;  but  you  must  cry 
On  the  other  side  of  the  tomb.  I'm  becoming  confused. 
This  is  my  personal  grief  and  my  sacrifice 
Of  self,  solus.  Right  over  there,  darling  girl. 

DOTO.  What  here? 

DYNAMENE.  Now,  if  you  wish,  you  may  cry,  Doto. 

But  our  tears  are  very  different.  For  me 
The  world  is  all  with  Charon,  all,  all, 
Even  the  metal  and  plume  of  the  rose  garden, 
And  the  forest  where  the  sea  fumes  overhead 
In  vegetable  tides,  and  particularly 
The  entrance  to  the  warm  baths  in  Arcite  Street 
Where  we  first  met;— all!— the  sun  itself 
Trails  an  evening  hand  in  the  sultry  river 
Far  away  down  by  Acheron.  I  am  lonely, 
Virilius.  Where  is  the  punctual  eye 
And  where  is  the  cautious  voice  which  made 
Balance-sheets  sound  like  Homer  and  Homer  sound 
Like  balance-sheets?  The  precision  of  limbs,  the  amiable 
Laugh,  the  exact  festivity?  Gone  from  the  world. 
You  were  the  peroration  of  nature,  Virilius. 
You  explained  everything  to  me,  even  the  extremely 
Complicated  gods.  You  wrote  them  down 
In  seventy  columns.  Dear  curling  calligraphy! 
Gone  from  the  world,  once  and  for  all.  And  I  taught  you 
In  your  perceptive  moments  to  appreciate  me. 
You  said  I  was  harmonious,  Virilius, 
Moulded  and  harmonious,  little  matronal 
Ox-eye,  your  package.  And  then  I  would  walk 
Up  and  down  largely,  as  it  were  making  my  own 
Sunlight.  What  a  mad  blacksmith  creation  is 
Who  blows  his  furnaces  until  the  stars  fly  upward 

664        THE  DRAMA 


And  iron  Time  is  hot  and  politicians  glow 

And  bulbs  and  roots  sizzle  into  hyacinth 

And  orchis,  and  the  sand  puts  out  the  lion, 

Roaring  yellow,  and  oceans  bud  with  porpoises, 

Blenny,  tunny  and  the  almost  unexisting 

Blindfish;  throats  are  cut,  the  masterpiece 

Looms  out  of  labour;  nations  and  rebellions 

Are  spat  out  to  hang  on  the  wind— and  all  is  gone 

In  one  Virilius,  wearing  his  office  tunic, 

Checking  the  pence  column  as  he  went, 

Where's  animation  now?  What  is  there  that  stays 

To  dance?  The  eye  of  the  one-eyed  world  is  out.  ( She  weeps) 
DOTO.  I  shall  try  to  grieve  a  little,  too. 

It  would  take  lessons,  I  imagine,  to  do  it  out  loud 

For  long.  If  I  could  only  remember 

Any  one  of  those  fellows  without  wanting  to  laugh. 

Hopeless,  I  am.  Now  those  good  pair  of  shoes 

I  gave  away  without  thinking,  that's  a  different- 
Well,  I've  cried  enough  about  them,  I  suppose. 

Poor  madam,  poor  master. 

(TEGEUS  comes  through  the  gate  to  the  top  of  the  steps) 
TEGEUS.  What's  your  trouble? 

DOTO.  Oh! 

Oh!  Oh,  a  man.  I  thought  for  a  moment  it  was  something 

With  harm  in  it.  Trust  a  man  to  be  where  it's  dark. 

What  is  it?  Can't  you  sleep? 
TEGEUS.  Now,  listen— 

DOTO.  Hush! 

Remember  you're  in  the  grave.  You  must  go  away. 

Madam  is  occupied. 
TEGEUS.  What,  here? 

DOTO.  Becoming 

Dead.  We  both  are. 

TEGEUS.  What's  going  on  here? 

DOTO.  Grief. 

Are  you  satisfied  now? 
TEGEUS.  Less  and  less.  Do  you  know 

What  the  time  is? 
DOTO.  I'm  not  interested. 

We've  done  with  all  that.  Go  away.  Be  a  gentleman. 

If  we  can't  be  free  of  men  in  a  grave 

A   PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT 


Death's  a  dead  loss. 
TEGEUS.  It's  two  in  the  morning,  All 

I  ask  is  what  are  women  doing  down  here 

At  two  in  the  morning? 
DOTO.  Can't  you  see  she's  crying? 

Or  is  she  sleeping  again?  Either  way 

She's  making  arrangements  to  join  her  husband. 
TEGEUS.  Where? 

DOTO.  Good  god,  in  the  Underworld,  dear  man.  Haven't  you  learnt 

About  life  and  death? 
TEGEUS.  In  a  manner,  yes;  in  a  manner; 

The  rudiments.  So  the  lady  means  to  die? 
DOTO.  For  love;  beautiful,  curious  madam. 
TEGEUS.  Not  curious; 

I've  had  thoughts  like  it.  Death  is  a  kind  of  love. 

Not  anything  I  can  explain. 
DOTO.  You'd  better  come  in 

And  sit  down. 

TEGEUS.  I'd  be  grateful. 

DOTO.  Do.  It  will  be  my  last 

Chance  to  have  company,  in  the  flesh. 
TEGEUS.  Do  you  mean 

You're  going  too? 
DOTO.  Oh,  certainly  I  am. 

Not  anything  I  can  explain. 

It  all  started  with  madam  saying  a  man 

Was  two  men  really,  and  I'd  only  noticed  one, 

One  each,  I  mean.  It  seems  he  has  a  soul 

As  well  as  his  other  troubles.  And  I  like  to  know 

What  I'm  getting  with  a  man.  I'm  inquisitive, 

I  suppose  you'd  call  me. 

TEGEUS.  It  takes  some  courage. 

DOTO.  Well,  yes 

And  no.  I'm  fond  of  change. 
TEGEUS.  Would  you  object 

To  have  me  eating  my  supper  here? 
DOTO.  Be  careful 

Of  the  crumbs.  We  don't  want  a  lot  of  squeaking  mice 

Just  when  we're  dying. 
TEGEUS.  What  a  sigh  she  gave  then. 

Down  the  air  like  a  slow  comet. 

666        THE  DRAMA 


And  now  she's  all  dark  again.  Mother  of  me. 

How  long  has  this  been  going  on? 
DOTO.  Two  days. 

It  should  have  been  three  by  now,  but  at  first 

Madam  had  difficulty  with  the  Town  Council.  They  said 

They  couldn't  have  a  tomb  used  as  a  private  residence. 

But  madam  told  them  she  wouldn't  be  eating  here, 

Only  suffering,  and  they  thought  that  would  be  all  right. 
TEGEUS.  Two  of  you.  Marvellous.  Who  would  have  said 

I  should  ever  have  stumbled  on  anything  like  this? 

Do  you  have  to  cry?  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  It's  all 

Quite  reasonable. 
DOTO.  Your  supper  and  your  knees. 

That's  what's  making  me  cry.  I  can't  bear  sympathy 

And  they're  sympathetic. 
TEGEUS.  Please  eat  a  bit  of  something. 

I've  no  appetite  left. 
DOTO.  And  see  her  go  ahead  of  me? 

Wrap  it  up;  put  it  away.  You  sex  of  wicked  beards! 

It's  no  wonder  you  have  to  shave  off  your  black  souls 

Every  day  as  they  push  through  your  chins. 

I'll  turn  my  back  on  you.  It  means  utter 

Contempt.  Eat?  Utter  contempt.  Oh,  little  new  rolls! 
TEGEUS.  Forget  it,  forget  it;  please  forget  it.  Remember 

I've  had  no  experience  of  this  kind  of  thing  before. 

Indeed  I'm  as  sorry  as  I  know  how  to  be.  Ssh, 

We'll  disturb  her.  She  sighed  again.  O  Zeus, 

It's  terrible!  Asleep,  and  still  sighing. 

Mourning  has  made  a  warren  in  her  spirit, 

All  that  way  below.  Ponos!  the  heart 

Is  the  devil  of  a  medicine. 
DOTO.  And  I  don't  intend 

To  turn  round. 
TEGEUS.  I  understand  how  you  must  feel. 

Would  it  be—have  you  any  objection 

To  my  having  a  drink?  I  have  a  little  wine  here. 

And,  you  probably  see  how  it  is:  grief's  in  order, 

And  death's  in  order,  and  women— I  can  usually 

Manage  that  too;  but  not  all  three  together 

At  this  hour  of  the  morning.  So  you'll  excuse  me. 

How  about  you?  It  would  make  me  more  comfortable 


A  PHOENIX  TOO  FHEQUKNT        667 


If  you'd  take  a  smell  of  it. 

DOTO.  One  for  the  road? 

TEGEUS.  One  for  the  road. 
DOTO.  It's  the  dust  in  my  throat.  The  tomb 

Is  so  dusty.  Thanks,  I  will.  There's  no  point  in  dying 

Of  everything,  simultaneous. 
TEGEUS.  It's  lucky 

I  brought  two  bowls.  I  was  expecting  to  keep 

A  drain  for  my  relief  when  he  comes  in  the  morning. 
DOTO.  Are  you  on  duty? 
TEGEUS.  Yes. 

DOTO.  It  looks  like  it. 

TEGEUS.  Well, 

Here's  your  good  health. 
DOTO.  What  good  is  that  going  to  do  me? 

Here's  to  an  easy  crossing  and  not  too  much  waiting 

About  on  the  bank.  Do  you  have  to  tremble  like  that? 
TEGEUS.  The  idea— I  can't  get  used  to  it. 
DOTO.  For  a  member 

Of  the  forces,  you're  peculiarly  queasy.  I  wish 

Those  owls  were  in  Hades— oh  no;  let  them  stay  where  they  are. 

Have  you  never  had  nothing  to  do  with  corpses  before? 
TEGEUS.  I've  got  six  of  them  outside. 
DOTO.  Morpheus,  that's  plenty. 

What  are  they  doing  there? 
TEGEUS.  Hanging. 

DOTO.  Hanging? 

TEGEUS.  On  trees. 

Five  plane  trees  and  a  holly.  The  holly-berries 

Are  just  reddening.  Another  drink? 
DOTO.  Why  not? 

TEGEUS.  It's  from  Samos.  Here's— 
DOTO.  All  right.  Let's  just  drink  it. 

—How  did  they  get  in  that  predicament? 
TEGEUS.  The  sandy-haired  fellow  said  we  should  collaborate 

With  everybody;  the  little  man  said  he  wouldn't 

Collaborate  with  anybody;  the  old  one 

Said  that  the  Pleiades  weren't  sisters  but  cousins 

And  anyway  were  manufactured  in  Lacedaernon. 

The  fourth  said  that  we  hanged  men  for  nothing 

The  other  two  said  nothing.  Now  they  hang 

668        THE  DRAMA 


About  at  the  corner  of  the  night,  they're  present 

And  absent,  horribly  obsequious  to  every 

Move  in  the  air,  and  yet  they  keep  me  standing 

For  five  hours  at  a  stretch. 
DOTO.  The  wine  has  gone 

Down  to  my  knees. 
TEGEUS.  And  up  to  your  cheeks.  You're  looking 

Fresher.  If  only— 
DOTO.  Madam?  She  never  would. 

Shall  I  ask  her? 
TEGEUS.  No;  no,  don't  dare,  don't  breathe  it. 

This  is  privilege,  to  come  so  near 

To  what  is  undeceiving  and  uncorrupt 

And  undivided;  this  is  the  clear  fashion 

For  all  souls,  a  ribbon  to  bind  the  unruly 

Curls  of  living,  a  faith,  a  hope,  Zeus 

Yes,  a  fine  thing.  I  am  human,  and  this 

Is  human  fidelity,  and  we  can  be  proud 

And  unphilosophical. 
DOTO.  I  need  to  dance 

But  I  haven't  the  use  of  my  legs. 
TEGEUS.  No,  no,  don't  dance, 

Or,  at  least,  only  inwards;  don't  dance;  cry 

Again.  We'll  put  a  moat  of  tears 

Round  her  bastion  of  love,  and  save 

The  world.  It's  something,  it's  more  than  something, 

It's  regeneration,  to  see  how  a  human  cheek 

Can  become  as  pale  as  a  pool. 

DOTO.  Do  you  love  me,  handsome? 

TEGEUS.  To  have  found  life,  after  all,  unambiguous! 
DOTO.  Did  you  say  Yes? 

TEGEUS.  Certainly;  just  now  I  love  all  men. 

DOTO.  So  do  I. 
TEGEUS.  And  the  world  is  a  good  creature  again. 

I'd  begun  to  see  it  as  mildew,  verdigris, 

Rust,  woodrot,  or  as  though  the  sky  had  uttered 

An  oval  twirling  blasphemy  with  occasional  vistas 

In  country  districts.  I  was  within  an  ace 

Of  volunteering  for  overseas  service.  Despair 

Abroad  can  always  nurse  pleasant  thoughts  of  home. 

Integrity,  by  godl 

A  PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT 


DOTO.  I  love  all  the  world 

And  the  movement  of  the  apple  in  your  throat. 

So  shall  you  kiss  me?  It  would  be  better,  I  should  think, 

To  go  moistly  to  Hades. 
TEGEUS.  Hers  is  the  way, 

Luminous  with  sorrow. 
DOTO.  Then  111  take 

Another  little  swiggy.  I  love  all  men, 

Everybody,  even  you,  and  I'll  pick  you 

Some  outrageous  honeysuckle  for  your  helmet, 

If  only  it  lived  here.  Pardon. 

DYNAMENE.  DotO.  Who  is  it? 

DOTO.  Honeysuckle,  madam.  Because  of  the  bees. 

Go  back  to  sleep,  madam. 
DYNAMENE.  What  person  is  it? 

DOTO.  Yes,  I  see  what  you  mean,  madam.  It's  a  kind  of 

Corporal  talking  to  his  soul,  on  a  five-hour  shift, 

Madam,  with  six  bodies.  He's  been  having  his  supper. 
TEGEUS.  I'm  going.  It's  terrible  that  we  should  have  disturbed  her. 
DOTO.  He  was  delighted  to  see  you  so  sad,  madam. 

It  has  stopped  him  going  abroad. 
DYNAMENE.  One  with  six  bodies? 

A  messenger,  a  guide  to  where  we  go 

It  is  possible  he  has  come  to  show  us  the  way 

Out  of  these  squalid  suburbs  of  life,  a  shade, 

A  gorgon,  who  has  come  swimming  up,  against 

The  falls  of  my  tears  ( for  which  in  truth  he  would  need 

Many  limbs )  to  guide  me  to  Virilius. 

I  shall  go  quietly. 
TEGEUS.  I  do  assure  you— 

Such  clumsiness,  such  a  vile  and  unforgivable 

Intrusion.  I  shall  obliterate  myself 

Immediately. 
DOTO.  Oblit— oh,  what  a  pity 

To  oblit.  Pardon.  Don't  let  him,  the  nice  fellow. 
DYNAMENE.  Sir:  your  other  five  bodies:  where  are  they? 
TEGEUS.  Madam- 

Outside;  I  have  them  outside.  On  trees. 

DYNAMENE.  Quackl 

TEGEUS.  What  do  I  reply? 

DYNAMENE.  Quack,  charlatan! 

You've  never  known  the  gods.  You  came  to  mock  me. 

670        THE   DRAMA 


Doto,  this  never  was  a  gorgon,  never. 
Nor  a  gentleman  either.  He's  completely  spurious. 
Admit  it,  you  creature.  Have  you  even  a  feather 
Of  the  supernatural  in  your  system?  Have  you? 
TEGEUS.  Some  of  my  relations— 

DYNAMENE.  Well? 

TEGEUS.  Are  dead,  I  think; 

That  is  to  say  I  have  connexions— 
DYNAMENE.  Connexions 

With  pickpockets.  It's  a  shameless  imposition. 

Does  the  army  provide  you  with  no  amusements? 

If  I  were  still  of  the  world,  and  not  cloistered 

In  a  colourless  landscape  of  winter  thought 

Where  the  approaching  Spring  is  desired  oblivion, 

I  should  write  sharply  to  your  commanding  officer. 

It  should  be  done,  it  should  be  done.  If  my  fingers 

Weren't  so  cold  I  would  do  it  now.  But  they  are, 

Horribly  cold.  And  why  should  insolence  matter 

When  my  colour  of  life  is  unreal,  a  blush  on  death, 

A  partial  mere  diaphane?  I  don't  know 

Why  it  should  matter.  Oafish,  non-commissioned 

Young  man!  The  boots  of  your  conscience  will  pinch  for  ever 

If  life's  dignity  has  any  self -protection. 

Oh,  I  have  to  sit  down.  The  tomb's  going  round. 
DOTO.  Oh,  madam,  don't  give  over.  I  can't  remember 

When  things  were  so  lively.  He  looks  marvellously 

Marvellously  uncomfortable.  Go  on,  madam. 

Can't  you,  madam?  Oh,  madam,  don't  you  feel  up  to  it? 

There,  do  you  see  her,  you  acorn-chewing  infantryman? 

You've  made  her  cry,  you  square-bashing  barbarian. 
TEGEUS.  O  history,  my  private  history,  why 

Was  I  led  here?  What  stigmatism  has  got 

Into  my  stars?  Why  wasn't  it  my  brother? 

He  has  a  tacit  misunderstanding  with  everybody 

And  washes  in  it.  Why  wasn't  it  my  mother? 

She  makes  a  collection  of  other  people's  tears 

And  dries  them  all.  Let  them  forget  I  came; 

And  lie  in  the  terrible  black  crystal  of  grief 

Which  held  them,  before  I  broke  it.  Outside,  Tegeus. 
DOTO.  Hey,  I  don't  think  so,  I  shouldn't  say  so.  Come 

Down  again,  uniform.  Do  you  think  you're  going 

To  half  kill  an  unprotected  lady  and  then 

A   PHOENIX   TOO   FREQUENT         871 


Back  out  upwards?  Do  you  think  you  can  leave  her  like  this? 
TEGEUS.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  leave  her.  O  directorate  of  gods, 

Mow  can  I?  Beauty's  bit  is  between  my  teeth. 

She  has  added  another  torture  to  me.  Bottom 

Of  Hades'  bottom. 
DOTO.  Madam.  Madam,  the  corporal 

Has  some  wine  here.  It  will  revive  you,  madam. 

And  then  you  can  go  at  him  again,  madam. 
TEGEUS.  It's  the  opposite  of  everything  you've  said, 

I  swear.  I  swear  by  Horkos  and  the  Styx, 

I  swear  by  the  nine  acres  of  Tityos, 

I  swear  the  Hypnotic  oath,  by  all  the  Titans— 

By  Koeos,  Krios,  lapetos,  Kronos,  and  so  on— 

By  the  three  Hekatoncheires,  by  the  insomnia 

Of  Tisiphone,  by  Jove,  by  jove,  and  the  dew 

On  the  feet  of  my  boyhood,  I  am  innocent 

Of  mocking  you.  Am  I  a  Salmoneus 

That,  seeing  such  a  flame  of  sorrow— 
DYNAMENE.  You  needn't 

Labour  to  prove  your  secondary  education. 

Perhaps  I  jumped  to  a  wrong  conclusion,  perhaps 

I  was  hasty. 
DOTO.  How  easy  to  swear  if  you're  properly  educated. 

Wasn't  it  pretty,  madam?  Pardon. 
DYNAMENE.  If  I  misjudged  you 

I  apologize,  I  apologize.  Will  you  please  leave  us? 

You  were  wrong  to  come  here.  In  a  place  of  mourning 

Light  itself  is  a  trespasser;  nothing  can  have 

The  right  of  entrance  except  those  natural  symbols 

Of  mortality,  the  jabbing,  funeral,  sleek- 

With-omen  raven,  the  death-watch  beetle  which  mocks 

Time:  particularly,  I'm  afraid,  the  spider 

Weaving  his  home  with  swift  self -generated 

Threads  of  slaughter;  and,  of  course,  the  worm. 

I  wish  it  could  be  otherwise.  Oh  dear, 

They  aren't  easy  to  live  with. 

DOTO.  Not  even  a  little  wine,  madam? 

DYNAMENE.  Here,  Doto? 
DOTO.  Well,  on  the  steps  perhaps, 

Except  it's  so  draughty. 
DYNAMENE.  Dotol  Here? 

DOTO.  No,  madam; 

672        THE  DRAMA 


I  quite  see. 
DYNAMENE.     I  might  be  wise  to  strengthen  myself 

In  order  to  fast  again;  it  would  make  me  abler 

For  grief.  I  will  breathe  a  little  of  it,  Doto. 
DOTO.  Thank  god.  Where's  the  bottle? 

DYNAMENE.  What  an  exquisite  bowl. 

TEGEUS.  Now  that  it's  peacetime  we  have  pottery  classes. 
DYNAMENE.  You  made  it  yourself? 
TEGEUS.  Yes.  Do  you  see  the  design? 

The  corded  god,  tied  also  by  the  rays 

Of  the  sun,  and  the  astonished  ship  erupting 

Into  vines  and  vine-leaves,  inverted  pyramids 

Of  grapes,  the  uplifted  hands  of  the  men  (the  raiders), 

And  here  the  headlong  sea,  itself  almost 

Venturing  into  leaves  and  tendrils,  and  Proteus 

With  his  beard  braiding  the  wind,  and  this 

Held  by  other  hands  is  a  drowned  sailor— 
DYNAMENE.  Always,  always. 
DOTO.  Hold  the  bowl  steady,  madam. 

Pardon. 

DYNAMENE.       Doto,  have  you  been  drinking? 
DOTO.  Here,  madam? 

I  coaxed  some  a  little  way  towards  my  mouth,  madam, 

But  I  scarcely  swallowed  except  because  I  had  to.  The  hiccup 

Is  from  no  breakfast,  madam,  and  not  meant  to  be  funny. 
DYNAMENE.  You  may  drink  this  too.  Oh,  how  the  inveterate  body, 

Even  when  cut  from  the  heart,  insists  on  leaf, 

Puts  out,  with  a  separate  meaningless  will, 

Fronds  to  intercept  the  thankless  sun. 

How  it  does,  oh,  how  it  does.  And  how  it  confuses 

The  nature  of  the  mind. 
TEGEUS.  Yes,  yes,  the  confusion; 

That's  something  I  understand  better  than  anything. 
DYNAMENE.  When  the  thoughts  would  die,  the  instincts  will  set  sail 

For  life.  And  when  the  thoughts  are  alert  for  life 

The  instincts  will  rage  to  be  destroyed  on  the  rocks. 

To  Virilius  it  was  not  so;  his  brain  was  an  ironing-board 

For  all  crumpled  indecision:  and  I  follow  him, 

The  hawser  of  my  world.  You  don't  belong  here, 

You  see;  you  don't  belong  here  at  all. 
TEGEUS.  If  only 

I  did.  If  only  you  knew  the  effort  it  costs  me 

A   PHOENIX   TOO   FREQUENT         673 


To  mount  those  steps  again  into  an  untrustworthy, 

Unpredictable,  unenlightened  night, 

And  turn  my  back  on—on  a  state  of  affairs, 

I  can  only  call  it  a  vision,  a  hope,  a  promise, 

A—By  that  I  mean  loyalty,  enduring  passion, 

Unrecking  bravery  and  beauty  all  in  one. 
DOTO.  He  means  you,  or  you  and  me;  or  me,  madam. 
TEGEUS.  It  only  remains  for  me  to  thank  you,  and  to  say 

That  whatever  awaits  me  and  for  however  long 

I  may  be  played  by  this  poor  musician,  existence, 

Your  person  and  sacrifice  will  leave  their  trace 

As  clear  upon  me  as  the  shape  of  the  hills 

Around  my  birthplace.  Now  I  must  leave  you  to  your  husband. 
DOTO.  Oh!  You,  madam. 
DYNAMENE.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do. 

I  will  drink  with  you  to  the  memory  of  my  husband, 

Because  I  have  been  curt,  because  you  are  kind, 

And  because  I'm  extremely  thirsty.  And  then  we  will  say 

Good-bye  and  part  to  go  to  our  opposite  corruptions, 

The  world  and  the  grave. 

TEGEUS.  The  climax  to  the  vision. 

DYNAMENE  (drinking).  My  husband,  and  all  he  stood  for. 
TEGEUS.  Stands  for. 

DYNAMENE.  Stands  for. 

TEGEUS.  Your  husband. 
DOTO.  The  master. 

DYNAMENE.  HOW  good  it  is, 

How  it  sings  to  the  throat,  purling  with  summer. 
TEGEUS.  It  has  a  twin  nature,  winter  and  warmth  in  one, 

Moon  and  meadow.  Do  you  agree? 
DYNAMENE.  Perfectly; 

A  cold  bell  sounding  in  a  golden  month. 
TEGEUS.  Crystal  in  harvest. 
DYNAMENE.  Perhaps  a  nightingale 

Sobbing  among  the  pears. 

TEGEUS.  In  an  old  autumnal  midnight. 

DOTO.  Grapes.— Pardon.  There's  some  more  here. 
TEGEUS.  Plenty. 

I  drink  to  the  memory  of  your  husband. 
DYNAMENE.  My  husband. 

DOTO.  The  master. 

DYNAMENE.  He  was  careless  in  his  choice  of  wines. 

674        TUB  DRAMA 


TEGEUS.  And  yet 

Rendering  to  living  its  rightful  poise  is  not 

Unimportant. 
DYNAMENE.          A  mystery's  in  the  world 

Where  a  little  liquid,  with  flavour,  quality,  and  fume 

Can  be  as  no  other,  can  hint  and  flute  our  senses 

As  though  a  music  played  in  harvest  hollows 

And  a  movement  was  in  the  swathes  of  our  memory. 

Why  should  scent,  why  should  flavour  come 

With  such  wings  upon  us?  Parsley,  for  instance. 
TEGEUS.  Seaweed. 
DYNAMENE.  Lime  trees. 

DOTO.  Horses. 

TEGEUS.  Fruit  in  the  fire. 

DYNAMENE.  Do  I  know  your  name? 
TEGEUS.  Tegeus. 

DYNAMENE.  That's  very  thin  for  you, 

It  hardly  covers  your  bones.  Something  quite  different, 

Altogether  other.  I  shall  think  of  it  presently. 
TEGEUS.  Darker  vowels,  perhaps. 
DYNAMENE.  Yes,  certainly  darker  vowels. 

And  your  consonants  should  have  a  slight  angle, 

And  a  certain  temperature.  Do  you  know  what  I  mean? 

It  will  come  to  me. 

TEGEUS.  Now  your  name— 

DYNAMENE.  It  is  nothing 

To  any  purpose.  I'll  be  to  you  the  She 

In  the  tomb.  You  have  the  air  of  a  natural-historian 

As  though  you  were  accustomed  to  handling  birds'  eggs, 

Or  tadpoles,  or  putting  labels  on  moths.  You  see? 

The  genius  of  dumb  things,  that  they  are  nameless. 

Have  I  found  the  seat  of  the  weevil  in  human  brains? 

Our  names.  They  make  us  broody;  we  sit  and  sit 

To  hatch  them  into  reputation  and  dignity. 

And  then  they  set  upon  us  and  become  despair, 

Guilt  and  remorse.  We  go  where  they  lead.  We  dance 

Attendance  on  something  wished  upon  us  by  the  wife 

Of  our  mother's  physician.  But  insects  meet  and  part 

And  put  the  woods  about  them,  fill  the  dusk 

And  freckle  the  light  and  go  and  come  without 

A  name  among  them,  without  the  wish  of  a  name 

And  very  pleasant  too.  Did  I  interrupt  you? 

A  PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT        675 


TEGEUS.  I  forget.  We'll  have  no  names  then. 

DYNAMENE.  1  should  like 

You  to  have  a  name,  I  don't  know  why;  a  small  one 

To  fill  out  the  conversation. 
TEGEUS.  I  should  like 

You  to  have  a  name  too,  if  only  for  something 

To  remember.  Have  you  still  some  wine  in  your  bowl? 
DYNAMENE.  Not  altogether. 
TEGEUS.  We  haven't  come  to  the  end 

By  several  inches.  Did  I  splash  you? 
DYNAMENE.  It  doesn't  matter. 

Well,  here's  to  my  husband's  name. 

TEGEUS.  Your  husband's  name. 

DOTO.  The  master. 

DYNAMENE.  It  was  kind  of  you  to  come. 

TEGEUS.  It  was  more  than  coming.  I  followed  my  future  here, 

As  we  all  do  if  we're  sufficiently  inattentive 

And  don't  vex  ourselves  with  questions;  or  do  I  mean 

Attentive?  If  so,  attentive  to  what?  Do  I  sound 

Incoherent? 
DYNAMENE.        You're  wrong.  There  isn't  a  future  here, 

Not  here,  not  for  you. 

TEGEUS.  Your  name's  Dynamene. 

DYNAMENE.  Who— Have  I  been  utterly  irreverent?  Are  you— 

Who  made  you  say  that?  Forgive  me  the  question, 

But  are  you  dark  or  light?  I  mean  which  shade 

Of  the  supernatural?  Or  if  neither,  what  prompted  you? 
TEGEUS.  Dynamene— 
DYNAMENE.  No,  but  I'm  sure  you're  the  friend  of  nature, 

It  must  be  so,  I  think  I  see  little  Phoebuses 

Rising  and  setting  in  your  eyes. 
DOTO.  They're  not  little  Phoebuses, 

They're  hoodwinks,  madam.  Your  name  is  on  your  brooch. 

No  little  Phoebuses  to-night. 

DYNAMENE.  That's  twice 

You've  played  me  a  trick.  Oh,  I  know  practical  jokes 
Are  common  on  Olympus,  but  haven't  we  at  all 
Developed  since  the  gods  were  born?  Are  gods 
And  men  both  to  remain  immortal  adolescents? 
How  tiresome  it  all  is. 

TEGEUS.  It  was  you,  each  time, 

Who  said  I  was  supernatural.  When  did  I  say  so? 

676         THE   DRAMA 


You're  making  me  into  whatever  you  imagine 

And  then  you  blame  me  because  I  can't  live  up  to  it. 
DYNAMENE.  I  shall  call  you  Chromis.  It  has  a  breadlike  sound. 

I  think  of  you  as  a  crisp  loaf. 
TEGEUS.  And  now 

You'll  insult  me  because  I'm  not  sliceable. 
DYNAMENE.  I  think  drinking  is  harmful  to  our  tempers. 
TEGEUS.  If  I  seem  to  be  frowning,  that  is  only  because 

I'm  looking  directly  into  your  light:  I  must  look 

Angrily,  or  shut  my  eyes. 
DYNAMENE.  Shut  them.— Oh, 

You  have  eyelashesl  A  new  perspective  of  you. 

Is  that  how  you  look  when  you  sleep? 
TEGEUS.  My  jaw  drops  down. 

DYNAMENE.  Show  me  how. 

TEGEUS.  Like  this. 

DYNAMENE  It  makes  an  irresistible 

Moron  of  you.  Will  you  waken  now? 

It's  morning;  I  see  a  thin  dust  of  daylight 

Blowing  on  to  the  steps. 
TEGEUS.  Already?  Dynamene, 

You're  tricked  again.  This  time  by  the  moon. 

DYNAMENE.  Oh  well, 

Moon's  daylight,  then.  Doto  is  asleep. 
TEGEUS.  Doto 

Is  asleep  .  .  . 
DYNAMENE.  Chromis,  what  made  you  walk  about 

In  the  night?  What,  I  wonder,  made  you  not  stay 

Sleeping  wherever  you  slept?  Was  it  the  friction 

Of  the  world  on  your  mind?  Those  two  are  difficult 

To  make  agree.  Chromis— now  try  to  learn 

To  answer  your  name.  I  won't  say  Tegeus. 
TEGEUS.  And  I 

Won't  say  Dynamene. 

DYNAMENE.  Not? 

TEGEUS.  It  makes  you  real. 

Forgive  me,  a  terrible  thing  has  happened.  Shall  I 
Say  it  and  perhaps  destroy  myself  for  you? 
Forgive  me  first,  or,  more  than  that,  forgive 
Nature  who  winds  her  furtive  stream  all  through 
Our  reason.  Do  you  forgive  me? 

DYNAMENE.  I'll  f Orgive 

A   PHOENIX    TOO   FREQUENT        677 


Anything,  if  it's  the  only  way  I  can  know 

What  you  have  to  tell  me. 
TEGEUS.  I  felt  us  to  be  alone; 

Here  in  a  grave,  separate  from  any  life, 

I  and  the  only  one  of  beauty,  the  only 

Persuasive  key  to  all  my  senses, 

In  spite  of  my  having  lain  day  after  day 

And  pored  upon  the  sepals,  corolla,  stamen,  and  bracts 

Of  the  yellow  bog-iris.  Then  my  body  ventured 

A  step  towards  interrupting  your  perfection  of  purpose 

And  my  own  renewed  faith  in  human  nature. 

Would  you  have  believed  that  possible? 
DYNAMENE.  I  have  never 

Been  greatly  moved  by  the  yellow  bog-iris.  Alas, 

It's  as  I  said.  This  place  is  for  none  but  the  spider, 

Raven  and  worms,  not  for  a  living  man. 
TEGEUS.  It  has  been  a  place  of  blessing  to  me.  It  will  always 

Play  in  me,  a  fountain  of  confidence 

When  the  world  is  arid.  But  I  know  it  is  true 

I  have  to  leave  it,  and  though  it  withers  my  soul 

I  must  let  you  make  your  journey. 

DYNAMENE.  No. 

TEGEUS.  Not  true? 

DYNAMENE.  We  can  talk  of  something  quite  different. 

TEGEUS.  Yes,  we  can! 

Oh  yes,  we  will!  Is  it  your  opinion 

That  no  one  believes  who  hasn't  learned  to  doubt? 

Or,  another  thing,  if  we  persuade  ourselves 

To  one  particular  Persuasion,  become  Sophist, 

Stoic,  Platonist,  anything  whatever, 

Would  you  say  that  there  must  be  areas  of  soul 

Lying  unproductive  therefore,  or  dishonoured 

Or  blind? 

DYNAMENE.  No,  I  don't  know. 

TEGEUS.  No.  It's  impossible 

To  tell.  Dynamene,  if  only  I  had 

Two  cakes  of  pearl-barley  and  hydromel 

I  could  see  you  to  Hades,  leave  you  with  your  husband 

And  come  back  to  the  world. 
DYNAMENE.  Ambition,  I  suppose, 

Is  an  appetite  particular  to  man. 

What  is  your  definition? 

678         THE  DRAMA 


TEGEUS.  The  desire  to  find 

A  reason  for  living. 
DYNAMENE.  But  then,  suppose  it  leads, 

As  often,  one  way  or  another,  it  does,  to  death. 
TEGEUS.  Then  that  may  be  life's  reason.  Oh,  but  how 

Could  I  bear  to  return,  Dynamene?  The  earth's 

Daylight  would  be  my  grave  if  I  had  left  you 

In  that  unearthly  night. 

DYNAMENE.  O  Chromis 

TEGEUS.  Tell  me, 

What  is  your  opinion  of  Progress?  Does  it,  for  example, 

Exist?  Is  there  ever  progression  without  retrogression? 

Therefore  is  it  not  true  that  mankind 

Can  more  justly  be  said  increasingly  to  Gress? 

As  the  material  improves,  the  craftsmanship  deteriorates 

And  honor  and  virtue  remain  the  same.  I  love  you, 

Dynamene. 

DYNAMENE.      Would  you  consider  we  go  round  and  round? 
TEGEUS.  We  concertina,  I  think;  taking  each  time 

A  larger  breath,  so  that  the  farther  we  go  out 

The  farther  we  have  to  go  in. 
DYNAMENE.  There'll  come  a  time. 

When  it  will  be  unbearable  to  continue. 
TEGEUS.  Unbearable. 
DYNAMENE.  Perhaps  we  had  better  have  something 

To  eat.  The  wine  has  made  your  eyes  so  quick 

I  am  breathless  beside  them.  It  is 

Your  eyes,  I  think;  or  your  intelligence 

Holding  my  intelligence  up  above  you 

Between  its  hands.  Or  the  cut  of  your  uniform. 
TEGEUS.  Here's  a  new  roll  with  honey.  In  the  gods'  names 

Let's  sober  ourselves. 

DYNAMENE.  As  soon  as  possible. 

TEGEUS.  Have  you 

Any  notion  of  algebra? 
DYNAMENE.  We'll  discuss  you,  Chromis. 

We  will  discuss  you,  till  you're  nothing  but  words. 
TEGEUS.  I?  There  is  nothing,  of  course,  I  would  rather  discuss, 

Except— if  it  would  be  no  intrusion— you,  Dynamene. 
DYNAMENE.  No,  you  couldn't  want  to.  But  your  birthplace,  Chromis, 

With  the  hills  that  placed  themselves  in  you  for  ever 

As  you  say,  where  was  it? 

A  PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT        679 


TEGEUS.  My  father's  farm  at  Pyxa. 

DYNAMENE.  There?  Could  it  be  there? 

TEGEUS.  I  was  born  in  the  hills 

Between  showers,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  milking  time. 

Do  you  know  Pyxa?  It  stretches  to  the  crossing  of  two 

Troublesome  roads,  and  buries  its  back  in  beechwood, 

From  which  come  the  white  owls  of  our  nights 

And  the  mulling  and  cradling  of  doves  in  the  day. 

I  attribute  my  character  to  those  shadows 

And  heavy  roots;  and  my  interest  in  music 

To  the  sudden  melodious  escape  of  the  young  river 

Where  it  breaks  from  nosing  through  the  cresses  and  kingcups. 

That's  honestly  so. 
DYNAMENE.  You  used  to  climb  about 

Among  the  windfallen  tower  of  Phrasidemus 

Looking  for  bees'  nests. 
TEGEUS.  What?  When  have  I 

Said  so? 

DYNAMENE.          Why,  all  the  children  did. 
TEGEUS.  Yes:  but,  in  the  name  of  light,  how  do  you  know  that? 
DYNAMENE.  I  played  there  once,  on  holiday. 
TEGEUS.  O  Klotho, 

Lachesis  and  Atropos! 
DYNAMENE.  It's  the  strangest  chance: 

I  may  have  seen,  for  a  moment,  your  boyhood. 
TEGEUS.  I  may 

Have  seen  something  like  an  early  flower 

Something  like  a  girl.  If  I  only  could  remember  how  I  must 

Have  seen  you.  Were  you  after  the  short  white  violets? 

Maybe  I  blundered  past  you,  taking  your  look, 

And  scarcely  acknowledged  how  a  star 

Ran  through  me,  to  live  in  the  brooks  of  my  blood  for  ever. 

Or  I  saw  you  playing  at  hiding  in  the  cave 

Where  the  ferns  are  and  the  water  drips. 
DYNAMENE.  I  was  quite  plain  and  fat  and  I  was  usually 

Hitting  someone.  I  wish  I  could  remember  you. 

I'm  envious  of  the  days  and  children  who  saw  you 

Then.  It  is  curiously  a  little  painful 

Not  to  share  your  past. 
TEGEUS.  How  did  it  come 

Our  stars  could  mingle  for  an  afternoon 

So  long  ago,  and  then  forget  us  or  tease  us 

680         THE    DRAMA 


Or  helplessly  look  on  the  dark  high  seas 

Of  our  separation,  while  time  drank 

The  golden  hours?  What  hesitant  fate  is  that? 
DYNAMENE.  Time?  Time?  Why— how  old  are  we? 
TEGEUS.  Young, 

Thank  both  our  mothers,  but  still  we're  older  than  to-night 

And  so  older  than  we  should  be.  Wasn't  I  born 

In  love  with  what,  only  now,  I  have  grown  to  meet? 

I'll  tell  you  something  else.  I  was  born  entirely 

For  this  reason.  I  was  born  to  fill  a  gap 

In  the  world's  experience,  which  had  never  known 

Chromis  loving  Dynamene. 
DYNAMENE.  You  are  so 

Excited,  poor  Chromis.  What  is  it?  Here  you  sit 

With  a  woman  who  has  wept  away  all  claims 

To  appearance,  unbecoming  in  her  oldest  clothes, 

With  not  a  trace  of  liveliness,  a  drab 

Of  melancholy,  entirely  shadow  without 

A  smear  of  sun.  Forgive  me  if  I  tell  you 

That  you  fall  easily  into  superlatives. 
TEGEUS.  Very  well.  I'll  say  nothing,  then.  I'll  fume 

With  feeling. 
DYNAMENE.          Now  you  go  to  the  extreme.  Certainly 

You  must  speak.  You  may  have  more  to  say.  Besides 

You  might  let  your  silence  run  away  with  you 

And  not  say  something  that  you  should.  And  how 

Should  I  answer  you  then?  Chromis,  you  boy, 

I  can't  look  away  from  you.  You  use 

The  lamplight  and  the  moon  so  skilfully, 

So  arrestingly,  in  and  around  your  furrows. 

A  humorous  ploughman  goes  whistling  to  a  team 

Of  sad  sorrow,  to  and  fro  in  your  brow 

And  over  your  arable  cheek.  Laugh  for  me.  Have  you 

Cried  for  women,  ever? 
TEGEUS.  In  looking  about  for  you. 

But  I  have  recognized  them  for  what  they  were. 
DYNAMENE.  What  were  they? 
TEGEUS.  Never  you:  never,  although 

They  could  walk  with  bright  distinction  into  all  men's 

Longest  memories,  never  you,  by  a  hint 

Or  a  faint  quality,  or  at  least  not  more 

Than  reflectively,  stars  lost  and  uncertain 

A  PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT    681 


In  the  sea,  compared  with  the  shining  salt,  the  shiners, 
The  galaxies,  the  clusters,  the  bright  grain  whirling 
Over  the  black  threshing-floor  of  space. 
Will  you  make  some  effort  to  believe  that? 

DYNAMENE.  No,  11O  effort. 

It  lifts  me  and  carries  me.  It  may  be  wild 

But  it  comes  to  me  with  a  charm,  like  trust  indeed, 

And  eats  out  of  my  heart,  dear  Chromis, 

Absurd,  disconcerting  Chromis.  You  make  me 

Feel  I  wish  I  could  look  my  best  for  you. 

I  wish,  at  least,  that  I  could  believe  myself 

To  be  showing  some  beauty  for  you,  to  put  in  the  scales 

Between  us.  But  they  dip  to  you,  they  sink 

With  masculine  victory. 

TEGEUS.  Eros,  no!  Nol 

If  this  is  less  than  your  best,  then  never,  in  my  presence, 

Be  more  than  your  less:  never!  If  you  should  bring 

More  to  your  mouth  or  to  your  eyes,  a  moisture 

Or  a  flake  of  light,  anything,  anything  fatally 

More,  perfection  would  fetch  her  unsparing  rod 

Out  of  pickle  to  flay  me,  and  what  would  have  been  love 

Will  be  the  end  of  me.  O  Dynamene, 

Let  me  unload  something  of  my  lips'  longing 

On  to  yours  receiving.  Oh,  when  I  cross 

Like  this  the  hurt  of  the  little  space  between  us 

I  come  a  journey  from  the  wrenching  ice 

To  walk  in  the  sun.  That  is  the  feeling. 

DYNAMENE.  Chromis, 

Where  am  I  going?  No,  don't  answer.  It's  death 
I  desire,  not  you. 

TEGEUS.  Where  is  the  difference?  Call  me 

Death  instead  of  Chromis.  I'll  answer  to  anything. 
It's  desire  all  the  same,  of  death  in  me,  or  me 
In  death,  but  Chromis  either  way.  Is  it  so? 
Do  you  not  love  me,  Dynamene? 

DYNAMENE.  How  could  it  happen? 

I'm  going  to  my  husband.  I'm  too  far  on  the  way 
To  admit  myself  to  life  again.  Love's  in  Hades. 

TEGEUS.  Also  here.  And  here  are  we,  not  there 
In  Hades.  Is  your  husband  expecting  you? 

DYNAMENE.  Surely,  surely? 

TEGEUS.  Not  necessarily.  I, 

682         THE   DRAMA 


If  I  had  been  your  husband,  would  never  dream 

Of  expecting  you.  I  should  remember  your  body 

Descending  stairs  in  the  floating  light,  but  not 

Descending  in  Hades.  I  should  say  "I  have  left 

My  wealth  warm  on  the  earth,  and,  hell,  earth  needs  it." 

"Was  all  I  taught  her  of  love,"  I  should  say,  "so  poor 

That  she  will  leave  her  flesh  and  become  shadow?" 

"Wasn't  our  love  for  each  other"  ( I  should  continue ) 

"Infused  with  life,  and  life  infused  with  our  love? 

Very  well;  repeat  me  in  love,  repeat  me  in  life, 

And  let  me  sing  in  your  blood  for  ever." 
DYNAMENE.  Stop,  stop,  I  shall  be  dragged  apart! 

Why  should  the  fates  do  everything  to  keep  me 

From  dying  honourably?  They  must  have  got 

Tired  of  honour  in  Elysium.  Chromis,  it's  terrible 

To  be  susceptible  to  two  conflicting  norths. 

I  have  the  constitution  of  a  whirlpool. 

Am  I  actually  twirling,  or  is  it  just  sensation? 
TEGEUS.  You're  still;  still  as  the  darkness. 
DYNAMENE.  What  appears 

Is  so  unlike  what  is.  And  what  is  madness 

To  those  who  only  observe,  is  often  wisdom 

To  those  to  whom  it  happens. 
TEGEUS.  Are  we  compelled 

To  go  into  all  this? 
DYNAMENE.  Why,  how  could  I  return 

To  my  friends?  Am  I  to  be  an  entertainment? 
TEGEUS.  That's  for  to-morrow.  To-night  I  need  to  kiss  you, 

Dynamene.  Let's  see  what  the  whirlpool  does 

Between  my  arms;  let  it  whirl  on  my  breast.  O  love, 

Come  in. 
DYNAMENE.       I  am  there  before  I  reach  you;  my  body 

Only  follows  to  join  my  longing  which 

Is  holding  you  already.— Now  I  am 

All  one  again. 
TEGEUS.  I  feel  as  the  gods  feel: 

This  is  their  sensation  of  life,  not  a  man's: 

Their  suspension  of  immortality,  to  enrich 

Themselves  with  time.  O  life,  O  death,  O  body, 

O  spirit,  O  Dynamene. 

DYNAMENE.  O  all 

In  myself;  it  so  covets  all  in  you, 

A  PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT 


My  care,  my  Chromis.  Then  I  shall  be 
Creation. 
TEGEUS.          You  have  the  skies  already; 

Out  of  them  you  are  buffeting  me  with  your  gales 

Of  beauty.  Can  we  be  made  of  dust,  as  they  tell  us? 

What!  dust  with  dust  releasing  such  a  light 

And  such  an  apparition  of  the  world 

Within  one  body?  A  thread  of  your  hair  has  stung  me. 

Why  do  you  push  me  away? 
DYNAMENE.  There's  so  much  metal 

About  you.  Do  I  have  to  be  imprisoned 

In  an  armoury? 
TEGEUS.  Give  your  hand  to  the  buckles  and  then 

To  me. 

DYNAMENE.          Don't  help;  I'll  do  them  all  myself. 
TEGEUS.  O  time  and  patience!  I  want  you  back  again. 
DYNAMENE.  We  have  a  lifetime.  O  Chromis,  think,  think 

Of  that.  And  even  unfastening  a  buckle 

Is  loving.  And  not  easy.  Very  well, 

You  can  help  me.  Chromis,  what  zone  of  miracle 

Did  you  step  into  to  direct  you  in  the  dark 

To  where  I  waited,  not  knowing  I  waited? 
TEGEUS.  I  saw 

The  lamplight.  That  was  only  the  appearance 

Of  some  great  gesture  in  the  bed  of  fortune. 

I  saw  the  lamplight. 
DYNAMENE.  But  here?  So  far  from  life? 

What  brought  you  near  enough  to  see  lamplight? 
TEGEUS.  Zeus, 

That  reminds  me. 

DYNAMENE.  What  is  it,  Chromis? 

TEGEUS.  I'm  on  duty. 

DYNAMENE.  Is  it  warm  enough  to  do  without  your  greaves? 
TEGEUS.  Darling  loom  of  magic,  I  must  go  back 

To  take  a  look  at  those  boys.  The  whole  business 

Of  guard  had  gone  out  of  my  mind. 

DYNAMENE.  What  boys,  my  heart? 

TEGEUS.  My  six  bodies. 
DYNAMENE.  Chromis,  not  that  joke 

Again. 
TEGEUS.      No  joke,  sweet.  To-day  our  city 

Held  a  sextuple  hanging.  I'm  minding  the  bodies 

684         TUB   DRAMA 


Until  five  o'clock.  Already  I've  been  away 

For  half  an  hour. 
DYNAMENE.  What  can  they  do,  poor  bodies, 

In  half  an  hour,  or  half  a  century? 

You  don't  really  mean  to  go? 
TEGEUS.  Only  to  make 

My  conscience  easy.  Then,  Dynamene, 

No  cloud  can  rise  on  love,  no  hovering  thought 

Fidget,  and  the  night  will  be  only  to  us. 

DYNAMENE.  But  if  every  half -hour 

TEGEUS.  Hush,  smile  of  my  soul, 

My  sprig,  my  sovereign:  this  is  to  hold  your  eyes, 

I  sign  my  lips  on  them  both:  this  is  to  keep 

Your  forehead— do  you  feel  the  claim  of  my  kiss 

Falling  into  your  thought?  And  now  your  throat 

Is  a  white  branch  and  my  lips  two  singing  birds— 

They  are  coming  to  rest.  Throat,  remember  me 

Until  I  come  back  in  five  minutes.  Over  all 

Here  is  my  parole:  I  give  it  to  your  mouth 

To  give  me  again  before  it's  dry.  I  promise: 

Before  it's  dry,  or  not  long  after. 

DYNAMENE.  Run, 

Run  all  the  way.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  stumbling. 

There's  plenty  of  moon.  The  fields  are  blue.  Oh,  wait, 

Wait!  My  darling.  No,  not  now:  it  will  keep 

Until  I  see  you;  I'll  have  it  here  at  my  lips. 

Hurry. 

TEGEUS.        So  long,  my  haven. 

DYNAMENE.  Hurry,  hurry!  (Exit  TEGEUS) 

DOTO.  Yes,  madam,  hurry;  of  course.  Are  we  there 

Already?  How  nice.  Death  doesn't  take 

Any  doing  at  all.  We  were  gulped  into  Hades 

As  easy  as  an  oyster. 

DYNAMENE.  Doto! 

DOTO.  Hurry,  hurry, 

Yes,  madam.— But  they've  taken  out  all  my  bones. 

I  haven't  a  bone  left.  I'm  a  Shadow:  wonderfully  shady 

In  the  legs.  We  shall  have  to  sit  out  eternity,  madam, 

If  they've  done  the  same  to  you. 
DYNAMENE.  You'd  better  wake  up. 

If  you  can't  go  to  sleep  again,  you'd  better  wake  up. 

Oh  dear.— We're  still  alive,  Doto,  do  you  hear  me? 

A   PHOENIX   TOO   FREQUENT         685 


DOTO.  You  must  speak  for  yourself,  madam.  I'm  quite  dead. 

Ill  tell  you  how  I  know.  I  feel 

Invisible.  I'm  a  wraith,  madam;  I'm  only 

Waiting  to  be  wafted. 
DYNAMENE.  If  only  you  would  be. 

Do  you  see  where  you  are?  Look.  Do  you  see? 
DOTO.  Yes.  You're  right,  madam.  We're  still  alive. 

Isn't  it  enough  to  make  you  swear? 

Here  we  are,  dying  to  be  dead, 

And  where  does  it  get  us? 
DYNAMENE.  Perhaps  you  should  try  to  die 

In  some  other  place.  Yes!  Perhaps  the  air  here 

Suits  you  too  well.  You  were  sleeping  very  heavily. 
DOTO.  And  all  the  time  you  alone  and  dying. 

I  shouldn't  have.  Has  the  corporal  been  long  gone, 

Madam? 
DYNAMENE.  He  came  and  went,  came  and  went, 

You  know  the  way. 
DOTO.  Very  well  I  do.  And  went 

He  should  have,  come  he  should  never.  Oh  dear,  he  must 

Have  disturbed  you,  madam. 
DYNAMENE.  He  could  be  said 

ToVe  disturbed  me.  Listen;  I  have  something  to  say  to  you. 
DOTO.  I  expect  so,  madam.  Maybe  I  could  have  kept  him  out 

But  men  are  in  before  I  wish  they  wasn't. 

I  think  quickly  enough,  but  I  get  behindhand 

With  what  I  ought  to  be  saying.  It's  a  kind  of  stammer 

In  my  way  of  life,  madam. 
DYNAMENE.  I  have  been  unkind, 

I  have  sinfully  wronged  you,  Doto. 
DOTO.  Never,  madam, 

DYNAMENE.  Oh  yes.  I  was  letting  you  die  with  me,  Doto,  without 

Any  fair  reason.  I  was  drowning  you 

In  grief  that  wasn't  yours.  That  was  wrong,  Doto. 
DOTO.  But  I  haven't  got  anything  against  dying,  madam. 

I  may  like  the  situation,  as  far  as  I  like 

Any  situation,  madam.  Now  if  you'd  said  mangling, 

A  lot  of  mangling,  I  might  have  thought  twice  about  staying. 

We  all  have  our  dislikes,  madam. 
DYNAMENE.  I'm  asking  you 

To  leave  me,  Doto,  at  once,  as  quickly  as  possible, 

Now,  before—now,  Doto,  and  let  me  forget 


THE   DRAMA 


My  bad  mind  which  confidently  expected  you 

To  companion  me  to  Hades.  Now  good-bye, 

Good-bye. 
DOTO.  No,  it's  not  good-bye  at  all, 

I  shouldn't  know  another  night  of  sleep,  wondering 

How  you  got  on,  or  what  I  was  missing,  come  to  that. 

I  should  be  anxious  about  you,  too.  When  you  belong 

To  an  upper  class,  the  netherworld  might  come  strange. 

Now  I  was  born  nether,  madam,  though  not 

As  nether  as  some.  No,  it's  not  good-bye,  madam. 
DYNAMENE.  Oh  Doto,  go;  you  must,  you  mustl  And  if  I  seem 

Without  gratitude,  forgive  me.  It  isn't  so, 

It  is  far,  far  from  so.  But  I  can  only 

Regain  my  peace  of  mind  if  I  know  you're  gone. 
DOTO.  Besides,  look  at  the  time,  madam.  Where  should  I  go 

At  three  in  the  morning?  Even  if  I  was  to  think 

Of  going;  and  think  of  it  I  never  shall. 
DYNAMENE.  Think  of  the  unmatchable  world,  Doto. 
DOTO.  I  do 

Think  of  it,  madam.  And  when  I  think  of  it,  what 

Have  I  thought?  Well,  it  depends,  madam. 

DYNAMENE.  I  insist, 

Obey  me!  At  once!  Doto! 
DOTO.  Here  I  sit. 

DYNAMENE.  What  shall  I  do  with  you? 
DOTO.  Ignore  me,  madam. 

I  know  my  place.  I  shall  die  quite  unobtrusive. 

Oh,  look,  the  corporal's  forgotten  to  take  his  equipment. 
DYNAMENE.  Could  he  be  so  careless? 
DOTO.  I  shouldn't  hardly  have  thought  so. 

Poor  fellow.  They'll  go  and  deduct  it  off  his  credits. 

I  suppose,  madam,  I  suppose  he  couldn't  be  thinking 

Of  coming  back? 
DYNAMENE.  He'll  think  of  these.  He  will  notice 

He  isn't  wearing  them.  He'll  come;  he  is  sure  to  come. 
DOTO.  Oh. 

DYNAMENE.        I  know  he  will. 
DOTO.  Oh,  oh. 

Is  that  all  for  to-night,  madam?  May  I  go  now,  madam? 

DYNAMENE.  Doto!  Will  yOU? 

DOTO.  Just  you  try  to  stop  me,  madam. 

Sometimes  going  is  a  kind  of  instinct  with  me. 

A  PHOENIX  TOO   FREQUENT        687 


ni  leave  death  to  some  other  occasion. 

DYNAMENE.  Do, 

Doto.  Any  other  time.  Now  you  must  hurry. 

I  won't  delay  you  from  life  another  moment. 

Oh,  Doto,  good-bye. 
DOTO.  Good-bye.  Life  is  unusual, 

Isn't  it,  madam?  Remember  me  to  Cerberus. 
( Re-enter  TEGEUS.  DOTO  passes  him  on  the  steps ) 

DOTO  (as  she  goes).  You  left  something  behind.  Ye  gods,  what  a  moon! 
DYNAMENE.  Chromis,  it's  true;  my  lips  are  hardly  dry. 

Time  runs  again;  the  void  is  space  again; 

Space  has  life  again;  Dynajnene  has  Chromis. 
TEGEUS.  It's  over. 
DYNAMENE.  Chromis,  you're  sick.  As  white  as  wool. 

Come,  you  covered  the  distance  too  quickly. 

Rest  in  my  arms;  get  your  breath  again. 
TEGEUS.  I've  breathed  one  night  too  many.  Why  did  I  see  you, 

Why  in  the  name  of  life  did  I  see  you? 

DYNAMENE.  Why? 

Weren't  we  gifted  with  each  other?  O  heart, 

What  do  you  mean? 
TEGEUS.  I  mean  that  joy  is  nothing 

But  the  parent  of  doom.  Why  should  I  have  found 

Your  constancy  such  balm  to  the  world  and  yet 

Find,  by  the  same  vision,  its  destruction 

A  necessity?  We're  set  upon  by  love 

To  make  us  incompetent  to  steer  ourselves, 

To  make  us  docile  to  fate.  I  should  have  known: 

Indulgences,  not  fulfilment,  is  what  the  world 

Permits  us. 
DYNAMENE.         Chromis,  is  this  intelligible? 

Help  me  to  follow  you.  What  did  you  meet  in  the  fields 

To  bring  about  all  this  talk?  Do  you  still  love  me? 
TEGEUS.  What  good  will  it  do  us?  I've  lost  a  body. 

DYNAMENE.  A  body? 

One  of  the  six?  Well,  it  isn't  with  them  you  propose 
To  love  me;  and  you  couldn't  keep  it  for  ever. 
Are  we  going  to  allow  a  body  that  isn't  there 
To  come  between  us? 

TEGEUS.  But  I'm  responsible  for  it. 

I  have  to  account  for  it  in  the  morning.  Surely 
You  see,  Dynamene,  the  horror  we're  faced  with? 

688         THE   DRAMA 


The  relatives  have  had  time  to  cut  him  down 

And  take  him  away  for  burial.  It  means 

A  court  martial.  No  doubt  about  the  sentence. 

I  shall  take  the  place  of  the  missing  man. 

To  be  hanged,  Dynamene!  Hanged,  Dynamene! 

DYNAMENE.  No;  it's  monstrous!  Your  life  is  yours,  Chromis. 

TEGEUS.  Anything  but.  That's  why  I  have  to  take  it. 
At  the  best  we  live  our  lives  on  loan, 
At  the  worst  in  chains.  And  I  was  never  born 
To  have  life.  Then  for  what?  To  be  had  by  it, 
And  so  are  we  all.  But  I'll  make  it  what  it  is, 
By  making  it  nothing. 

DYNAMENE.  Chromis,  you're  frightening  me. 

What  are  you  meaning  to  do? 

TEGEUS.  I  have  to  die, 

Dance  of  my  heart,  I  have  to  die,  to  die, 
To  part  us,  to  go  to  my  sword  and  let  it  part  us, 
I'll  have  my  free  will  even  if  I'm  compelled  to  it. 
I'll  kill  myself. 

DYNAMENE.  Oh,  nol  No,  Chromis! 

It's  all  unreasonable— no  such  horror 
Can  come  of  a  pure  accident.  Have  you  hanged? 
How  can  they  hang  you  for  simply  not  being  somewhere? 
How  can  they  hang  you  for  losing  a  dead  man? 
They  must  have  wanted  to  lose  him,  or  they  wouldn't 
Have  hanged  him.  No,  you're  scaring  yourself  for  nothing 
And  making  me  frantic. 

TEGEUS.  It's  section  six,  paragraph 

Three  in  the  Regulations.  That's  my  doom. 
I've  read  it  for  myself.  And,  by  my  doom, 
Since  I  have  to  die,  let  me  die  here,  in  love, 
Promoted  by  your  kiss  to  tower,  in  dying, 
High  above  my  birth.  For  god's  sake  let  me  die 
On  a  wave  of  life,  Dynamene,  with  an  action 
I  can  take  some  pride  in.  How  could  I  settle  to  death 
Knowing  that  you  last  saw  me  stripped  and  strangled 
On  a  holly  tree?  Demoted  first  and  then  hanged! 

DYNAMENE.  Am  I  supposed  to  love  the  corporal 
Or  you?  It's  you  I  love,  from  head  to  foot 
And  out  to  the  ends  of  your  spirit.  What  shall  I  do 
If  you  die?  How  could  I  follow  you?  I  should  find  you 
Discussing  me  with  my  husband,  comparing  your  feelings, 


A   PHOENIX  TOO  FBEQUENT        689 


Exchanging  reactions.  Where  should  I  put  myself? 

Or  am  I  to  live  on  alone,  or  find  in  life 

Another  source  of  love,  in  memory 

Of  Virilius  and  of  you? 
TEGEUS.  Dynamene, 

Not  that!  Since  everything  in  the  lives  of  men 

Is  brief  to  indifference,  let  our  love  at  least 

Echo  and  perpetuate  itself  uniquely 

As  long  as  time  allows  you.  Though  you  go 

To  the  limit  of  age,  it  won't  be  far  to  contain  me. 
DYNAMENE.  It  will  seem  like  eternity  ground  into  days  and  days. 
TEGEUS.  Can  I  be  certain  of  you,  for  ever? 

DYNAMENE.  But,  ChrOHlis, 

Surely  you  said 

TEGEUS.  Surely  we  have  sensed 

Our  passion  to  be  greater  than  mortal?  Must  I 

Die  believing  it  is  dying  with  me? 
DYNAMENE.  Chromis, 

You  must  never  die,  never!  It  would  be 

An  offence  against  truth. 
TEGEUS.  I  cannot  live  to  be  hanged. 

It  would  be  an  offence  against  life.  Give  me  my  sword, 

Dynamene.  O  Hades,  when  you  look  pale 

You  take  the  heart  out  of  me.  I  could  die 

Without  a  sword  by  seeing  you  suffer.  Quickly! 

Give  me  my  heart  back  again  with  your  lips 

And  111  live  the  rest  of  my  ambitions 

In  a  last  kiss. 
DYNAMENE.          Oh,  no,  no,  nol 

Give  my  blessing  to  your  desertion  of  me? 

Never,  Chromis,  never.  Kiss  you  and  then 

Let  you  go?  Love  you,  for  death  to  have  you? 

Am  I  to  be  made  the  fool  of  courts  martial? 

Who  are  they  who  think  they  can  discipline  souls 

Right  off  the  earth?  What  discipline  is  that? 

Chromis,  love  is  the  only  discipline 

And  we're  the  disciples  of  love.  I  hold  you  to  that: 

Hold  you,  hold  you. 
TEGEUS.  We  have  no  chance.  It's  determined 

In  section  six,  paragraph  three,  of  the  Regulations. 

That  has  more  power  than  love.  It  can  snuff  the  great 

Candles  of  creation.  It  makes  me  able 

690        THE  DRAMA 


To  do  the  impossible,  to  leave  you,  to  go  from  the  light 
That  keeps  you. 

DYNAMENE.  No! 

TEGEUS.  O  dark,  it  does.  Good-bye, 

My  memory  of  earth,  my  dear  most  dear 

Beyond  every  expectation.  I  was  wrong 

To  want  you  to  keep  our  vows  existent 

In  the  vacuum  that's  coming.  It  would  make  you 

A  heaviness  to  the  world,  when  you  should  be, 

As  you  are,  a  form  of  light.  Dynamene,  turn 

Your  head  away.  I'm  going  to  let  my  sword 

Solve  all  the  riddles. 
DYNAMENE.  Chromis,  I  have  itl  I  knowl 

Virilius  will  help  you. 
TEGEUS.  Virilius? 

DYNAMENE.  My  husband.  He  can  be  the  other  body. 
TEGEUS.  Your  husband  can? 
DYNAMENE.  He  has  no  further  use 

For  what  he  left  of  himself  to  lie  with  us  here. 

Is  there  any  reason  why  he  shouldn't  hang 

On  your  holly  tree?  Better,  far  better,  he, 

Than  you  who  are  still  alive,  and  surely  better 

Than  idling  into  corruption? 
TEGEUS.  Hang  your  husband? 

Dynamene,  it's  terrible,  horrible. 
DYNAMENE.  How  little  you  can  understand.  I  loved 

His  life  not  his  death.  And  now  we  can  give  his  death 

The  power  of  life.  Not  horrible:  wonderful! 

Isn't  it  so?  That  I  should  be  able  to  feel 

He  moves  again  in  the  world,  accomplishing 

Our  welfare?  It's  more  than  my  grief  could  do. 
TEGEUS.  What  can  I  say? 
DYNAMENE.  That  you  love  me;  as  I  love  him 

And  you.  Let's  celebrate  your  safety  then. 

Where's  the  bottle?  There's  some  wine  unfinished  in  this  bowl. 

I'll  share  it  with  you.  Now  forget  the  fear 

We  were  in;  look  at  me,  Chromis.  Come  away 

From  the  pit  you  nearly  dropped  us  in.  My  darling, 

I  give  you  Virilius. 
TEGEUS.  Virilius. 

And  all  that  follows. 
DOTO  (on  the  steps,  with  the  bottle).  The  master.  Both  the  masters. 

A.  PHOENIX  TOO  FREQUENT        691 


POETRY 


IF  you  have  read  Part  I  in  this  book, 
you  have  learned  already  that  poetry 
has  much  in  common  with  fiction  and 
drama.  For  the  sake  of  emphasizing 
this  fact,  we  might  briefly  review  the 
aspects  of  craftsmanship  considered 
there  in  relationship  to  poetry. 

Happenings.  If  anything,  happenings 
in  poetry  are  more  diverse  than  they 
are  in  fiction  and  drama.  At  one  ex- 
treme, the  poet  may  do  nothing  more 
than  observe  a  duck  flying  against  a 
crimson  evening  sky;  at  the  other,  he 
may  detail  the  heroic  and  bloody  activi- 
ties of  a  ten-year  war.  Happenings  are 
especially  important  in  narrative  and 
epic  poetry. 

Characterization.  Characterization  al- 
so is  a  matter  of  first  importance  in  nar- 
rative and  epic  poetry,  and  in  dramatic 
monologues  like  Browning's  "My  Last 
Duchess."  Ordinarily  you  do  not  asso- 
ciate problems  of  characterization  with 
lyric  poetry  unless  you  consider  how 
the  poem  characterizes  the  intrusive 
author.  ( See  p.  99. )  In  that  sense,  char- 
acterization becomes  an  important  as- 
pect of  many  lyrical  poems. 

Setting.  Setting,  too,  exhibits  great 
range.  It  may  be  set  forth  in  great  de- 
tail, as  in  Coleridge's  'The  Rime  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner/'  Or  it  may  be  omitted 
completely,  as  in  a  philosophical  poem 
like  Emerson's  "Brahma"  (p.  139). 
Background  is  especially  prominent  in 
lyric  poems  developing  atmosphere  or 
mood.  Foe's  "The  City  in  the  Sea"  (p. 
776)  is  a  good  example  of  this. 

Language.  There  are  certain  differ- 


ences between  the  ways  that  poets  and 
prose  writers  select  and  arrange  their 
words,  differences  that  we  shall  consider 
shortly.  In  the  main,  however,  these  are 
less  marked  than  many  suppose.  Pos- 
sibly you  have  heard  about  "poetic  dic- 
tion" or  "poetic  license"  and  have  de- 
veloped the  notion  that  poets  use  a 
special  language.  To  support  this  belief 
you  can  point  to  words  like  "e'er," 
"thou,"  and  "swain."  It  is  true  that  at 
one  time  poets  did  employ  terms  which 
were  not  so  commonly  seen  in  prose,  but 
there  was  rarely  a  significant  difference, 
and  today  there  is— in  most  poetry— 
none  at  all.  Miss  Marguerite  Wilkinson 
claims  in  her  New  Voices,  "No  good 
poet  of  today  wants  a  license  for  any 
unfair  dealings  with  words."  By  their 
employment  of  words  in  context,  poets 
often  pack  more  meaning  and  emotion 
into  them  than  prose  writers  do,  but  the 
words  themselves  are  the  ones  you  know 
already,  and  probably  the  ones  you  use 
daily. 

Certainly,  too,  the  function  of  words 
in  poetry  is  the  same  as  in  prose.  They 
body  forth  the  happenings,  characters, 
settings— images  of  all  kinds.  They  with- 
hold or  give  emphasis,  emotional  colora- 
tions, and  interpretations. 

When  we  add  to  these  matters  of 
craftsmanship  their  effects  in  terms  of 
tone  and  meaning,  and  find  that  these 
achievements  are  substantially  the  same 
in  poetry  and  in  prose,  you  may  well 
ask  what  makes  poetry  a  distinctive 
literary  form.  What  special  character- 
istics does  it  have?  More  specifically, 


692 


POETRY 


what  should  you  look  for  as  you  read 
poetry  that  you  have  not  already  been 
looking  for  in  prose?  The  answer  lies 
especially  in  five  characteristics:  rhythm, 
sound  patterns,  compactness,  figurative- 
ness,  and  emotional  intensity,  the  last 
being  the  result  of  the  first  four.  We 
shall  consider  them  in  that  order. 

Rhythm 

POETRY  is  distinct  from  prose  not  be- 
cause poetry  has  rhythm  but  be- 
cause it  has  a  more  regular  rhythm  than 
prose.  We  need  not  explain  what 
rhythm  is  since  you  already  know  that 
from  dancing  and  listening  to  music. 
Nor  do  we  need  to  elaborate  much  on 
the  thesis  that  rhythm  is  part  of  every- 
day life.  You  need  only  to  recall  the 
beating  of  your  own  heart  to  recognize 
that  rhythm  is,  in  fact,  a  necessity  of 
life.  Doubtless  you  will  be  quick  to 
admit,  too,  that  you  have  characteristic 
rhythms  for  doing  even  the  simplest 
things,  that  you  take  greater  satisfac- 
tion out  of  smooth,  rhythmic  perform- 
ances than  jerky  ones.  In  short,  rhythm 
is  natural  to  you  and  gives  you  pleasure. 
If  this  is  so  in  general,  it  should  be  so 
in  poetry  also.  You  should  find  that 
the  rhythms  of  poetry  are  natural  and 
pleasurable. 

Traditionally,  English  poetry  (but 
not  Anglo-Saxon)  has  based  its  rhythm 
upon  accent.  Whereas  in  prose  accented 
and  unaccented  syllables  occur  in  irreg- 
ular fashion  throughout  a  sentence,  in 
poetry  they  create  a  relatively  regular 
pattern.  Notice  the  difference: 

Prose: 

My  father,  a  mountaineer,  in  addi- 
tion to  swinging  a  hard  fist,  was  very 
quick  on  his  feet.  Unfortunately,  how- 
ever, he  stammered. 


Poetry: 

My  father,  he  was  a  mountaineer, 

His  fist  was  a  knotty  hammer; 

He  was  quick  on  his  feet  as  running  deer 

And  he  spoke  with  a  Yankee  stammer.' 

If  you  mark  all  the  accented  syllables 
in  these  two  examples  you  will  discover 
that  whereas  there  is  no  pattern  in  the 
prose  passage,  the  stanza  of  verse  has 
four  accents  in  the  first  and  third  lines, 
three  accents  in  the  second  and  fourth, 
and  that  unaccented  syllables  combine 
with  accented  ones  to  form  a  pattern. 
Regular  rhythmical  arrangement  like 
this  is  usually  called  meter.  In  English 
there  are  four  conventional  types  of 
meter,  each  being  distinguished  from 
the  others  by  the  number  and  accent  of 
syllables.  By  far  the  most  popular,  and 
probably  the  most  natural  to  English 
expression,  is  called  iambic.  The  basic 
unit,  or  foot,  of  iambic  has  one  unac- 
cented and  one  accented  syllable 
(,/)• 

[The  shades  [of  night  [were  fall  [ing  fastj 

Just  the  reverse  of  iambic  meter  is  the 
trochaic,  each  foot  of  which  contains  an 
accented  and  an  unaccented  syllable 
(  /  w  ).  Ordinarily  the  trochaic  rhythm 
is  slower  than  the  iambic,  thus  creating 
a  heavier  and  more  dignified  beat,  as  in 
the  following  example: 


I  Swift  of  I  foot  was  I  Hia  I  watha  I 


Anapestic  meter  contains  in  each  fool 
two  unaccented  syllables  and  one  ac- 
cented (  w  w  / ) .  Sprightly  and  frolic- 
some in  rhythm,  this  meter  is  usually 


1  Stephen  Vincent  Benet,  "The  Ballad  of 
William  Sycamore." 


POETRY 


best  adapted  to  relatively  light  subjects. 

Iw  w  /  i        w        w  /  I  ^        w 

For  the  moon  |  never  beams  |  without 

bring  [ing  me  dreams) 

Dactylic  meter  reverses  the  anapestic 
(/  *  *  ).  It  is  considerably  slower  and 
often  is  employed  to  create  a  mood  of 
strangeness. 

JThis  is  thejforest  pnjmeval  | 

"Scanning"  a  line  of  poetry  consists 
of  seeing  what  the  metrical  units  are 
and  how  many  of  them  occur  in  the  line. 
A  one-foot  line  is  called  a  monometer 
line,  a  two-foot  line  dimeter,  and  others 
in  progression  up  to  a  seven-foot  line 
are  called,  respectively,  trimeter,  tetram- 
eter, pentameter,  hexameter,  and  hep- 
tameter.  Thus  the  anapestic  line  quoted 
above  is  a  tetrameter,  and  the  dactylic 
line  a  trimeter.  Such  scanning  is  valu- 
able not  only  that  you  may  see  the  pre- 
vailing pattern  of  lines  and  stanzas  but 
also  that  you  may  see  diversions  from 
the  patterns. 

For  few  poets  use  the  same  type  of 
foot  throughout  a  poem,  since  the  result 
would  be  too  monotonous.  To  achieve 
variety  and,  even  more  important,  to 
achieve  emphasis  or  onomatopoeia,  they 
use  substitute  feet.  These  may  be  feet 
of  the  sort  we  have  considered  (e.g., 
the  trochaic  foot  in  "This  is  the  forest 
primeval")  or  they  may  be  feet  of  a  sort 
used  only  as  substitutes,  perhaps  the 
spondee  (/  /  ) ,  two  accented  syllables, 
or  the  pyrrhus  (v  v),  two  unaccented 
syllables.  Keats  offers  an  example  of 
the  former  in  the  line, 

I  The  hare  I  limped  trem  jbling  through 

/|  /i 

the  fro|zen  grass.} 


wherein  the  spondaic  second  foot  serves 
to  emphasize  and  to  imitate  the  uneven 
progress  of  the  hare  in  a  stanza  describ- 
ing a  bitter  chill  night.  Paradoxical  as 
it  may  seem,  you  will  find  that  one  of 
the  chief  insights  you  get  from  observ- 
ing a  poem's  rhythmic  pattern  derives 
from  considering  where  and  why  the 
poet  deviates  from  that  pattern. 

Many  modern  poets  have  come  to 
believe  that  none  of  these  metrical 
schemes  is  adequate  for  what  they  have 
to  say.  Rhythm,  they  assert,  must  be 
organic,  must  rise  naturally  out  of  mood 
and  content  and  must  not  be  a  regular- 
ized system  imposed  upon  them.  As  a 
result,  they  write  what  is  called  free 
verse,  poetry  which  follows  no  system- 
ized  metrical  pattern.  At  its  worst  such 
poetry  seems  like  nothing  so  much  as  bad 
prose;  at  its  best  it  achieves  a  variety 
and  subtlety  of  rhythm  quite  beyond 
the  possibilities  of  the  more  conventional 
methods.  One  of  the  best  examples  of 
free  verse  in  this  book  is  Whitman's 
"When  Lilacs  Last  in  the  Dooryard 
Bloom'd"  (p.  785). 

Sound  patterns 

we  have  seen,  English  rhythm  is 
largely  a  matter  of  accent  pat- 
terns. Corresponding  to  these  are  certain 
sound  patterns,  the  most  obvious  and 
familiar  of  which  is  rhyme.  Rhyme  adds 
melody,  creates  harmony,  and  gives  fin- 
ish to  line  endings.  Most  important,  it 
distinguishes  parts  of  a  poem  by  setting 
them  off  from  one  another.  Wordsworth's 
sonnet  "Evening  on  Calais  Beach"  ex- 
emplifies this  last  point  especially  well. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad 
sun 


POETRY 


Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquility; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er 

the  Sea; 

Listen!  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion 

make 

A  sound  like  thunder— everlastingly. 
Dear  Child/  dear  Girl/  that  walkest  with 

me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn 

thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine; 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the 

year; 
And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner 

shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know 
it  not. 

The  rhyme  scheme  here  is  like  that  of 
the  Petrarchan  sonnet:  abba,  acca,  def, 
dfe.  According  to  this  pattern,  the  first 
eight  lines  are  distinct  from  the  last  six, 
with  each  of  these  divisions  being  subdi- 
vided into  two  equal  parts.  Notice  how 
the  sense  of  the  poem  corresponds,  The 
first  eight  lines  describe  the  scene;  the 
last  six  evaluate  the  child's  and,  inciden- 
tally, the  poet's  reaction  to  the  scene.  The 
first  half  of  the  first  division  deals  with 
evening  and  sun,  the  second  with  the 
sea.  The  first  half  of  the  second  division 
suggests  the  child's  apparent  indiffer- 
ence to  the  scene;  the  second  half  ac- 
counts for  this  attitude.  What  is  clear, 
therefore,  is  that  rhyme  can  be  a  valu- 
able clue  to  meaning. 

But  when  all  this  is  said,  the  fact  still 
remains  that  much  great  poetry  has 
been  written  without  rhyme.  Conse- 
quently, though  rhyme  is  valuable  and 
delightful  for  many  reasons,  it  is  not 
indispensable  to  all  kinds  of  verse. 

Other  prominent  sound  patterns  are 
alliteration,  assonance,  onomatopoeia, 


and  cacophony.  Some  of  these  have  al- 
ready been  illustrated  in  this  text  (p.  84) 
and  are  defined  in  the  Glossary  and 
Index  of  Critical  Terms.  Nevertheless, 
it  should  be  pointed  out  here,  briefly, 
that  these  devices  are  peculiarly  val- 
uable to  the  poet  since  like  rhyme  they 
help  create  the  mood  which  he  feels 
an  essential  part  of  his  experience.  What 
is  especially  Important  to  him  is  that 
they  do  this  quickly.  Notice  how  in  a 
single  line  Coleridge  gives  you  a  sense 
of  a  curse  simply  by  repeating  the  V 
sound  until  he  gets  a  sustained  hiss: 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that 
curse. 

To  get  the  full  effect  of  these  sound 
patterns  you  should  read  poetry  aloud. 
Try  it  with  Poe's  "The  City  in  the  Sea" 
(p,  776)  and  notice  how  much  sound 
contributes  to  your  awareness  and  your 
pleasure. 

Compactness 

WHEREAS  the  prose  writer  within 
sensible  limits  may  be  as  discur- 
sive as  he  wishes,  the  poet  should  never 
be  so.  Because  of  the  limitation  of  his 
form,  the  poet  must  choose  his  material 
with  especial  care  and  screen  his  lan- 
guage for  all  useless  words.  This  careful 
selection  and  sifting  result  in  compact- 
ness and  consequently  the  necessity  for 
thoughtful,  sensitive  reading* 

At  first  glance  you  may  question  what 
the  selection  of  material  has  to  do  with 
compactness  of  expression.  The  answer 
can  be  discovered  by  examining  the 
poet's  purpose  and  his  medium.  The 
poet's  purpose  is  to  communicate  ex- 
perience in  as  vivid  and  memorable  a 
fashion  as  possible.  If  he  is  a  good  poet, 
he  is  admirably  equipped  to  do  this,  for 


POETRY 


695 


he  has  ihe  faculty,  as  Elizabeth  Drew 
shows,  of  revealing  things  in  relation- 
ships which  in  normal  experience  are 
hidden.  Especially,  he  is  sensitive  to 
the  quality  of  experience.  Let  us  try  to 
clarify  this  with  a  simple  example.  Un- 
doubtedly, you  have  had  that  sore, 
empty  feeling  that  comes  at  the  time  of 
the  death  of  someone  dear  to  you.  You 
continue  with  your  daily  tasks,  but  your 
mood  is  different,  and  somehow  the 
tasks  themselves  take  on  a  new  quality. 
Now  the  poet  would  be  interested  in 
this  special  quality,  and  he  would  try 
to  communicate  it  by  selecting  the  de- 
tails which  most  powerfully  suggest  it. 

To  be  sure,  this  is  what  the  prose 
writer  does  also.  But  the  job  of  the  poet 
is  a  harder  one.  The  prose  writer  may 
achieve  his  effect  by  an  accumula- 
tion of  details— hundreds  of  them,  if  he 
wishes.  The  poet,  however,  is  held  down 
by  the  shortness  of  his  form.  Possibly 
he  has  room  for  only  five  details,  pos- 
sibly three,  possibly  only  one.  Every  de- 
tail, therefore,  must  be  supremely  right. 

Compactness  also  results  from  the  way 
poets  use  words.  Like  anyone  else,  they 
use  them  first  for  meaning.  But  because 
of  the  space  limitations  of  the  poetic 
form,  they  frequently  try  to  pack  more 
meaning  into  them  than  prose  writers 
do.  Often  they  have  words  operating  at 
several  levels  of  meaning  at  the  same 
time.  The  example  has  already  been 
cited  (p.  115)  of  Whitman's  "Passage 
to  India,"  in  which  the  word  "passage" 
refers  not  only  to  the  physical  trip  to 
the  Orient,  but  to  the  race's  circling 
back  to  the  land  of  its  origins,  the  mind's 
journey  from  the  world  of  science  to  the 
world  of  intuitive  insight,  and  the  soul's 
flight  to  God. 

The  poet  selects  his  words,  again  with 
probably  more  care  than  the  prose 
writer,  for  their  connotations,  the  moods 


and  associations  which  they  stir  up  in  us. 
This  is  not  surprising  since  it  is  through 
the  connotations  of  words  that  the  poet 
can  best  communicate  the  quality  of  his 
experience  within  the  few  lines  at  his 
command.  He  does  this,  first,  by  using  a 
great  many  concrete  words.  Among  con- 
crete words,  the  poet  then  chooses  those 
which  give  him  the  precise  quality  that 
he  wants.  Even  so  simple  a  poem  as 
Edgar  Allan  Poe's  "The  Bells"  gives  us 
a  chance  to  observe  this.  In  it  Poe  set 
for  himself  the  little  exercise  of  catching 
the  quality  of  four  different  kinds  of 
bells.  Notice  the  key  words  he  uses  with 
each.  In  meaning,  the  words  within 
each  group  are  not  too  dissimilar;  in  con- 
notation they  are  quite  different: 

Silver  bells:  tinkle,  tintinnabulation, 

jingling 

Golden  bells:  ring,  rhyming,  chiming 
Bronze  bells:  shriek,  clamor,  clanging 
Iron  bells:  tolling,  moaning,  groaning. 

What  this  comes  down  to  is  that  in 
poetry  compactness  with  words  is  not 
so  much  a  matter  of  cutting  away  need- 
less ones  as  packing  the  useful  ones  with 
all  the  meaning  and  emotion  possible. 
Those  learning  to  write  freshman  themes 
can,  after  practice,  eliminate  deadwood, 
but  only  someone  highly  sensitive  to 
the  potentialities  of  words  can  make 
every  one  count  to  the  utmost. 

The  implications  of  all  this  for  the 
reader  are  clear.  He  must  realize  that 
competent  poetry  is  too  compact  for 
skimming.  He  must  realize  that  each 
detail,  each  word— literally  each  word- 
is  important. 

Figurativeness 

IN  discussing  details  under  the  head- 
ing of  compactness,  we  made  no 
attempt  to  distinguish  between  the  lit- 


POETRY 


eral  and  the  figurative.  This  now  should 
be  done,  since  one  of  the  most  outstand- 
ing characteristics  of  poetry  is  its  exten- 
sive use  of  metaphors,  similes,  personi- 
fications, and  other  figures  of  speech. 

Of  all  these  figures,  metaphors  and 
similes  are  by  far  the  most  important. 
Through  the  images  they  create,  the  poet 
can  catch  the  quality  of  the  experience 
he  is  after  far  more  quickly  and  vividly 
than  he  can  by  describing  his  thought 
or  his  action  literally.  You  can  see  why 
this  is  so.  Metaphors  and  similes  are 
concrete:  they  create  images  which  ap- 
peal to  your  senses.  Therefore,  when 
well  chosen  they  are  easily  visualized 
and  remembered.  When  well  phrased, 
they  are  richly  connotative.  Being  com- 
parisons, they  fuse  the  original  ex- 
perience with  other  experiences,  thus 
compounding  the  physical,  emotional, 
and  even  intellectual  values. 

All  of  this  would  contradict  a  popular 
notion  that  similes  and  metaphors  are 
extraneous  decorations  which  can  be 
lopped  off  without  undue  loss  to  mean- 
ing or  emotion.  Figures  of  speech  can 
be  such  if  they  are  simply  tacked  on 
for  no  purpose  other  than  to  show  the 
poet's  cleverness.  But  when  well  used 
they  are  structural  necessities,  and  often 
are  more  essential  than  a  literal  state- 
ment would  be.  One  must  constantly 
keep  in  mind  that  the  poet  is  anxious 
to  convey  his  sense  of  the  meaning  and 
quality  of  experience  and  to  do  it  in 
considerably  less  space  than  the  prose 
writer.  For  this  purpose  metaphors  and 
similes  are  indispensable.  How  quickly 
or  well,  for  instance,  could  a  literal  prose 
definition  of  the  word  "presentiment" 
carry  the  quiet  foreboding  suggested  in 
Emily  Dickinson's  metaphor: 

Presentiment  is  that  long  shadow  on  the 
lawn 


Indicative  that  suns  go  down; 
7'he  notice  to  the  startled  grass 
That  darkness  is  about  to  pass. 

And  notice  how  Coleridge  conveys 
the  sense  of  complete  inactivity,  first  by 
the  metaphor  "stuck"  and  second  by 
the  simile  of  the  painting: 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion: 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Through  another  figure,  personifica- 
tion, poets  can  achieve  a  startling  vivid- 
ness often  quite  beyond  the  potentiali- 
ties of  more  conventional  statements.  In 
"Grass,"  for  example,  Sandburg  creates 
an  effect  that  no  disquisition  on  the  tran- 
sitoriness  of  life  could  hope  to  achieve. 
Here  are  the  first  lines: 

Pile  the  bodies  high  at  Austerlitz  and 

Waterloo. 

Shovel  them  under  and  let  me  work: 
I  am  the  Grass;  I  cover  all. 

Other  figures,  too,  create  images  and 
symbols;  you  can  look  them  up  in  the 
Glossary  under  such  headings  as  hyper- 
bole and  synecdoche.  Intentionally  we 
have  repeated  here  much  about  figures 
of  speech  which  we  discussed  earlier 
(pp.  82-83)  in  order  to  emphasize  the 
fact  that  though  figures  are  the  tools  of 
all  imaginative  writers  they  are  especial- 
ly useful  to  the  poet.  In  poetry,  there- 
fore, you  can  expect  to  find  them  used 
more  extensively  and,  on  the  whole, 
more  brilliantly. 

Emotional  intensity 

IF  rhythm,  sound  patterns,  compact- 
ness, and  figures  of  speech  are  all 
handled  in  a  craftsmanlflce  way,  the 


POETHY 


inevitable  result  is  that  the  poem  will 
make  a  stronger  emotional  impact  upon 
the  reader  than  any  equivalent  passage 
in  prose  can  do.  The  truth  of  this  is 
almost  self-evident.  Rhythm  heightens 
feelings  almost  always;  think  of  one  of 
the  simplest  kinds,  the  beat  of  a  drum. 
Sound  patterns  add  tone  values;  com- 
pactness keeps  the  material  from  being 
thinned  out  through  careless  selection 
or  through  pale  and  useless  words;  fig- 
ures make  the  subject  vivid  and  mem- 
orable. The  most  intense  realizations 
of  human  experiences,  therefore,  when 
stated  verbally,  must  almost  inevitably 
find  expression  in  poetry.  Prose  cannot 
do  them  justice. 

Except  for  rhyme,  no  one  of  these 
characteristics  which  we  have  discussed 
is  peculiar  to  poetry.  There  is  simply  a 
difference  in  degree.  This  means  that 
there  is  no  sharp  line  between  prose  and 
poetry.  One  merges  into  the  other  as  the 
rhythm  becomes  more  regular,  the 
imagery  more  vivid,  the  statement  more 
compact,  and  the  emotion  more  intense. 
You  cannot  measure  the  difference  with 
a  pair  of  literary  calipers,  but  you  can 
feel  it  as  you  read.  It  is  like  a  man  in 
love.  He  cannot  measure  the  difference 
between  his  affection  for  a  cousin  and 
that  for  his  fiancee,  but  he  knows  it  is 
there,  that  it  is  a  reality. 


If  you  are  to  read  poetry  well,  you 
must  know,  then,  what  its  characteristics 
are  and  what  the  poet  is  attempting  to 
do.  You  must  not  expect  the  fully  de- 
veloped situations  of  the  novel,  the  play, 
or  even  the  short  story.  Rather,  you 
should  look  for  sudden  bursts  of  insight 
into  some  corner  of  human  experience. 
More  important,  possibly,  you  should 
look  forward  to  sharing  briefly  in  the 
experience  itself.  For  it  is  part  of  the 
magic  of  poetry  that  at  one  and  the  same 
time  it  can  tell  you  about  experience  and 
make  you  feel  its  peculiar  significance. 


In  the  following  section  we  have 
tried  to  show  you  the  characteristic 
types  of  poetry  which  have  been  written 
in  the  English  language.  All  of  the 
selections  included  here  were  originally 
written  in  English  except  those  from  the 
Bible  and  the  Iliad.  These  are  included 
because  they  have  been  read  as  much 
or  more  in  America  and  England  than 
our  original  verse,  and  because  the 
sources  they  represent  have  had  so  pro- 
found an  effect  upon  our  native  poets. 
The  poems  are  arranged  chronologically 
so  that  you  can  see  how  tastes  and 
forms  have  changed  even  though  the 
basic  characteristics  have  remained  con- 
stant. 


POETRY 


Hebrew  lyrics 


Psalm  1 

BLESSED  is  the  man  that  walketh  not  in  the  counsel  of  the  ungodly, 
Nor  standeth  in  the  way  of  sinners, 
Nor  sitteth  in  the  seat  of  the  scornful. 
But  his  delight  is  in  the  law  of  the  Lord; 

And  in  his  law  doth  he  meditate  day  and  night.  5 

And  he  shall  be  like  a  tree  planted  by  the  rivers  of  water, 
That  bringeth  forth  his  fruit  in  his  season, 
His  leaf  also  shall  not  wither; 
And  whatsoever  he  doeth  shall  prosper. 

The  ungodly  are  not  so;  10 

But  are  like  the  chaff  which  the  wind  driveth  away. 
Therefore  the  ungodly  shall  not  stand  in  the  judgment, 
Nor  sinners  in  the  congregation  of  the  righteous. 
For  the  Lord  knoweth  the  way  of  the  righteous: 
But  the  way  of  the  ungodly  shall  perish.  15 

Psalm  23 

THE  LORD  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want. 
He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures; 
He  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters. 
He  restoreth  my  soul: 

He  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of  righteousness  for  his  name's  sake.  5 

Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death, 
I  will  fear  no  evil;  for  thou  art  with  me: 
Thy  rod  and  thy  staff,  they  comfort  me. 

Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  presence  of  mine  enemies: 
Thou  anointest  my  head  with  oil;  my  cup  runneth  over.  10 

Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of  my  life: 
And  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever. 

Psalm  24 

r  I  IHE  EARTH  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof; 

J^  The  world,  and  they  that  dwell  therein. 
For  he  hath  founded  it  upon  the  seas, 

PSALM   24        699 


And  established  it  upon  the  floods. 

Who  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  the  Lord?  5 

Or  who  shall  stand  in  his  holy  place? 

He  that  hath  clean  hands,  and  a  pure  heart; 

Who  hath  not  lifted  up  his  soul  unto  vanity,  nor  sworn  deceitfully. 

He  shall  receive  the  blessing  from  the  Lord, 

And  righteousness  from  the  God  of  his  salvation.  10 

This  is  the  generation  of  them  that  seek  him, 

That  seek  thy  face,  O  Jacob. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates; 

And  be  ye  lift  up,  ye  everlasting  doors: 

And  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in.  15 

Who  is  this  King  of  glory? 

The  Lord  strong  and  mighty, 

The  Lord  mighty  in  battle. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates; 

Even  lift  them  up,  ye  everlasting  doors:  20 

And  the  King  of  glory  shall  come  in. 

Who  is  this  King  of  glory? 

The  Lord  of  hosts, 

He  is  the  King  of  glory. 

Psalm  100 

MAKE  a  joyful  noise  unto  the  Lord  all  ye  lands. 
Serve  the  Lord  with  gladness : 
Come  before  his  presence  with  singing. 
Know  ye  that  the  Lord  he  is  God: 

It  is  he  that  hath  made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves;  5 

We  are  his  people,  and  the  sheep  of  his  pasture. 
Enter  into  his  gates  with  thanksgiving, 
And  into  his  courts  with  praise: 
Be  thankful  unto  him,  and  bless  his  name. 

For  the  Lord  is  good;  10 

His  mercy  is  everlasting; 
And  his  truth  endureth  to  all  generations. 

Psalm  121 

I  WILL  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills: 
From  whence  cometh  my  help. 
My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord. 

700        POETRY 


Which  made  heaven  and  earth. 

He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved.  5 

He  that  keepeth  thee  will  not  slumber. 

Behold,  he  that  keepeth  Israel 

Shall  neither  slumber  nor  sleep. 

The  Lord  is  thy  keeper: 

The  Lord  is  thy  shade  upon  thy  right  hand.  10 

The  sun  shall  not  smite  thee  by  day, 

Nor  the  moon  by  night. 

The  Lord  shall  preserve  thee  from  all  evil; 

He  shall  preserve  thy  soul. 

The  Lord  shall  preserve  thy  going  out  and  thy  coming  in,  15 

From  this  time  forth  and  even  for  evermore. 


The  classical  epic 

from  The  Iliad 


The  Iliad  is  attributed  to  Homer,  a  poet  supposed  to  have  lived  about 
the  ninth  century  B.C.  It  is  the  story  of  the  main  events  which  took  place 
in  the  tenth  year  of  the  siege  of  Troy  by  the  Greeks.  As  the  poem  opens, 
Achilles  has  withdrawn  from  the  rest  of  the  Greeks  because  of  a  quarrel  with 
Agamemnon,  leader  of  the  Greeks  and  older  brother  of  Menelaus.  The  gods 
quarrel  over  the  affair,  too,  with  the  result  that  Jupiter,  incited  by  Thetis, 
persuades  Agamemnon  to  lead  the  Greeks  into  battle  without  the  aid  of 
the  sulking  Achilles  and  his  Myrmidons.  The  troops  almost  revolt,  but  they 
are  persuaded  otherwise  by  Ulysses,  Nestor,  and  other  Greek  chieftains. 
They  then  group  themselves  for  battle. 

Through  the  eloquence  of  Hector,  son  of  Priam,  the  Trojan  king,  both 
armies  agree  to  decide  the  battle  by  single  combat.  The  lots  jail  appropriately 
to  Menelaus  (Atrides),  jilted  husband  of  Helen,  and  to  Paris  (Alexander), 
also  Priam's  son,  who  started  the  war  by  carrying  Helen  off  to  Troy.  The 
following  passage  (from  the  translation  by  William  Cullen  Bryant)  tells  of 
the  combat  and  how  Paris9  though  beaten,  is  transported  to  Helen  by  Venus, 
with  whom  he  is  a  favorite. 

from  BOOK  in 

Bur  HECTOR,  son  of  Priam,  and  the  great 
Ulysses  measured  off  a  fitting  space, 
And  in  a  brazen  helmet,  to  decide 

THK    IUAD         701 


Which  warrior  first  should  hurl  the  brazen  spear,  395 

They  shook  the  lots,  while  all  the  people  round 
Lifted  their  hands  to  heaven  and  prayed  the  gods; 
And  thus  the  Trojans  and  Achaians  said:— 

"0  Father  Jove,  who  rulest  from  the  top 

Of  Ida,  mightiest  one  and  most  augustl  400 

Whichever  of  these  twain  has  done  the  wrong, 
Grant  that  he  pass  to  Pluto's  dwelling,  slain, 
While  friendship  and  a  faithful  league  are  ours." 

So  spake  they.  Hector  of  the  beamy  helm 

Looked  back  and  shook  the  lots.  Forth  leaped  at  once  405 

The  lot  of  Paris.  Then  they  took  their  seats 
In  ranks  beside  their  rapid  steeds,  and  where 
Lay  their  rich  armor.  Paris  the  divine, 
Husband  of  bright-haired  Helen,  there  put  on 
His  shining  panoply,— upon  his  legs  410 

Fair  greaves,  with  silver  clasps,  and  on  his  breast 
His  brother's  mail,  Lycaon's,  fitting  well 
His  form.  Around  his  shoulders  then  he  hung 
His  silver-studded  sword,  and  stout,  broad  shield, 
And  gave  his  glorious  brows  the  dreadful  helm,  415 

Dark  with  its  horse-hair  plume.  A  massive  spear 
Filled  his  right  hand.  Meantime  the  warlike  son 
Of  Atreus  clad  himself  in  like  array. 

And  now  when  both  were  armed  for  fight,  and  each 
Had  left  his  host,  and,  coming  forward,  walked  420 

Between  the  Trojans  and  the  Greeks,  and  frowned 
Upon  the  other,  a  mute  wonder  held 
The  Trojan  cavaliers  and  well-greaved  Greeks. 
There  near  each  other  in  the  measured  space 
They  stood  in  wrathful  mood  with  lifted  spears.  425 

First  Paris  hurled  his  massive  spear;  it  smote 
The  round  shield  of  Atrides,  but  the  brass 
Broke  not  beneath  the  blow;  the  weapon's  point 
Was  bent  on  that  strong  shield.  The  next  assault 
Atrides  Menelaus  made,  but  first  430 

Offered  this  prayer  to  Father  Jupiter:— 

"O  sovereign  Jovel  vouchsafe  that  I  avenge 
On  guilty  Paris  wrongs  which  he  was  first 
To  offer;  let  him  fall  beneath  my  hand, 
That  men  may  dread  hereafter  to  requite  435 

702       POKTOY 


The  friendship  of  a  host  with  injury/' 
He  spake,  and  flung  his  brandished  spear;  it  smote 

The  round  shield  of  Priamides;  right  through 

The  shining  buckler  went  the  rapid  steel, 

And,  cutting  the  soft  tunic  near  die  flank,  440 

Stood  fixed  in  the  fair  corselet.  Paris  bent 

Sideways  before  it  and  escaped  his  death. 

Atrides  drew  his  silver-studded  sword, 

Lifted  it  high  and  smote  his  enemy's  crest. 

The  weapon,  shattered  to  four  fragments,  fell.  445 

He  looked  to  the  broad  heaven,  and  thus  exclaimed:— 
"O  Father  Jove!  thou  art  of  all  the  gods 

The  most  unfriendly.  I  had  hoped  to  avenge 

The  wrong  by  Paris  done  me,  but  my  sword 

Is  broken  in  my  grasp,  and  from  my  hand  450 

The  spear  was  vainly  flung  and  gave  no  wound." 
He  spake,  and,  rushing  forward,  seized  the  helm 

Of  Paris  by  its  horse-hair  crest,  and  turned 

And  dragged  him  toward  the  well-armed  Greeks.  Beneath 

His  tender  throat  the  embroidered  band  that  held  455 

The  helmet  to  the  chin  was  choking  him. 

And  now  had  Menelaus  dragged  him  thence, 

And  earned  great  glory,  if  the  child  of  Jove, 

Venus,  had  not  perceived  his  plight  in  time. 

She  broke  the  ox-hide  band;  an  empty  helm  460 

Followed  the  powerful  hand;  the  hero  saw, 

Swung  it  aloft  and  hurled  it  toward  the  Greeks, 

And  there  his  comrades  seized  it.  He  again 

Rushed  with  his  brazen  spear  to  slay  his  foe. 

But  Venus— for  a  goddess  easily  465 

Can  work  such  marvels— rescued  him,  and,  wrapped 

In  a  thick  shadow,  bore  him  from  the  field 

And  placed  him  in  his  chamber,  where  the  air 

Was  sweet  with  perfumes.  Then  she  took  her  way 

To  summon  Helen.  On  the  lofty  tower  47° 

She  found  her,  midst  a  throng  of  Trojan  dames, 

And  plucked  her  perfumed  robe.  She  took  the  form 

And  features  of  a  spinner  of  the  fleece, 

An  aged  dame,  who  used  to  comb  for  her 

The  fair  white  wool  in  Lacedaemon's  halls,  475 

And  loved  her  much.  In  such  an  humble  guise 

THE    ILIAD         703 


The  goddess  Venus  thus  to  Helen  spake:— 

"Come  hither,  Alexander  sends  for  thee; 
He  now  is  in  his  chamber  and  at  rest 

On  his  carved  couch;  in  beauty  and  attire  480 

Resplendent,  not  like  one  who  just  returns 
From  combat  with  a  hero,  but  like  one 
Who  goes  to  mingle  in  the  choral  dance, 
Or,  when  the  dance  is  ended,  takes  his  seat." 

She  spake,  and  Helen  heard  her,  deeply  moved;  485 

Yet  when  she  marked  the  goddess's  fair  neck, 
Beautiful  bosom,  and  soft,  lustrous  eyes, 
Her  heart  was  touched  with  awe,  and  thus  she  said:— 

"Strange  being!  why  wilt  thou  delude  me  still? 

Wouldst  thou  decoy  me  further  on  among  49^ 

The  populous  Phrygian  towns,  or  those  that  stud 
Pleasant  Maeonia,  where  there  haply  dwells 
Some  one  of  mortal  race  whom  thou  dost  deign 
To  make  thy  favorite?  Hast  thou  seen,  perhaps, 
That  Menelaus,  having  overpowered  495 

The  noble  Alexander,  seeks  to  bear 
Me,  hated  as  I  must  be,  to  his  home? 
And  hast  thou  therefore  fallen  on  this  device? 
Go  to  him,  sit  by  him,  renounce  for  him 

The  company  of  gods,  and  never  more  5<><> 

Return  to  heaven,  but  suffer  with  him;  watch 
Beside  him  till  he  take  thee  for  his  wife 
Or  handmaid.  Thither  I  shall  never  go, 
To  adorn  his  couch  and  to  disgrace  myself. 

The  Trojan  dames  would  taunt  me.  O,  the  griefs  5°5 

That  press  upon  my  soul  are  infinite!" 

Displeased,  the  goddess  Venus  answered:  "Wretch, 
Incense  me  not,  lest  I  abandon  thee 
In  anger,  and  detest  thee  with  a  zeal 

As  great  as  is  my  love,  and  lest  I  cause  510 

Trojan  and  Greeks  to  hate  thee,  so  that  thou 
Shalt  miserably  perish."  Thus  she  spake; 
And  Helen,  Jove-begotten,  struck  with  awe, 
Wrapped  in  a  robe  of  shining  white,  went  forth 
In  silence  from  amidst  the  Trojan  dames,  515 

Unheeded,  for  the  goddess  led  the  way. 

When  now  they  stood  beneath  the  sumptuous  roof 
Of  Alexander,  straightway  did  the  maids 

704     POETRY 


Turn  to  their  wonted  tasks,  while  she  went  up, 

Fairest  of  women,  to  her  chamber.  There  520 

The  laughing  Venus  brought  and  placed  a  seat 

Right  opposite  to  Paris.  Helen  sat, 

Daughter  of  aegis-bearing  Jove,  with  eyes 

Averted,  and  reproached  her  husband  thus:— 

"Com'st  thou  from  battle?  Rather  would  that  thou  525 

Hadst  perished  by  the  mighty  hand  of  him 
Who  was  my  husband.  It  was  once,  I  know, 
Thy  boast  that  thou  wert  more  than  peer  in  strength 
And  power  of  hand,  and  practice  with  the  spear, 
To  warlike  Menelaus.  Go  then  now,  530 

Defy  him  to  the  combat  once  again. 
And  yet  I  counsel  thee  to  stand  aloof, 
Nor  rashly  seek  a  combat,  hand  to  hand, 
With  fair-haired  Menelaus,  lest  perchance 
He  smite  thee  with  his  spear  and  thou  be  slain."  535 

Then  Paris  answered:  "Woman,  chide  me  not 
Thus  harshly.  True  it  is,  that,  with  the  aid 
Of  Pallas,  Menelaus  hath  obtained 
The  victory;  but  I  may  vanquish  him 

In  turn,  for  we  have  also  gods  with  us.  540 

Give  we  the  hour  to  dalliance;  never  yet 
Have  I  so  strongly  proved  the  power  of  love,— 
Not  even  when  I  bore  thee  from  thy  home 
In  pleasant  Lacedaemon,  traversing 

The  deep  in  my  good  ships,  and  in  the  isle  545 

Of  Cranae  made  thee  mine,— such  glow  of  love 
Possesses  me,  and  sweetness  of  desire/' 

He  spake,  and  to  the  couch  went  up.  His  wife 
Followed,  and  that  fair  couch  received  them  both. 

Meantime  Atrides,  like  a  beast  of  prey,  550 

Went  fiercely  ranging  through  the  crowd  in  search 
Of  godlike  Alexander.  None  of  all 
The  Trojans,  or  of  their  renowned  allies, 
Could  point  him  out  to  Menelaus,  loved 

Of  Mars;  and  had  they  known  his  lurking-place  555 

They  would  not  for  his  sake  have  kept  him  hid, 
For  like  black  death  they  hated  him.  Then  stood 
Among  them  Agamemnon,  king  of  men, 
And  spake:  "Ye  Trojans  and  Achaians,  hear, 
And  ye  allies.  The  victory  belongs  560 

THE    IUAD        70S 


H1 


To  warlike  Menelaus.  Ye  will  then 
Restore  the  Argive  Helen  and  her  wealth, 
And  pay  the  fitting  fine,  which  shall  remain 
A  memory  to  men  in  future  times." 

Thus  spake  the  son  of  Atreus,  and  the  rest  565 

Of  the  Achaian  host  approved  his  words. 

Through  the  meddling  of  the  gods  the  truce  is  broken  and  the  battle 
resumes.  Finding  the  contest  going  against  them,  the  Trojans  withdraw  to 
entreat  the  help  of  Minerva.  After  performing  the  proper  rites,  Hector  visits 
his  wife,  Andromache.  The  tenderness  of  this  passage  is  in  sharp  contrast 
to  the  battle  accounts  which  characterize  most  of  this  poem. 

from  BOOK  vi 

"ECTOR  left  in  haste  5<>5 

The  mansion,  and  retraced  his  way  between 
The  rows  of  stately  dwellings,  traversing 
The  mighty  city.  When  at  length  he  reached 
The  Scaean  gates,  that  issue  on  the  field, 

His  spouse,  the  nobly-dowered  Andromache  510 

Came  forth  to  meet  him,— daughter  of  the  prince 
Eetion,  who,  among  the  woody  slopes 
Of  Places,  in  the  Hypoplacian  town 
Of  Theb6,  ruled  Cilicia  and  her  sons, 

And  gave  his  child  to  Hector  great  in  arms.  515 

She  came  attended  by  a  maid,  who  bore 
A  tender  child— a  babe  too  young  to  speak— 
Upon  her  bosom,— Hector's  only  son, 
Beautiful  as  a  star,  whom  Hector  called 

Scamandrius,  but  all  else  Astyanax,—  520 

The  city's  lord,— since  Hector  stood  the  sole 
Defence  of  Troy.  The  father  on  his  child 
Looked  with  a  silent  smile.  Andromache 
Pressed  to  his  side  meanwhile,  and,  all  in  tears, 
Clung  to  his  hand,  and,  thus  beginning,  said:—  525 

"Too  brave!  thy  valor  yet  will  cause  thy  death. 
Thou  hast  no  pity  on  thy  tender  child, 
Nor  me,  unhappy  one,  who  soon  must  be 
Thy  widow.  All  the  Greeks  will  rush  on  thee 

To  take  thy  life.  A  happier  lot  were  mine,  530 

If  I  must  lose  thee,  to  go  down  to  earth, 
For  I  shall  have  no  hope  when  thou  art  gone,— 

706     POETRY 


Nothing  but  sorrow.  Father  have  I  none, 

And  no  dear  mother.  Great  Achilles  slew 

My  father  when  he  sacked  the  populous  town  535 

Of  the  Cilicians,— Theb&  with  high  gates. 

'Twas  there  he  smote  Eetion,  yet  forbore 

To  make  his  arms  a  spoil;  he  dared  not  that, 

But  burned  the  dead  with  his  bright  armor  on. 

And  raised  a  mound  above  him.  Mountain-nymphs,  540 

Daughters  of  aegis-bearing  Jupiter, 

Came  to  the  spot  and  planted  it  with  elms. 

Seven  brothers  had  I  in  my  father's  house, 

And  all  went  down  to  Hades  in  one  day. 

Achilles  the  swift-footed  slew  them  all  545 

Among  their  slow-paced  bullocks  and  white  sheep. 

My  mother,  princess  on  the  woody  slopes 

Of  Places,  with  his  spoils  he  bore  away, 

And  only  for  large  ransom  gave  her  back. 

But  her  Diana,  archer-queen,  struck  down  550 

Within  her  father's  palace.  Hector,  thou 

Art  father  and  dear  mother  now  to  me, 

And  brother  and  my  youthful  spouse  besides. 

In  pity  keep  within  the  fortress  here, 

Nor  make  thy  child  an  orphan  nor  thy  wife  555 

A  widow.  Post  thine  army  near  the  place 

Of  the  wild  fig-tree,  where  the  city-walls 

Are  low  and  may  be  scaled.  Thrice  in  the  war 

The  boldest  of  the  foe  have  tried  the  spot,— 

The  Ajaces  and  the  famed  Idomeneus,  56<> 

The  two  chiefs  born  to  Atreus,  and  the  brave 

Tydides,  whether  counselled  by  some  seer 

Or  prompted  to  the  attempt  by  their  own  minds." 

Then  answered  Hector,  great  in  war:  "All  this 
I  bear  in  mind,  dear  wife;  but  I  should  stand  565 

Ashamed  before  the  men  and  long-robed  dames 
Of  Troy,  were  I  to  keep  aloof  and  shun 
The  conflict,  coward-like.  Not  thus  my  heart 
Prompts  me,  for  greatly  have  I  learned  to  dare 
And  strike  among  the  foremost  sons  of  Troy,  570 

Upholding  my  great  father's  fame  and  mine; 
Yet  well  in  my  undoubting  mind  I  know 
The  day  shall  come  in  which  our  sacred  Troy, 
And  Priam,  and  the  people  over  whom 

THE    ILIAD        707 


Spear-bearing  Priam  rules,  shall  perish  all  575 

But  not  the  sorrows  of  the  Trojan  race, 

Nor  those  of  Hecuba  herself,  nor  those 

Of  royal  Priam,  nor  the  woes  that  wait 

My  brothers  many  and  brave,— who  all  at  last, 

Slain  by  the  pitiless  foe,  shall  lie  in  dust,—  580 

Grieve  me  so  much  as  thine,  when  some  mailed  Greek 

Shall  lead  thee  weeping  hence,  and  take  from  thee 

Thy  day  of  freedom.  Thou  in  Argos  then 

Shalt,  at  another's  bidding,  ply  the  loom, 

And  from  the  fountain  of  Messeis  draw  585 

Water,  or  from  the  Hypereian  spring, 

Constrained  unwilling  by  thy  cruel  lot. 

And  then  shall  some  one  say  who  sees  thee  weep, 

'This  was  the  wife  of  Hector,  most  renowned 

Of  the  horse-taming  Trojans,  when  they  fought  590 

Around  their  city.'  So  shall  some  one  say, 

And  thou  shalt  grieve  the  more,  lamenting  him 

Who  haply  might  have  kept  afar  the  day 

Of  thy  captivity.  O,  let  the  earth 

Be  heaped  above  my  head  in  death  before  595 

I  hear  thy  cries  as  thou  art  borne  away!" 

So  speaking,  mighty  Hector  stretched  his  arms 
To  take  the  boy;  the  boy  shrank  crying  back 
To  his  fair  nurse's  bosom,  scared  to  see 

His  father  helmeted  in  glittering  brass,  600 

And  eying  with  affright  the  horse-hair  plume 
That  grimly  nodded  from  the  lofty  crest. 
At  this  both  parents  in  their  fondness  laughed; 
And  hastily  the  mighty  Hector  took 

The  helmet  from  his  brow  and  laid  it  down  605 

Gleaming  upon  the  ground,  and,  having  kissed 
His  darling  son  and  tossed  him  up  in  play, 
Prayed  thus  to  Jove  and  all  the  gods  of  heaven:— 

"O  Jupiter  and  all  ye  deities, 

Vouchsafe  that  this  my  son  may  yet  become  610 

Among  the  Trojans  eminent  like  me, 
And  nobly  rule  in  Ilium.  May  they  say, 
'This  man  is  greater  than  his  father  was!' 
When  they  behold  him  from  the  battle-field 
Bring  back  the  bloody  spoil  of  the  slain  foe,—  615 

708         POETRY 


That  so  his  mother  may  be  glad  at  heart." 

So  speaking,  to  the  arms  of  his  dear  spouse 
He  gave  the  boy;  she  on  her  fragrant  breast 
Received  him,  weeping  as  she  smiled.  The  chief 
Beheld,  and,  moved  with  tender  pity,  smoothed  $20 

Her  forehead  gently  with  his  hand  and  said:— 

"Sorrow  not  thus,  beloved  one,  for  me. 
No  living  man  can  send  me  to  the  shades 
Before  my  time;  no  man  of  woman  born, 

Coward  or  brave,  can  shun  his  destiny.  625 

But  go  thou  home,  and  tend  thy  labors  there,— 
The  web,  the  distaff,— and  command  thy  maids 
To  speed  the  work.  The  cares  of  war  pertain 
To  all  men  born  in  Troy,  and  most  to  me." 

The  fortune  of  battle,  controlled  largely  by  the  gods,  favors  one  side  and 
then  the  other.  The  Greeks  try  to  persuade  Achilles  to  join  them,  but  he 
continues  to  sulk.  Finally  his  closest  friend,  Patroclus,  with  his  permission 
and  wearing  his  armor,  goes  out  to  do  battle.  Seeing  the  armor  of  Achilles, 
the  Trojans  fall  back  in  consternation  until  Apollo  intervenes  and  makes 
it  possible  for  Hector  to  kill  Patroclus.  The  two  forces  fight  for  his  body 
until  the  Greeks,  after  beating  off  the  Trojans,  bear  it  back  toward  their 
ships.  The  graphic  picture  of  the  battle  which  still  rages  follows. 

from  BOOK  xvii 

"E  ENDED,  and  the  warriors  in  their  arms  870 

Raised  with  main  strength  the  body  from  the  ground. 
The  Trojans,  as  they  saw  it  borne  away, 
Shouted  behind  them,  rushing  on  like  hounds 
That  spring  upon  a  wounded  forest-boar 

Before  the  hunter-youths  now  pressing  close  875 

Upon  his  flank,  to  tear  him,  then  again, 
Whene'er  he  turns  upon  them  in  his  strength, 
Retreating  in  dismay,  and  put  to  flight 
Hither  and  thither.  Thus,  in  hot  pursuit 

And  close  array,  the  Trojans  following  strook  880 

With  swords  and  two-edged  spears;  but  when  the  twain 
Turned  and  stood  firm  to  meet  them,  every  cheek 
Grew  pale,  and  not  a  single  Trojan  dared 
Draw  near  the  Greeks  to  combat  for  the  corse. 

Thus  rapidly  they  bore  away  the  dead  885 

THE  ILIAD     709 


H' 


Toward  their  good  galleys  from  the  battle-field. 

Onward  with  them  the  furious  battle  swept, 

As  spreads  a  fire  that,  kindled  suddenly, 

Seizes  a  city,  and  the  dwellings  sink 

In  the  consuming  blaze,  and  a  strong  wind  890 

Roars  through  the  flame.  Such  fearful  din  of  steeds 

And  warriors  followed  the  retreating  Greeks. 

As  from  a  mountain  summit  strong-backed  mules 

Drag  over  the  rough  ways  a  ponderous  beam 

Or  mast,  till  weary  with  the  mighty  strain        •  895 

And  streaming  sweat,  so  they  with  resolute  toil 

Bore  off  the  dead.  Behind  them  as  they  went 

Their  two  defenders  kept  the  foe  aloof. 

As  when  a  river-dike  o'ergrown  with  trees 

Crosses  a  plain,  and  holds  the  violent  course  90° 

Of  the  swoln  stream  in  check,  and,  driving  back 

The  waters,  spreads  them  o'er  the  level  fields, 

Nor  can  their  fury  force  a  passage  through,— 

So  did  the  warriors  Ajax  hold  in  check 

The  Trojans;  yet  they  followed  close,  and  two  905 

More  closely  than  the  rest,— ^Eneas,  son 

Of  old  Anchises,  and  the  illustrious  chief, 

Hector.  As  when  a  company  of  daws 

Or  starlings,  startled  at  a  hawk's  approach, 

The  murderous  enemy  of  the  smaller  birds,  910 

Take  wing  with  piercing  cries,  so,  driven  before 

The  might  of  Hector  and  ./Eneas,  fled 

The  Greeks  with  clamorous  cries,  and  thought  no  more 

Of  combat.  In  the  trench  and  near  it  lay 

Many  fair  weapons,  which  the  fugitive  Greeks  915 

Had  dropped  in  haste,  and  still  the  war  went  on. 

Angered  by  the  kitting  of  Patroclus,  Achilles  makes  friends  once  more 
with  Agamemnon,  and  resumes  his  place  in  battle.  So  inspired  are  the 
Greeks  that,  slaughtering  many,  they  push  the  Trojans  back  inside  the  city 
walls.  Hector  alone  remains  outside.  Achilles  pursues  him  three  times 
around  the  walls  before,  with  the  help  of  Minerva,  he  is  able  to  make  him 
stand  and  fight.  Then  occurs  the  crucial  engagement  of  the  war,  described 
here. 

The  remainder  of  the  poem  tells  of  the  funeral  rites  for  Patroclus,  and 
of  the  sorrow  of  the  Trojans  over  Hector. 

710     POETRY 


from  BOOK  xxn 


HE  SPAKE,  and,  brandishing  his  massive  spear, 
Hurled  it  at  Hector,  who  beheld  its  aim 
From  where  he  stood.  He  stooped,  and  over  him 
The  brazen  weapon  passed,  and  plunged  to  earth.  340 

Unseen  by  royal  Hector,  Pallas  went 
And  plucked  it  from  the  ground,  and  brought  it  back 
And  gave  it  to  the  hands  of  Peleus*  son, 
While  Hector  said  to  his  illustrious  foe:— 

"Godlike  Achilles,  thou  hast  missed  thy  mark;  345 

Nor  hast  thou  learned  my  doom  from  Jupiter, 
As  thou  pretendest.  Thou  art  glib  of  tongue, 
And  cunningly  thou  orderest  thy  speech, 
In  hope  that  I  who  hear  thee  may  forget 

My  might  and  valor.  Think  not  I  shall  flee,  350 

That  thou  mayst  pierce  my  back;  for  thou  shalt  send 
Thy  spear,  if  God  permit  thee,  through  my  breast 
As  I  rush  on  thee.  Now  avoid  in  turn 
My  brazen  weapon.  Would  that  it  might  pass 
Clean  through  thee,  all  its  length!  The  tasks  of  war  355 

For  us  of  Troy  were  lighter  for  thy  death, 
Thou  pest  and  deadly  foe  of  all  our  race!" 

He  spake,  and  brandishing  his  massive  spear, 
Hurled  it,  nor  missed,  but  in  the  centre  smote 
The  buckler  of  Pelides.  Far  away  36° 

It  bounded  from  the  brass,  and  he  was  vexed 
To  see  that  the  swift  weapon  from  his  hand 
Had  flown  in  vain.  He  stood  perplexed  and  sad; 
No  second  spear  had  he.  He  called  aloud 

On  the  white-bucklered  chief,  Deiphobus,  365 

To  bring  another;  but  that  chief  was  far, 
And  Hector  saw  that  it  was  so,  and  said:— 

"Ah  me!  the  gods  have  summoned  me  to  die. 
I  thought  my  warrior-friend,  Deiphobus, 

Was  by  my  side;  but  he  is  still  in  Troy,  37<> 

And  Pallas  has  deceived  me.  Now  my  death 
Cannot  be  far,— is  near;  there  is  no  hope 
Of  my  escape,  for  so  it  pleases  Jove 
And  Jove's  great  archer-son,  who  have  till  now 
Delivered  me.  My  hour  at  last  is  come;  375 

THE  ILIAD        711 


Yet  not  ingloriously  or  passively 

I  die,  but  first  will  do  some  valiant  deed, 

Of  which  mankind  shall  hear  in  after  time." 

He  spake,  and  drew  the  keen-edged  sword  that  hung, 
Massive  and  finely  tempered,  at  his  side,  380 

And  sprang— as  when  an  eagle  high  in  heaven, 
Through  the  thick  cloud,  darts  downward  to  the  plain 
To  clutch  some  tender  lamb  or  timid  hare, 
So  Hector,  brandishing  that  keen-edged  sword, 
Sprang  forward,  while  Achilles  opposite  385 

Leaped  toward  him,  all  on  fire  with  savage  hate, 
And  holding  his  bright  buckler,  nobly  wrought, 
Before  him.  On  his  shining  helmet  waved 
The  fourfold  crest;  there  tossed  the  golden  tufts 
With  which  the  hand  of  Vulcan  lavishly  390 

Had  decked  it.  As  in  the  still  hours  of  night 
Hesper  goes  forth  among  the  host  of  stars, 
The  fairest  light  of  heaven,  so  brightly  shone, 
Brandished  in  the  right  hand  of  Peleus'  son, 

The  spear's  keen  blade,  as,  confident  to  slay  395 

The  noble  Hector,  o'er  his  glorious  form 
His  quick  eye  ran,  exploring  where  to  plant 
The  surest  wound.  The  glittering  mail  of  brass 
Won  from  the  slain  Patroclus  guarded  well 

Each  part,  save  only  where  the  collar-bones  400 

Divide  the  shoulder  from  the  neck,  and  there 
Appeared  the  throat,  the  spot  where  life  is  most 
In  peril.  Through  that  part  the  noble  son 
Of  Peleus  drave  his  spear;  it  went  quite  through 
The  tender  neck,  and  yet  the  brazen  blade  405 

Cleft  not  the  windpipe,  and  the  power  to  speak 
Remained.  The  Trojan  fell  amid  the  dust, 
And  thus  Achilles  boasted  o'er  his  fall:— 

"Hector,  when  from  the  slain  Patroclus  thou 

Didst  strip  his  armor,  little  didst  thou  think  410 

Of  danger.  Thou  hadst  then  no  fear  of  me, 
Who  was  not  near  thee  to  avenge  his  death. 
Fool!  there  was  left  within  the  roomy  ships 
A  mightier  one  than  he,  who  should  come  forth, 
The  avenger  of  his  blood,  to  take  thy  life.  415 

Foul  dogs  and  birds  of  prey  shall  tear  thy  flesh; 


712 


POETRY 


The  Greeks  shall  honor  him  with  funeral  rites/' ' 

And  then  the  crested  Hector  faintly  said: 
"I  pray  thee  by  thy  life,  and  by  thy  knees, 

And  by  thy  parents,  suffer  not  the  dogs  420 

To  tear  me  at  the  galleys  of  the  Greeks. 
Accept  abundant  store  of  brass  and  gold, 
Which  gladly  will  my  father  and  the  queen, 
My  mother,  give  in  ransom.  Send  to  them 

My  body,  that  the  warriors  and  the  dames  425 

Of  Troy  may  light  for  me  the  funeral  pile/' 

The  swift  Achilles  answered  with  a  frown: 
"Nay,  by  my  knees  entreat  me  not,  thou  cur, 
Nor  by  my  parents.  I  could  even  wish 

My  fury  prompted  me  to  cut  thy  flesh  430 

In  fragments,  and  devour  it,  such  the  wrong 
That  I  have  had  from  thee.  There  will  be  none 
To  drive  away  the  dogs  about  thy  head, 
Not  though  thy  Trojan  friends  should  bring  to  me 
Tenfold  and  twentyfold  the  offered  gifts,  435 

And  promise  others,— not  though  Priam,  sprung 
From  Dardanus,  should  send  thy  weight  in  gold. 
Thy  mother  shall  not  lay  thee  on  thy  bier, 
To  sorrow  over  thee  whom  she  brought  forth; 
But  dogs  and  birds  of  prey  shall  mangle  thee."  440 

And  then  the  crested  Hector,  dying,  said: 
"I  know  thee,  and  too  clearly  I  foresaw 
I  should  not  move  thee,  for  thou  hast  a  heart 
Of  iron.  Yet  reflect  that  for  my  sake 

The  anger  of  the  gods  may  fall  on  thee,  445 

When  Paris  and  Apollo  strike  thee  down, 
Strong  as  thou  art,  before  the  Scaean  gates/' 

Thus  Hector  spake,  and  straightway  o'er  him  closed 
The  night  of  death;  the  soul  forsook  his  limbs, 
And  flew  to  Hades,  grieving  for  its  fate,—  450 

So  soon  divorced  from  youth  and  youthful  might. 
Then  said  the  great  Achilles  to  the  dead:— 

"Die  thou;  and  I,  whenever  it  shall  please 
Jove  and  the  other  gods,  will  meet  my  fate." 

He  spake,  and,  plucking  forth  his  brazen  lance,  455 

He  laid  it  by,  and  from  the  body  stripped 
The  bloody  mail.  The  thronging  Greeks  beheld 

THE   ILIAD        713 


With  wonder  Hector's  tall  and  stately  form, 

And  no  one  came  who  did  not  add  a  wound; 

And,  looking  to  each  other,  thus  they  said:—  460 

"How  much  more  tamely  Hector  now  endures 
Our  touch  than  when  he  set  the  fleet  on  fire!" 


Geoffrey  Chaucer 

from  The  Canterbury  Tales 


The  Canterbury  Tales  is  usually  considered  the  first  great  poem  indigenous 
to  England.  Even  the  earlier  works  of  Chaucer  himself  are  more  French 
and  Italian  than  English.  But  here  the  foreign  elements  are  assimilated,  and 
the  work  is  native  in  both  material  and  tone.  "The  Prologue"  parts  of  which 
are  given  here,  introduces  the  persons  who  are  making  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  shrine  of  Thomas  d  Becket  in  Canterbury.  In  the  main  part  of  the  poem 
each  pilgrim  tells  a  story,  the  tales  varying  from  the  most  pious  of  moralities 
to  the  bawdiest  kind  of  roughhouse. 

The  language  is  the  East  Midland  dialect  of  Late  Middle  English.  Most  of 
the  words  you  can  recognize  because  of  their  resemblance  to  modern  Eng- 
lish. The  footnotes  will  help  you  with  the  others. 

WHAN  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote 
The  droghte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  roote, 
And  bathed  every  veyne  in  swich  licour, 
Of  which  vertu  engendred  is  the  flour; 

Whan  Zephirus  eek  with  his  swete  breeth  5 

Inspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  heeth 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  y-ronne, 
And  smale  fowles  maken  melodye, 

That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  ye,  10 

(So  priketh  hem  nature  in  hir  corages), 
Than  longen  folk  to  goon  on  pilgrimages 
(And  palmers  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes) 
To  feme  halwes,  couthe  in  sondry  londes; 

And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende  15 

Of  Engelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 

1.  soote,  sweet.  5.  eek,  also.  6.  holt,  wood.  8.  halfe  cours  y-ronne,  afte*  April  11. 
11.  corages,  spirit,  heart.  14,  feme,  distant,  halwes,  shrines,  couthe,  known. 

714        POETRY 


The  holy  blisful  martir  for  to  seke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were  seke. 

Bifel  that,  in  that  sesoun  on  a  day, 

In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay  20 

Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Caunterbury  with  ful  devout  corage, 
At  night  was  come  in-to  that  hostelrye 
Wei  nyne  and  twenty  in  a  companye, 

Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  y-falle  25 

In  felawshipe,  and  pilgrims  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Caunterbury  wolden  ryde; 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wyde, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  to  reste,  30 

So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everichon, 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawshipe  anon, 
And  made  forward  erly  for  to  ryse, 
To  take  our  wey,  ther  as  I  yow  devyse. 

But  natheles,  whyl  I  have  tyme  and  space,  35 

Ere  that  I  ferther  in  this  tale  pace, 
Me  thinketh  it  acordaunt  to  resoun, 
To  telle  yow  al  the  condicioun 
Of  ech  of  hem,  so  as  it  semed  me, 

And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degree;  40 

And  eek  in  what  array  that  they  were  inne: 
And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  first  biginne. 

A  KNIGHT  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man, 
That  fro  the  tyme  that  he  first  bigan 

To  ryden  out,  he  loved  chivalrye,  45 

Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curteisye. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre, 
And  therto  hadde  he  riden  (no  man  ferre) 
As  wel  in  cristendom  as  hethenesse, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse.  50 

At  Alisaundre  he  was,  whan  it  was  wonne; 
Ful  ofte  tyme  he  hadde  the  bord  bigonne 


17.  martir,  Thomas  a  Becket.  18.  seke,  sick.  29.  atte  beste,  in  the  best  manner  pos- 
sible. 32.  hir,  their.  46.  fredom,  liberality.  48.  ferre,  farther.  49.  hethenesse,  heathen 
lands.  51.  Alisaundre,  Alexandria.  52.  bord  bigonne,  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table. 


THE    CANTERBURY   TALS8        715 


Aboven  alle  naciouns  in  Pruce. 

In  Lettow  hadde  he  reysed  and  in  Ruce, 

No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  degree.  55 

In  Gernade  at  the  sege  eek  hadde  he  be 

Of  Algezir,  and  riden  in  Belmarye. 

At  Lyeys  was  he,  and  at  Satalye, 

Whan  they  were  wonne;  and  in  the  Crete  See 

At  many  a  noble  aryve  hadde  he  be.  60 

At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  been  fiftene, 

And  foughten  for  our  feith  at  Tramissene 

In  listes  thryes,  and  ay  slayn  his  foo. 

This  ilke  worthy  knight  hadde  been  also 

Sometyme  with  the  lord  of  Palatye,  65 

Ageyn  another  hethen  in  Turkye: 

And  everemore  he  hadde  a  sovereyn  prys, 

And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wys, 

And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  mayde. 

He  nevere  yet  no  vileinye  ne  sayde  70 

In  al  his  lyf,  un-to  no  maner  wight. 

He  was  a  verray  parfit  gentil  knight. 

But  for  to  tellen  yow  of  his  array, 

His  hors  were  goode,  but  he  was  nat  gay. 

Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipoun  75 

Al  bisrnoter^d  with  his  habergeoun, 

For  he  was  late  y-come  from  his  viage, 

And  wente  for  to  doon  his  pilgrimage. 

With  him  there  was  his  sone,  a  yong  SQUYER, 
A  lovyere,  and  a  lusty  bacheler,  80 

With  lokkes  crulle,  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yeer  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  evene  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  deliver,  and  greet  of  strengthe. 
And  he  had  been  somtyme  in  chivachye,  85 

In  Flaundres,  in  Artoys,  and  Picardye, 


53.  Pruce,  Prussia.  54.  Lettow,  Lithuania.  Ruce,  Russia.  56.  Gernade,  Granada, 
Spain.  57.  Algezir,  Algeciras.  Belmarye,  Benmarin,  Morocco.  58.  Lyeys,  Lyas  in 
Armenia.  Satalye,  Atalia  in  Asia  Minor.  62.  Tramissene,  Tlemgen  in  Algeria.  64.  ilke, 
same.  65.  Palatye,  Balat,  Turkey.  70.  vileinye,  rudeness.  71.  wight,  person.  75.  gipoun, 
short  doublet  worn  under  armor.  76.  bismotered,  besmirched,  habergeoun,  coat  of  mail. 
81.  lokkes  crulle,  curly  hair.  84.  deliver,  quick,  active.  85.  chivachye,  cavalry  raids. 

716        POETRY 


And  born  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space, 

In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  lady  grace. 

Embrouded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 

Al  ful  of  fresshe  floures,  whyte  and  rede.  90 

Singinge  he  was,  or  floytinge,  al  the  day; 

He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 

Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  longe  and  wyde. 

Wel  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  f  aire  ryde. 

He  coude  songes  make  and  wel  endyte,  95 

Juste  and  eek  daunce,  and  wel  purtreye  and  wryte. 

So  hote  he  lovede,  that  by  nightertale 

He  sleep  namore  than  doth  a  nightingale. 

Curteys  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable, 

And  carf  biforn  his  fader  at  the  table.  100 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  PRIORESSE, 
That  of  hir  smyling  was  ful  simple  and  coy, 
Hir  gretteste  ooth  was  but  by  seynt  Loy;  120 

And  she  was  cleped  madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  wel  she  song  the  service  divyne, 
Entuned  in  hir  nose  ful  semely; 
And  Frensh  she  spak  ful  faire  and  f etisly, 

After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe,  125 

For  Frensh  of  Paris  was  to  hir  unknowe. 
At  mete  wel  y-taught  was  she  with-alle; 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippes  falle, 
Ne  wette  hir  fingres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 

Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe,  130 

That  no  drope  ne  fille  up-on  hir  brest. 
In  curteisye  was  set  ful  muche  hir  lest. 
Hir  over  lippe  wyped  she  so  clene, 
That  in  hir  coppe  was  no  ferthing  sene 

Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hir  draughte.  135 

Ful  semely  after  hir  mete  she  raughte, 
And  sikerly  she  was  of  greet  disport, 
And  ful  plesaunt,  and  amiable  of  port, 
And  peyned  hir  to  countrefete  chere 


91.  floytinge,  whistling,  playing  the  flute.  96.  juste,  joust,  purtreye,  draw.  97.  night- 
ertale, nighttime.  121.  cleped,  called,  named.  124.  f  etisly,  handsomely.  130.  kepe, 
care,  notice.  132.  lest,  desire.  136.  raughte,  reached.  137.  sikerly,  surely.  139.  peyned, 
took  pains,  countrefete,  imitate,  chere,  expressions,  behavior. 

THE    CANTERBURY  TALES        717 


Of  court,  and  been  estatlich  of  manere,  140 

And  to  ben  holden  digne  of  reverence. 

But,  for  to  speken  of  hir  conscience, 

She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous, 

She  wolde  wepe,  if  that  she  sawe  a  mous 

Caught  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  deed  or  bledde.  145 

Of  smale  houndes  had  she,  that  she  fedde 

With  rested  flesh,  or  milk  and  wastel  breed. 

But  sore  weep  she  if  oon  of  hem  were  deed, 

Or  if  men  smoot  it  with  a  yerde  smerte: 

And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte.  150 

Ful  semely  hir  wimpel  pinched  was; 

Hir  nose  tretys;  hir  eyen  greye  as  glas; 

Hir  mouth  ful  smal,  and  ther-to  softe  and  reed; 

But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fair  for  heed; 

It  was  almost  a  spanne  brood,  I  trowe;  155 

For,  hardily,  she  was  nat  undergrowe. 

Ful  f etis  was  hir  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 

Of  smal  coral  aboute  hir  arm  she  bar 

A  peire  of  bedes,  gauded  al  with  grene; 

And  ther-on  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene,  160 

On  which  ther  was  first  write  a  crowned  A, 

And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 

A  FRERE  ther  was,  a  wantown  and  a  merye, 
A  limitour,  a  ful  solempne  man. 

In  alle  the  ordres  foure  is  noon  that  can  210 

So  muche  of  daliaunce  and  fair  langage. 
He  hadde  maad  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wommen,  at  his  owne  cost. 
Un-to  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 

Ful  wel  biloved  and  famulier  was  he  215 

With  frankeleyns  over-al  in  his  contree, 
And  eek  with  worthy  wommen  of  the  toun: 
For  he  had  power  of  confessioun, 
As  seyde  him-self ,  more  than  a  curat, 


141.  digne,  worthy.  142.  conscience,  tender  feelings.  149.  yerde  smerte,  smartly  with 
a  stick.  152.  tretys,  well-formed.  157.  war,  aware.  208.  wantown,  sportive,  lascivious. 
209.  limitour,  a  friar  licensed  to  beg  within  certain  limits,  solempne,  pompous. 

718        POETRY 


For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licentiat.  220 

Ful  swetely  herde  he  confessioun, 

And  plesaunt  was  his  absolucioun; 

He  was  an  esy  man  to  yeve  penaunce 

Ther  as  he  wiste  to  han  a  good  pitaunce; 

For  unto  a  povre  ordre  for  to  yive  225 

Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  y-shrive. 

For  if  he  yaf ,  he  dorste  make  avaunt, 

He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentaunt. 

For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte, 

He  may  nat  wepe  al-thogh  him  sore  smerte.  230 

Therfore,  in  stede  of  weping  and  preyeres, 

Men  moot  yeve  silver  to  the  povre  freres. 

His  tipet  was  ay  farsed  ful  of  knyves 

And  pinnes,  for  to  yeven  faire  wyves. 

And  certeinly  he  hadde  a  mery  note;  235 

Wel  coude  he  singe  and  pleyen  on  a  rote. 

Of  yeddinges  he  bar  utterly  the  prys. 

His  nekke  whyt  was  as  the  flour-de-lys; 

There-to  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 

He  knew  the  tavernes  wel  in  every  toun,  240 

And  everich  hostiler  and  tappestere 

Bet  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggestere; 

For  un-to  swich  a  worthy  man  as  he 

Acorded  nat,  as  by  his  facultee, 

To  have  with  seke  lazars  aqueyntaunce.  245 

It  is  nat  honest,  it  may  nat  avaunce 

For  to  delen  with  no  swich  poraille, 

But  al  with  riche  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 

And  over-al,  ther  as  profit  sholde  aryse, 

Curteys  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servyse.  250 

Ther  nas  no  man  nowher  so  vertuous. 

He  was  the  beste  beggere  in  his  hous; 

For  thogh  a  widwe  hadde  noght  a  sho, 


220.  licenciat,  a  person  licensed  by  the  Pope.  223.  yeve,  give.  224.  ther  as,  where. 
wiste,  knew,  pitaunce,  pittance.  226.  y-shrive,  confessed.  227.  yaf,  gave,  avaunt,  boast. 
233.  tipet,  cape,  farsed,  stuffed.  234.  yeven,  give.  236.  rote,  a  stringed  instrument 
237.  yeddinges,  songs,  utterly,  entirely,  prys,  worth.  239.  champioun,  wrestler.  241.  tap- 
pestere,  tapster.  242.  bet,  better,  lazar,  leper,  beggestere,  beggar.  244.  facultee,  official 
position.  246,  avaunce,  be  profitable.  247.  poraille,  poor  people.  249.  over-al,  everywhere. 

THE   CANTERBURY  TALES        719 


So  plesaunt  was  his  "In  principle)," 

Yet  wolde  he  have  a  ferthing,  er  he  wente.  255 

His  purchas  was  wel  bettre  than  his  rente. 

And  rage  he  coude,  as  it  were  right  a  whelpe. 

In  love-dayes  tber  coude  he  muchel  helpe. 

For  ther  he  was  nat  lyk  a  cloisterer, 

With  a  thredbar  cope  as  is  a  povre  scoler,  260 

But  he  was  lyk  a  maister  or  a  pope. 

Of  double  worsted  was  his  semi-cope, 

That  rounded  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 

Somwhat  he  lipsed,  for  his  wantownesse, 

To  make  his  English  swete  upon  his  tonge;  265 

And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  had  songe, 

His  eyen  twinkled  in  his  heed  aright, 

As  doon  the  sterres  in  the  frosty  night. 

This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Huberd. 

A  good  WYF  was  ther  of  bisyde  BATHE,  445 

But  she  was  som-del  deef,  and  that  was  scathe. 
Of  clooth-making  she  hadde  swiche  an  haunt, 
She  passed  hem  of  Ypres  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  al  the  parisshe  wyf  ne  was  ther  noon 

That  to  th'  offring  bifore  hir  sholde  goon;  450 

And  if  ther  dide,  certeyn,  so  wrooth  was  she, 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Hir  cover  chiefs  ful  fyne  were  of  ground; 
I  dorste  swere  they  weyeden  ten  pound 

That  on  a  Sonday  were  upon  hir  heed.  455 

Hir  hosen  weren  of  fyn  scarlet  reed, 
Ful  streite  y-teyd,  and  shoos  ful  moiste  and  newe. 
Bold  was  hir  face,  and  fair,  and  reed  of  hewe. 
She  was  a  worthy  womman  al  hir  lyve, 

Housbondes  at  chirche-dore  she  hadde  fyve,  460 

Withouten  other  company e  in  youthe; 
But  thereof  nedeth  nat  to  speke  as  nouthe. 
And  thryes  hadde  she  been  at  Jerusalem; 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  straunge  streem; 


256.  purchas,  gain,  rente,  income.  257.  rage,  frolic.  259.  cloisterer,  one  restricted  to 
a  cloister.  262.  semi-cope,  short  outer  coat.  268.  doon,  do.  446.  som-del,  somewha'. 
scathe,  shame.  447.  haunt,  skill.  448.  passed  hem,  surpassed  them.  450.  goon,  ' p. 
453.  ground,  texture.  462.  nouthe,  now. 

720      POETRY 


At  Rome  she  hadde  been,  and  at  Boloigne,  4^5 

In  Galice  at  seint  Jame,  and  at  Coloigne. 

She  coude  muche  of  wandring  by  the  weye: 

Gat-tothed  was  she,  soothly  for  to  seye. 

Up-on  an  amblere  esily  she  sat, 

Y-wimpled  wel,  and  on  hir  heed  an  hat  47<> 

As  brood  as  is  a  bokeler  or  a  targe; 

A  foot-mantel  aboute  hir  hipes  large, 

And  on  hir  feet  a  paire  of  spores  sharpe. 

In  felawschip  wel  coude  she  laughe  and  carpe. 

Of  remedyes  of  love  she  knew  perchaunce,  475 

For  she  coude  of  that  art  the  olde  daunce. 

The  MILLER  was  a  stout  carl,  for  the  nones,  545 

Ful  big  he  was  of  braun,  and  eek  of  bones; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over-al  ther  he  cam, 
At  wrastling  he  wolde  have  alwey  the  ram. 
He  was  short-sholdred,  brood,  a  thikke  knarre, 
Ther  nas  no  dore  that  he  nolde  heve  of  harre,  55° 

Or  breke  it,  at  a  renning,  with  his  heed. 
His  berd  as  any  sowe  or  fox  was  reed, 
And  ther-to  brood,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Up-on  the  cop  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 

A  werte,  and  ther-on  stood  a  tuft  of  heres,  555 

Reed  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres; 
His  nose-thirles  blake  were  and  wyde. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bar  he  by  his  syde; 
His  mouth  as  greet  was  as  a  greet  forneys. 

He  was  a  janglere  and  a  goliardeys,  560 

And  that  was  most  of  sinne  and  harlotryes. 
Wel  coude  he  stelen  corn,  and  tollen  thryes, 
And  yet  he  hadde  a  thombe  of  gold,  pardee. 
A  whyt  cote  and  blew  hood  wered  he. 

A  baggepype  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  sowne,  565 

And  therwithal  he  broghte  us  out  of  towne. 


467.  coude,  knew.  471.  targe,  shield.  472.  foot-mantel,  cloth  worn  over  skirt  when 
riding.  476.  the  olde  daunce,  all  about  it.  545.  for  the  nones,  loosely  translated  "to  be 
sure."  547.  over-al,  everywhere.  549.  knarre,  knave.  550.  harre,  hinges.  554.  cop, 
top.  557.  nose-thirles,  nostrils.  559.  forneys,  furnace.  560.  janglere,  chatterer,  goliar- 
deys, buffoon,  jester.  561.  harlotryes,  lewd  jokes.  562.  tollen  thryes,  take  toll  three 
times,  i.e.,  charge  excessively.  563.  A  thombe  of  gold.  There  is  an  old  proverb  that  an 
honest  miller  has  a  thumb  of  gold.  In  other  words,  the  miller  was  honest  according 
to  his  lights. 

THE    CANTERBURY    TALES         721 


Ballads 


ANONYMOUS  Sir  Patrick  Spens 


THE  KING  sits  in  Dunf ermline  toune 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine: 
"Q  whar  will  I  get  guid  sailor, 
To  sail  this  schip  of  mine?" 

Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht,  3 

Sat  at  the  kings  richt  kne: 
"Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 

That  sails  upon  the  se." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 

And  signed  it  wi  his  hand,  10 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 

A  loud  lauch  lauched  he; 
The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red,  15 

The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

"O  wha  is  this  has  don  this  deid, 

This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 
To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 

To  sail  upon  the  se!  20 

"Mak  hast,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 

Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne": 
"O  say  na  sae,  my  master  deir, 

For  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme. 

"Late  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moone,  25 

Wi  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arme, 
And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  master, 

That  we  will  cum  to  harme.* 


722         POETRY 


O  our  Scots  nobles  wer  rlcht  Jfeuth 

To  weet  their  cork-heild  schoone;  3** 

Bot  lang  owre  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 

Thair  hats  they  swain  aboone. 

O  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit, 

Wi  thair  fans  into  their  hand, 
Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spens  35 

Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

O  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 

Wi  thair  gold  kerns  in  their  hair, 
Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords, 

For  they'll  see  thame  na  mair.  40 

Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Wi  the  Scots  lords  at  his  f eit. 

ANONYMOUS  The  wife  of  Usher's  well 

THERE  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  well, 
And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she; 
She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  o'er  the  sea. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her,  5 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
When  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three,  10 

When  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  sons  she'd  never  see. 

"I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 

Nor  fashes  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me  15 

In  earthly  flesh  and  bloodl" 

THE   WIFE    OF    USHER'S    WELL         723 


It  fell  about  the  Martinmas, 

When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk, 
The  carline  wife's  three  sons  came  hame, 

And  their  hats  were  o'  the  birk.  20 

It  neither  grew  in  syke  nor  ditch, 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheugh; 
But  at  the  gates  o'  Paradise 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh. 

"Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens!  25 

Bring  water  from  the  well! 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night, 

Since  my  three  sons  are  well." 

And  she  has  made  to  them  a  bed, 

She's  made  it  large  and  wide;  3° 

And  she's  ta'en  her  mantle  her  about, 

Sat  down  at  the  bedside. 

Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 

And  up  and  crew  the  gray; 
The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said,  35 

"  'Tis  time  we  were  away." 

The  cock  he  hadna  crawed  but  once, 

And  clapped  his  wings  at  a', 
When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 

"Brother,  we  must  awa'."  40 

"The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 

The  channerin'  worm  doth  chide; 
Gin  we  be  missed  out  o*  our  place, 

A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide." 

"Lie  still,  lie  still  but  a  little  wee  while,  45 

Lie  still  but  if  we  may; 
Gin  my  mother  should  miss  us  when  she  wakes, 

Shell  go  mad  ere  it  be  day." 

"Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dearl 

Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre!  50 

And  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 

That  kindles  my  mother's  fire/' 


724 


POETRY 


William  Shakespeare 


from  Love's  Labour's  Lost 

THEN  icicles  hang  by  the  wall, 
And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail, 

When  blood  is  nipped  and  ways  be  foul,  5 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
"Tu-whit,  tu-who!"  A  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw,  10 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw, 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

"Tu-whit,  tu-who!"  A  merry  note,  15 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot.    (1590-1592;  1598) 

from  Twelfth  Night 

MISTRESS  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
O,  stay  and  hear;  your  true  love's  coming, 
That  can  sing  both  high  and  low. 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?  'Tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure. 

In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty;  10 

Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet  and  twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure.  (1599-1601;  1623) 

from  As  You  Like  It 

>LOW,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 

BLOW,   BLOW,    THOU   WINTER   WIND        725 


o 


B' 


Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen,  5 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh-ho!  sing,  heigh-ho!  unto  the  green  holly: 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly: 
Then,  heigh-ho,  the  holly! 

This  life  is  most  jolly.  10 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
That  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp  15 

As  friend  remember'd  not 
Heigh-ho!  sing,  &  c.  (1600) 


Sonnet  18 


SHALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate: 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date: 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed; 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance  or  nature's  changing  course  untrimmed; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander 'st  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest: 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee.   ( 1609) 


Sonnet  29 


WHEN,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 


726 


POETRY 


With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee— and  then  my  state,  10 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings.  ( 1609) 


Sonnet  30 


WHEN  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste. 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow,  5 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  canceled  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er  10 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end.   (1609) 


Sonnet  73 


THAT  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 

Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 

Bare  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day  5 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 

Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie,  10 

As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by. 
This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long.   ( 1609 ) 

SONNBT  73     727 


Sonnet  94 


THEY  that  have  power  to  hurt  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 
Unmoved,  cold  and  to  temptation  slow; 
They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 
Others  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 
The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die, 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity: 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds.  ( 1609) 


Sonnet  129 


THE  EXPENSE  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
Is  lust  in  action;  and  till  action,  lust 

Is  perjured,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 

Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust; 

Enjoy'd  no  sooner  but  despised  straight; 

Past  reason  hunted;  and  no  sooner  had, 

Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallowed  bait, 

On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad: 

Mad  in  pursuit,  and  in  possession  so; 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme; 

A  bliss  in  proof,  and  proved,  a  very  woe; 

Before,  a  joy  proposed;  behind,  a  dream. 

All  this  the  world  well  knows;  yet  none  knows  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell.   ( 1609) 


Sonnet  146 


POOR  soul,  the  center  of  my  sinful  earth— 
Fool'd  by  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array, 
Why  dost  thou  pine  within  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay? 


728 


POETRY 


Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease,  5 

Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend? 

Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 

Eat  up  thy  charge?  Is  this  thy  body's  end? 

Then,  soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 

And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store;  10 

Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross; 

Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more: 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  Death,  that  feeds  on  men, 

And  Death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then.  ( 1609) 


Renaissance  lyrics 


SIR   THOMAS    WYATT 


They    flCC    frOHl    HlC 


THEY  flee  from  me  that  sometime  did  me  seek 
With  naked  foot,  stalking  in  my  chamber. 
I  have  seen  them  gentle,  tame,  and  meek, 
That  now  are  wild,  and  do  not  remember 
That  sometime  they  put  themselves  in  danger  5 

To  take  bread  at  my  hand;  and  now  they  range 
Busily  seeking  with  a  continual  change. 

Thanked  be  fortune,  it  hath  been  otherwise 
Twenty  times  better;  but  once  in  special, 

In  thin  array,  after  a  pleasant  guise,  10 

When  her  loose  gown  from  her  shoulders  did  fall, 
And  she  me  caught  in  her  arms  long  and  small, 

Therewith  all  sweetly  did  me  kiss 

And  softly  said,  'Dear  heart,  how  like  you  this? 

It  was  no  dream;  I  lay  broad  waking:  15 

But  all  is  turned,  through  my  gentleness, 
Into  a  strange  fashion  of  forsaking; 

And  I  have  leave  to  go  of  her  goodness, 

And  she  also  to  use  newfangleness. 

But  since  that  I  so  kindly  am  served,  20 

I  would  fain  know  what  she  hath  deserved.   (  1557) 

THEY   FLEE  FROM   ME        729 


JOHN    DONNE     OOIlff 


Go  and  catch  a  falling  star, 
Get  with  child  a  mandrake  root, 
Tell  me  where  all  past  years  are, 

Or  who  cleft  the  devil's  foot; 

Teach  me  to  hear  mermaids  singing,  5 

Or  to  keep  off  envy's  stinging, 
And  find 
What  wind 
Serves  to  advance  an  honest  mind. 

If  thou  be'st  born  to  strange  sights,  10 

Things  invisible  to  see, 
Ride  ten  thousand  days  and  nights 

Till  Age  snow  white  hairs  on  thee; 
Thou,  when  thou  return'st,  wilt  tell  me 
All  strange  wonders  that  befell  thee  15 

And  swear 
No  where 
Lives  a  woman  true  and  fair. 

If  thou  find'st  one,  let  me  know; 

Such  a  pilgrimage  were  sweet.  20 

Yet  do  not,  I  would  not  go, 

Though  at  next  door  we  might  meet. 
Though  she  were  true  when  you  met  her, 
And  last  till  you  write  your  letter, 

Yet  she  25 

Will  be 
False,  ere  I  come,  to  two  or  three.  ( 1633 ) 


Love's  alchemy 


SOME  that  have  deeper  digg'd  love's  mine  than  I, 
Say,  where  his  centric  happiness  doth  lie. 

I  have  lov'd,  and  got,  and  told, 
But  should  I  love,  get,  tell,  till  I  were  old, 
I  should  not  find  that  hidden  mystery; 

730     POETRY 


Oh,  'tis  imposture  all. 
And  as  no  chemic  yet  th'  elixir  got, 
But  glorifies  his  pregnant  pot, 
If  by  the  way  to  him  befall 

Some  odoriferous  thing,  or  medicinal,  10 

So,  lovers  dream  a  rich  and  long  delight, 
But  get  a  winter-seeming  summer's  night. 
Our  ease,  our  thrift,  our  honor,  and  our  day, 
Shall  we,  for  this  vain  bubble's  shadow  pay? 

Ends  love  in  this,  that  my  man  15 

Can  be  as  happy  as  I  can,  if  he  can 
Endure  the  short  scorn  of  a  bridegroom's  play? 

That  loving  wretch  that  swears, 
Tis  not  the  bodies  marry,  but  the  minds, 

Which  he  in  her  angelic  finds,  20 

Would  swear  as  justly,  that  he  hears, 
In  that  day's  rude  hoarse  minstrelsy,  the  spheres. 
Hope  not  for  mind  in  women;  at  their  best 
Sweetness  and  wit  they  are,  but  mummy,  possest.  ( 1633 ) 

BEN  JONSON  An  epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy 

WEEP  with  me,  all  you  that  read 
This  little  story; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
'Twas  a  child  that  so  did  thrive  5 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  heaven  and  nature  seemed  to  strive 

Which  owned  the  creature. 
Years  he  numbered  scarce  thirteen 

When  fates  turned  cruel,  i° 

Yet  three  filled  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel; 
And  did  act,  what  now  we  moan, 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As  sooth,  the  Parcae  thought  him  one,  15 

He  played  so  truly. 
So,  by  error,  to  his  fate 

They  all  consented, 

AN  EPITAPH  ON   SALATHIEL  PAVY        731 


But  viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late! 

They  have  repented; 
And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth, 

In  baths  to  steep  him; 
But  being  so  much  too  good  for  earth, 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him.  (1602) 


JONSON  Hymn  to  Diana 


and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 

Hesperus  entreats  thy  light,  5 

Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close:  10 

Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver; 

Give  unto  the  flying  hart  15 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever: 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright.  (1600) 


ROBERT  HERRICK  Coiinna's  going  a-Maying 

GET  UP,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air: 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 


732     POETRY 


The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept  and  bow^d  toward  the  east 
Above  an  hour  since:  yet  you  not  dressed; 

Nay!  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed? 

When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said  10 

And  sung  their  thankful  hymns,  't  is  sin, 

Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen  15 

To  come  forth,  like  the  springtime,  fresh  and  green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.  Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair: 

Fear  not;  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you:  20 

Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept; 

Come  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night: 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill  25 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.  Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  praying: 
Few  beads  are  best  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come;  and,  coming  mark 

How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park  30 

Made  green  and  trimmed  with  trees;  see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch:  each  porch,  each  door  ere  this 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 

Made  up  of  white-thorn,  neatly  interwove;  35 

As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 

And  open  fields  and  we  not  see  't? 

Come,  we'll  abroad;  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May:  40 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let 's  go  a-Maying. 

CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING      733 


There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl  this  day 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come  45 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  dispatched  their  cakes  and  cream 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream: 
And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth:  50 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given; 

Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even: 

Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament; 

Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying  55 

This  night,  and  locks  picked,  yet  we're  not  a-Maying. 

Come,  let  us  go  while  we  are  in  our  prime; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty.  60 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun; 
And,  as  a  vapor  or  a  drop  of  rain, 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again, 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made  65 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come  let's  go  a-Maying.   (1648)  7° 


THOMAS  CAREW 


Song 

ME  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose; 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 


734     POETRY 


Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 

The  nightingale  when  May  is  past;  to 

For  in  your  sweet,  dividing  throat 

She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  'light 

That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night; 

For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there  15 

Fix£d  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 

The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 

And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies.   ( 1640)  20 


GEORGE   HERBERT 


SWEET  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky; 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave,  5 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie,  xo 

My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 

And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives, 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal,  15 

Then  chiefly  lives.   (1630-1633) 


HENRY   VAUGHAN          1  RC    WOflU 


I  SAW  Eternity  the  other  night, 
Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 
All  calm,  as  it  was  bright; 


THE   WORLD        735 


And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours,  days,  years, 

Driven  by  the  spheres  5 

Like  a  vast  shadow  moved;  in  which  the  world 

And  all  her  train  were  hurled. 
The  doting  lover  in  his  quaintest  strain 

Did  there  complain; 
Near  him,  his  lute,  his  fancy,  and  his  flights,  10 

Wit's  sour  delights, 
With  gloves,  and  knots,  the  silly  snares  of  pleasure. 

Yet  his  dear  treasure, 
All  scattered  lay,  while  he  his  eyes  did  pour 

Upon  a  flower.  15 

The  darksome  statesman,  hung  with  weights  and  woe, 
Like  a  thick  midnight-fog  moved  there  so  slow, 

He  did  not  stay,  nor  go; 
Condemning  thoughts,  like  sad  eclipses,  scowl 

Upon  his  soul,  20 

And  clouds  of  crying  witnesses  without 

Pursued  him  with  one  shout. 
Yet  digged  the  mole,  and  lest  his  ways  be  found, 

Worked  under  ground, 
Where  he  did  clutch  his  prey;  but  one  did  see  25 

That  policy; 
Churches  and  altars  fed  him;  perjuries 

Were  gnats  and  flies; 
It  rained  about  him  blood  and  tears,  but  he 

Drank  them  as  free.  30 

The  fearful  miser  on  a  heap  of  rust 

Sat  pining  all  his  life  there,  did  scarce  trust 

His  own  hands  with  the  dust, 
Yet  would  not  place  one  piece  above,  but  lives 

In  fear  of  thieves.  35 

Thousands  there  were  as  frantic  as  himself, 

And  hugged  each  one  his  pelf; 
The  downright  epicure  placed  heaven  in  sense, 

And  scorned  pretense; 
While  others,  slipped  into  a  wide  excess,  40 

Said  little  less; 
The  weaker  sort,  slight,  trivial  wares  enslave, 

Who  think  them  brave; 


736          POETRY 


And  poor,  despised  Truth  sat  counting  by 

Their  victory.  45 

Yet  some,  who  all  this  while  did  weep  and  sing, 
And  sing  and  weep,  soared  up  into  the  ring; 

But  most  would  use  no  wing. 
O  fools,  said  I,  thus  to  prefer  dark  night 

Before  true  light!  50 

To  live  in  grots  and  caves,  and  hate  the  day 

Because  it  shows  the  way, 
The  way,  which  from  this  dead  and  dark  abode 

Leads  up  to  God; 
A  way  where  you  might  tread  the  sun,  and  be  55 

More  bright  than  he! 
But,  as  I  did  their  madness  so  discuss, 

One  whispered  thus 
"This  ring  the  Bridegroom  did  for  none  provide, 

But  for  his  bride."  (1650)  60 


ANDREW  MARVELL   To  his  coy  mistress 


H\D  WE  but  world  enough,  and  time, 
This  coyness,  lady,  were  no  crime. 
We  would  sit  down,  and  think  which  way 
To  walk,  and  pass  our  long  love's  day. 
Thou  by  the  Indian  Ganges'  side  5 

Shouldst  rubies  find:  I  by  the  tide 
Of  Humber  would  complain.  I  would 
Love  you  ten  years  before  The  Flood, 
And  you  should,  if  you  please,  refuse 

Till  the  conversion  of  the  Jews;  10 

My  vegetable  love  should  grow 
Vaster  than  empires  and  more  slow; 
An  hundred  years  should  go  to  praise 
Thine  eyes,  and  on  thy  forehead  gaze; 
Two  hundred  to  adore  each  breast,  15 

But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest; 
An  age  at  least  to  every  part, 
And  the  last  age  should  show  your  heart. 
For,  lady,  you  deserve  this  state; 
Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate.  *o 


TO 


COY   MISTRESS         737 


But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 

Time's  wing6d  chariot  hurrying  near; 

And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 

Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 

Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found,  25 

Nor  in  thy  marble  vault  shall  sound 

My  echoing  song;  then  worms  shall  try 

That  long  preserved  virginity; 

And  your  quaint  honor  turn  to  dust, 

And  into  ashes  all  my  lust:  3<> 

The  grave's  a  fine  and  private  place, 

But  none,  I  think,  do  there  embrace. 

Now  therefore,  while  the  youthful  hue 

Sits  on  thy  skin  like  morning  dew, 

And  while  thy  willing  soul  transpires  35 

At  every  pore  with  instant  fires, 

Now  let  us  sport  us  while  we  may, 

And  now,  like  amorous  birds  of  prey, 

Rather  at  once  our  time  devour 

Than  languish  in  his  slow-chapped  power,  40 

Let  us  roll  all  our  strength  and  all 

Our  sweetness  up  into  one  ball, 

And  tear  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife 

Thorough  the  iron  gates  of  life: 

Thus,  though  we  cannot  make  our  sun  45 

Stand  still,  yet  we  will  make  him  run.    (c.  1650;  1681 ) 


John  Milton 

On  the  late  massacre  in  Piedmont 

AENGE,  O  Lord,  Thy  slaughtered  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold; 
Even  them  who  kept  Thy  truth  so  pure  of  old 
When  all  our  fathers  worshiped  stocks  and  stones, 
Forget  not:  in  Thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  Thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piedmontese,  that  rolled 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.  Their  moans 


738     POETRY 


The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  heaven.  Their  martyred  blood  and  ashes  sow  10 

O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  Tyrant,  that  from  these  may  grow 

A  hundredfold,  who,  having  learnt  Thy  way, 

Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe.  (1655;  1673) 


On  his  blindness 


WHEN  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 
To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present  5 

My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide; 
"Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  denied?" 
I  fondly  ask.  But  Patience,  to  prevent 
That  murmur,  soon  replies,  "God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts.  Who  best  10 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best.  His  state 
Is  kingly:  thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest; 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait/'   (1655;  1673) 


from  Paradise  Lost 


Milton  wrote  his  great  epic  with  the  express  purpose  of  justifying  the  ways 
of  God  to  man.  In  it  he  shows  how  Satan,  an  angel  who  revolted  from  God,  is 
driven  from  heaven,  and  with  all  his  crew  is  forced  down  to  the  depths  of  hell. 
There  in  a  great  debate  the  satanic  hordes  decide  to  retaliate  by  perverting 
the  inhabitants  of  a  new  world  they  have  heard  about.  Satan  himself  volun- 
teers to  scout  out  the  new  world.  After  reaching  the  Garden  of  Eden,  he  hides 
there,  observing  its  wonders  and  admiring  Adam  and  Eve.  Soon  he  decides 
that  the  best  way  to  bring  about  their  downfall  is  to  induce  them  to  eat  the 
forbidden  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge.  Through  the  angel  Raphael,  God 
warns  Adam  of  his  danger  and  of  the  necessity  for  obedience.  At  Adam's 
request,  Raphael  describes  the  creation  of  the  world  and  the  reasons  for  its 
creation. 

The  morning  after  Raphaels  visit  Adam  and  Eve  go  separately  to  their 
labors.  Adam,  fearing  danger 9  warns  Eve  not  to  go  without  him,  but  because 

PARADISE   LOST        739 


of  her  pride  she  refuses  to  yield.  Once  alone,  Eve  is  approached  by  Satan 
in  the  guise  of  the  Serpent.  After  much  flattery  he  is  able  to  persuade  her  to 
eat  the  fruit.  She  then  returns  to  tell  Adam,  who,  though  shocked,  resolves 
because  of  his  love  for  Eve  to  perish  with  her.  Thus  he  too  eats  the  fruit. 
Its  first  effect  upon  them  is  an  awareness  of  sex,  and  they  surrender  them- 
selves to  carnal  love.  The  selection  given  here  (from  Book  IX)  opens  as  they 
awake  the  following  morning. 

The  remainder  of  the  poem  tells  of  Gods  displeasure,  of  Christ's  inter- 
cession, and  of  mans  loss  of  the  garden  and  of  pure  delight. 

SOON  as  the  force  of  that  fallacious  fruit, 
That  with  exhilarating  vapour  bland 
About  their  spirits  had  played,  and  inmost  powers 
Made  err,  was  now  exhaled,  and  grosser  sleep, 
Bred  of  unkindly  fumes,  with  conscious  dreams  1050 

Encumbered,  now  had  left  them,  up  they  rose 
As  from  unrest,  and,  each  the  other  viewing, 
Soon  found  their  eyes  how  opened,  and  their  minds 
How  darkened.  Innocence,  that  as  a  veil 

Had  shadowed  them  from  knowing  ill,  was  gone;  1055 

Just  confidence,  and  native  righteousness, 
And  honour,  from  about  them,  naked  left 
To  guilty  Shame:  he  covered,  but  his  robe 
Uncovered  more.  So  rose  the  Danite  strong, 

Herculean  Samson,  from  the  harlot-lap  1060 

Of  Philistean  Dalilah,  and  waked 
Shorn  of  his  strength;  they  destitute  and  bare 
Of  all  their  virtue.  Silent,  and  in  face 
Confounded,  long  they  sat,  as  strucken  mute; 
Till  Adam,  though  not  less  than  Eve  abashed,  1065 

At  length  gave  utterance  to  these  words  constrained:— 

"O  Eve,  in  evil  hour  thou  didst  give  ear 
To  that  false  Worm,  of  whomsoever  taught 
To  counterfeit  Man's  voice—true  in  our  fall, 

False  in  our  promised  rising;  since  our  eyes  1070 

Opened  we  find  indeed,  and  find  we  know 
Both  good  and  evil,  good  lost  and  evil  got: 
Bad  fruit  of  knowledge,  if  this  be  to  know, 
Which  leaves  us  naked  thus,  of  honour  void, 
Of  innocence,  of  faith,  of  purity,  1075 

Our  wonted  ornaments  now  soiled  and  stained, 
And  in  our  faces  evident  the  signs 

740     POETRY 


Of  foul  concupiscence;  whence  evil  store, 
Even  shame,  the  last  of  evils;  of  the  first 

Be  sure  then.  How  shall  I  behold  the  face  1080 

Henceforth  of  God  or  Angel,  erst  with  joy 
And  rapture  so  oft  beheld?  Those  Heavenly  Shapes 
Will  dazzle  now  this  earthly  with  their  blaze 
Insufferably  bright.  Oh,  might  I  here 

In  solitude  live  savage,  in  some  glade  1085 

Obscured,  where  highest  woods,  impenetrable 
To  star  or  sunlight,  spread  their  umbrage  broad, 
And  brown  as  evening!  Cover  me,  ye  pines! 
Ye  cedars,  with  innumerable  boughs 

Hide  me,  where  I  may  never  see  them  more!  1090 

But  let  us  now,  as  in  bad  plight,  devise 
What  best  may,  for  the  present,  serve  to  hide 
The  parts  of  each  from  other  that  seem  most 
To  shame  obnoxious,  and  unseemliest  seen— 

Some  tree,  whose  broad  smooth  leaves,  together  sewed,  1095 

And  girded  on  our  loins,  may  cover  round 
Those  middle  parts,  that  this  new  comer,  Shame, 
There  sit  not,  and  reproach  us  as  unclean." 
So  counselled  he,  and  both  together  went 

Into  the  thickest  wood.  There  soon  they  chose  «oo 

The  fig-tree—not  that  kind  for  fruit  renowned, 
But  such  as,  at  this  day,  to  Indians  known, 
In  Malabar  or  Decan  spreads  her  arms 
Branching  so  broad  and  long  that  in  the  ground 
The  bended  twigs  take  root,  and  daughters  grow  1105 

About  the  mother  tree,  a  pillared  shade 
High  overarched,  and  echoing  walks  between: 
There  oft  the  Indian  herdsman,  shunning  heat, 
Shelters  in  cool,  and  tends  his  pasturing  herds 
At  loop-holes  cut  through  thickest  shade.  Those  leaves  mo 

They  gathered,  broad  as  Amazonian  targe, 
And  with  what  skill  they  had  together  sewed, 
To  gird  their  waist— vain  covering,  if  to  hide 
Their  guilt  and  dreaded  shame!  O  how  unlike 
To  that  first  naked  glory!  Such  of  late  1115 

Columbus  found  the  American,  so  girt 
With  feathered  cincture,  naked  else  and  wild, 
Among  the  trees  on  isles  and  woody  shores. 
Thus  fenced,  and,  as  they  thought,  their  shame  in  part 

PARADISE    LOST         741 


Covered,  but  not  at  rest  or  ease  of  mind,  1120 

They  sat  them  down  to  weep.  Nor  only  tears 

Rained  at  their  eyes,  but  high  winds  worse  within 

Began  to  rise,  high  passions— anger,  hate, 

Mistrust,  suspicion,  discord— and  shook  sore 

Their  inward  state  of  mind,  calm  region  once  "25 

And  full  of  peace,  now  tost  and  turbulent: 

For  Understanding  ruled  not,  and  the  Will 

Heard  not  her  lore,  both  in  subjection  now 

To  sensual  Appetite,  who,  from  beneath 

Usurping  over  sovran  Reason,  claimed  1130 

Superior  sway.  From  thus  distempered  breast 

Adam,  estranged  in  look  and  altered  style, 

Speech  intermitted  thus  to  Eve  renewed:  — 

"Would  thou  hadst  hearkened  to  my  words,  and  stayed 
With  me,  as  I  besought  thee,  when  that  strange  1135 

Desire  of  wandering,  this  unhappy  morn, 
I  know  not  whence  possessed  theel  We  had  then 
Remained  still  happy— not,  as  now,  despoiled 
Of  all  our  good,  shamed,  naked,  miserable! 

Let  none  henceforth  seek  needless  cause  to  approve  "40 

The  faith  they  owe;  when  earnestly  they  seek 
Such  proof,  conclude  they  then  begin  to  fail/* 

To  whom,  soon  moved  with  touch  of  blame,  thus  Eve:— 
"What  words  have  passed  thy  lips,  Adam  severe? 
Imput'st  thou  that  to  my  default,  or  will  1145 

Of  wandering,  as  thou  calFst  it,  which  who  knows 
But  might  as  ill  have  happened  thou  being  by, 
Or  to  thyself  perhaps?  Hadst  thou  been  there, 
Or  here  the  attempt,  thou  couldst  not  have  discerned 
Fraud  in  the  Serpent,  speaking  as  he  spake;  1150 

No  ground  of  enmity  between  us  known 
Why  he  should  mean  me  ill  or  seek  to  harm. 
Was  I  to  have  never  parted  from  thy  side? 
As  good  have  grown  there  still,  a  lifeless  rib. 

Being  as  I  am,  why  didst  not  thou,  the  head,  1155 

Command  me  absolutely  not  to  go, 
Going  into  such  danger,  as  thou  saidst? 
Too  facile  then,  thou  didst  not  much  gainsay, 
Nay,  didst  permit,  approve,  and  fair  dismiss. 

Hadst  thou  been  firm  and  fixed  in  thy  dissent,  1160 

Neither  had  I  transgressed,  nor  thou  with  me." 

742         POETRY 


To  whom,  then  first  incensed,  Adam  replied :~ 
"Is  this  the  love,  is  this  the  recompense 
Of  mine  to  thee,  ingrateful  Eve,  expressed 

Immutable  when  thou  wert  lost,  not  I—  1165 

Who  might  have  lived,  and  joyed  immortal  bliss, 
Yet  willingly  chose  rather  death  with  thee? 
And  am  I  now  upbraided  as  the  cause 
Of  thy  transgressing?  not  enough  severe, 

It  seems,  in  thy  restraint!  What  could  I  more?  1170 

I  warned  thee,  I  admonished  thee,  foretold 
The  danger,  and  the  lurking  enemy 
That  lay  in  wait;  beyond  this  had  been  force, 
And  force  upon  free  will  hath  here  no  place. 

But  confidence  then  bore  thee  on,  secure  1175 

Either  to  meet  no  danger,  or  to  find 
Matter  of  glorious  trial;  and  perhaps 
I  also  erred  in  overmuch  admiring 
What  seemed  in  thee  so  perfect  that  I  thought 
No  evil  durst  attempt  thee.  But  I  rue  n8< 

That  error  now,  which  is  become  my  crime, 
And  thou  the  accuser.  Thus  it  shall  befall 
Him  who,  to  worth  in  woman  overtrusting, 
Lets  her  will  rule:  restraint  she  will  not  brook; 
And,  left  to  herself,  if  evil  thence  ensue,  1185 

She  first  his  weak  indulgence  will  accuse." 

Thus  they  in  mutual  accusation  spent 
The  fruitless  hours,  but  neither  self-condemning; 
And  of  their  vain  contest  appeared  no  end.  ( 1665;  1667) 


Restoration  and  eighteenth-century 
poems 

JOHN  DRYDEN  A  song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day 

FROM  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 
This  universal  frame  began: 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 


A  SONG   FOR   ST.    CECILIA'S  DAY        743 


Of  jarring  atoms  lay, 

And  could  not  heave  her  head,  5 

The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high: 
"Arise,  ye  more  than  dead." 

Then  cold  and  hot  and  moist  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey.  10 

From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony, 

This  universal  frame  began: 

From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man.  15 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell! 

When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 

And  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 

To  worship  that  celestial  sound.  20 

Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell! 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor  25 

Excites  us  to  arms 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double,  double,  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum  30 

Cries:  "Hark!  the  foes  come; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat!" 

The  soft  complaining  flute 

In  dying  notes  discovers 

The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers,  35 

Whose  dirge  is  whispered  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 


744     POETRY 


Depths  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion,  40 

For  the  fair,  disdainful  dame. 

But  oh!  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach 
The  sacred  organ's  praise? 

Notes  inspiring  holy  love,  45 

Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 
Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race; 
And  trees  unrooted  left  their  place, 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre;  50 

But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher: 
When  to  her  organ  vocal  breath  was  given, 
An  angel  heard,  and  straight  appeared, 
Mistaking  earth  for  heaven. 

Grand  Chorus 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays  55 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blessed  above; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 

This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour,  60 

The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  music  shall  untune  the  sky.  (1687) 


MATTHEW  PRIOR  To  a  child  of  quality 

Five  years  old,  MDCCIV,  the  author  then  forty 

TORDS,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band 
'   *    That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 
Were  summoned  by  her  high  command, 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  among  the  rest  I  took, 
Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

TO  A  CHILP  OF   QUALITY        745 


Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed. 

Nor  quality  nor  reputation 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell;  xo 

Dear  five  years  old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For  while  she  makes  her  silkworms  beds 

With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear, 
Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads  15 

In  papers  round  her  baby  hair, 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame, 
For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 

Shell  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 
And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet.  20 

Then  too,  alas!  when  she  shall  tear 

The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends, 
She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 

And  we  shall  still  continue  friends, 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move,  25 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  itl) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love, 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it.  (1704) 


ALEXANDER  POPE  from  An  Essay  on  Man 

The  argument  of  the  first  sections  of  Epistle  One  as  summarized  by  Pope 
is  given  here: 


OF  MAN  in  the  abstract.  I.  That  we  can  judge  only  with  regard  to  our 
own  system,  being  ignorant  of  the  relations  of  systems  and  things. 
II.  That  man  is  not  to  be  deemed  imperfect,  but  a  being  suited  to  his  place 

746     POETRY 


and  rank  in  the  creation,  agreeable  to  the  general  order  of  things,  and  con- 
formable to  ends  and  relations  to  him  unknown.  III.  That  it  is  partly  on  his 
ignorance  of  future  events,  and  partly  upon  the  hope  of  a  future  state,  that 
all  his  happiness  in  the  present  depends.  IV.  The  pride  of  aiming  at  more 
knowledge,  and  pretending  to  more  perfection,  the  cause  of  man's  error 
and  misery.  The  impiety  of  putting  himself  in  the  place  of  God,  and  judging 
of  the  fitness  or  unfitness,  perfection  or  imperfection,  justice  or  injustice  of 
his  dispensations.  V.  The  absurdity  of  conceiting  himself  the  final  cause  of 
the  creation,  or  expecting  that  perfection  in  the  moral  world  which  is  not 
in  the  natural.  VI.  The  unreasonableness  of  his  complaints  against  Provi- 
dence, while  on  the  one  hand,  he  demands  the  perfections  of  the  angels: 
and  on  the  other,  the  bodily  qualifications  of  the  brutes;  though  to  possess 
any  of  the  sensitive  faculties  in  a  higher  degree,  would  render  him  miser- 
able. VII.  That  throughout  the  whole  visible  world,  an  universal  order  and 
gradation  in  the  sensual  and  mental  faculties  is  observed,  which  causes  a 
subordination  of  creature  to  creature,  and  of  all  creatures  to  Man.  The 
gradation  of  sense,  instinct,  thought,  reflection,  reason:  that  reason  alone 
countervails  all  the  other  faculties. 

The  poem  goes  on  as  follows: 

VIII.  See,  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth. 

All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth. 

Above,  how  high  progressive  life  may  gol  235 

Around,  how  wide!  how  deep  extend  belowl 

Vast  chain  of  being!  which  from  God  began, 

Natures  ethereal,  human,  angel,  man, 

Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see, 

No  glass  can  reach;  from  Infinite  to  thee,  24° 

From  thee  to  nothing.— On  superior  powers 

Were  we  to  press,  inferior  might  on  ours: 

Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void, 

Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroyed: 

From  nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike,  245 

Tenth  or  ten-thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

And,  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll 
Alike  essential  to  th'  amazing  whole, 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 

That  system  only,  but  the  whole  must  fall.  250 

Let  earth  unbalanced  from  her  orbit  fly, 

AN   ESSAY  ON  MAN       747 


Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  through  the  sky; 

Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurled, 

Being  on  being  wrecked,  and  world  on  world; 

Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  center  nod,  255 

And  nature  tremble  to  the  throne  of  God. 

All  this  dread  order  break— for  whom?  for  thee? 

Vile  worm!— O  madness!  Pride!  Impiety! 

IX.  What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread, 

Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head?  260 

What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repined 

To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind? 

Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 

To  be  another,  in  this  general  frame: 

Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains,  265 

The  great  directing  mind  of  all  ordains. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same; 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame;  270 

Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees, 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent; 

Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part  275 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart: 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 
As  the  rapt  Seraph  that  adores  and  burns: 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all.  280 

X.  Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name: 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point:  This  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit.-In  this,  or  any  other  sphere,  285 
Secure  to  be  as  blessed  as  thou  canst  bear: 

Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  power, 
Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee; 


748     POETRY 


All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see; 

All  discord,  harmony  not  understood; 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good: 

And,  in  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 

One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right.  (1732;  1734) 


WILLIAM    COLLINS 

Written  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1746 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  bless'dl 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there!  ( 1747) 


THOMAS  GRAY  Elegy  written  in  a  country  churchyard 


THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds; 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN   A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD        749 


Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain  10 

Of  such,  as  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid,  15 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed.  20 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield,  25 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure;  30 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
Awaits  alike  the  inevitable  hour.  35 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise.  40 

750         POETRY 


Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid  45 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll;  50 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear: 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen  55 

And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood.  60 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbade:  nor  circumscribed  alone  65 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind, 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame,  70 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

EJUECY   WBXTCeN  IN   A.  CQtfNTRY  QmjHCa&YAFD        75L 


Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray; 
Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life  75 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh.  80 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey,  85 

This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires;  90 

Ev'n  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 

Ev'n  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led,  95 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn.  100 

"There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

752     POETHY 


"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn,  105 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove, 
Now  drooping,  woeful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 

Along  the  heath  and  near  his  favorite  tree;  no 

Another  came;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

"The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the  lay,  115 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

The  Epitaph 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown. 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own.  120 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had,  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose,  125 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
( There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose ) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God.  ( 1751 ) 


Romantic  and  Victorian  poems 


WILLIAM    BLAKE 


rpil  .  • 

Ine  tiger 

TIGER!  Tiger!  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


THE  TIGER        753 


In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies  5 

Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 

Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart?  I0 

And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 

What  dread  hand?  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 

In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 

What  the  anvil?  what  dread  grasp  15 

Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 

And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 

Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see? 

Did  he  who  made  the  Lamb  make  thee?  20 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright 

In  the  forests  of  the  night, 

What  immortal  hand  or  eye 

Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry?  ( 1794 ) 


BLAKE  London 


754 


I   WANDER  through  each  chartered  street, 
Near  where  the  chartered  Thames  does  flow, 
And  mark  in  every  face  I  meet 
Marks  of  weakness,  marks  of  woe. 

In  every  cry  of  every  man, 
In  every  infant's  cry  of  fear, 
In  every  voice,  in  every  ban, 
The  mind-forged  manacles  I  hear: 

How  the  chimney-sweeper's  cry 
Every  blackening  church  appalls, 
And  the  hapless  soldier's  sigh 
Runs  in  blood  down  palace  walls. 

POETRY 


But  most,  through  midnight  streets  I  hear 

How  the  youthful  harlot's  curse 

Blasts  the  new-born  infant's  tear,  15 

And  blights  with  plagues  the  marriage  hearse.  (1794) 


ROBERT   BURNS 

The  deiPs  awa  wP  th'  Exciseman 

Chorus 

THE  DEIL'S  awa,  the  deil's  awa, 
The  deil's  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman; 
He's  danc'd  awa,  he's  danc'd  awa, 
He's  danc'd  awa  wi'  th'  Excisemanl 

The  deil  cam  fiddlin  thro*  the  town  5 

And  danc'd  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman. 
And  ilka  wife  cries:  "Auld  Mahoun, 

I  wish  you  luck  o'  the  prize,  man! 

"We'll  mak  our  maut,  we'll  brew  our  drink, 

We'll  laugh,  sing,  and  rejoice,  man;  10 

And  monie  braw  thanks  to  the  meikle  black  deil, 

That  danc'd  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman." 

There's  threesome  reels,  there's  foursome  reels, 

There's  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man; 
But  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam  to  the  land  15 

Was  The  Deil's  Awa  wf  th'  Exciseman. 

Chorus 

The  deil's  awa,  the  deil's  awa, 

The  deil's  awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman; 
He's  danc'd  awa,  he's  danc'd  awa, 

He's  danc'd  awa  wi' th' Excisemanl   (1792)  20 


7.  ilka,  every.  Auld  Mahoun,  Old  Mahomet  (an  ancient  name  for  the  devil).  9.  maut, 
malt.  11.  monie  braw,  many  fine,  meikle,  great.  13.  threesome  reels,  reels  in  which  three 
take  part.  14.  strathspeys,  lively  Scottish  dances. 

THE  DEIL'S  AWA  wi'  TH'  EXCISEMAN     755 


BURNS  O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 

OWERT  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 
On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee. 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms  5 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 
To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare,  10 

The  desert  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there. 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown  15 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen.  ( 1796;  1800) 

WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us 

THE  WORLD  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers: 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boonl 
The  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon;  5 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.— Great  God!  I'd  rather  be 

A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn;  10 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn.    (1806;  1807) 


O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast.  3.  airt,  direction,  quarter  of  the  wind.  7.  })ieldt  shelter. 

756        POETRY 


London,  1802 


Ode 


MILTON!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters:  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower  5 

Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men: 
Oh!  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 
Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart: 

Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea,  10 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free; 
So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay.   (1802;  1807) 


Intimations  of  immortality  from 
recollections  of  early  childhood 

i 

THERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Appareled  in  celestial  light, 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream.  5 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore;— 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 

n 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes,  xo 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose; 
The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair;  15 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

ODK     757 


m 
Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound  *o 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong: 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep;  25 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 

And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea  30 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 

Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday;— 

Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy  Shepherd-boy!     35 

rv 
Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal,  40 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel— I  feel  it  all. 

Oh,  evil  dayl  if  I  were  sullen 

While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling  45 

On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother's  arm— 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear!  50 

—But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 

Doth  the  same  tale  repeat:  55 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

758     POBTRY 


V 

Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting: 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting,  60 

And  cometh  from  afar: 
Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home:  65 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy;  70 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended; 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away,  75 

And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And  even  with  something  of  a  Mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim,  80 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

vn 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses,  85 

A  six  years'  Darling  of  a  pigmy  size! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  I 

See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart,  90 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral, 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart,  95 

756 


And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside,  100 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  Actor  cons  another  part; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage;  105 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

VIII 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 
Thy  Soul's  immensity; 

Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep  "° 

Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 

Haunted  forever  by  the  eternal  mind- 
Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest,  "5 

Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 

In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 

Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 

Broods  like  the  Day,  a  Master  o'er  a  Slave, 

A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by;  120 

Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 

Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 

Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 

The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 

Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife?  125 

Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight, 

Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life! 

IX 

Oh,  joy!  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live,  130 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction:  not  indeed 

760     POETRY 


For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest;  135 

Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast- 
Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise;  140 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Falling  from  us,  vanishings; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 

Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized,  145 

High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised: 

But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may,  150 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence:  truths  that  wake,  155 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy!  160 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  Souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither,  165 

And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

x 
Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound!  170 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  today 

Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May! 

ODE     761 


What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright  175 

Be  now  forever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind;  180 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death,  185 

In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight  19° 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 

Is  lovely  yet;  195 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality. 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live,  200 

Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.  (1803-1806;  1807) 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE 

IN  XANADU  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round: 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 

762     POETRY 


Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills,  10 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh!  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover! 

A  savage  placel  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted  *5 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced; 

Amid  whose  swift  half -intermitted  burst  20 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail: 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion  25 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean: 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  warl  30 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device,  35 

A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  icel 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw: 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played,  40 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me, 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 

That  with  music  loud  and  long,  45 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome!  those  caves  of  ice! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

KUBLA  KHAN        763 


And  all  should  cry,  Beware!  Beware! 

His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair!  50 

Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise.  (1797;  1816) 


PERCY  BYSSHE   SHELLEY 

I   MET  a  traveler  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said:  "Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.  Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command,  5 

Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them,  and  the  heart  that  fed: 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear: 

'My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings:  10 

Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair!' 
Nothing  beside  remains.  Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away."   (1817;  1818) 

Ode  to  the  west  wind 

i 

OWILD  WEST  WIND,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes:  O  thou,  5 

Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill  10 

(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odors  plain  and  hill: 


764 


POETRY 


Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere; 
Destroyer  and  preserver;  hear,  oh,  hear! 

n 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion,  *5 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 

On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  aery  surge, 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head  20 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height, 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.  Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 

Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulcher,  25 

Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapors,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 

Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst:  oh,  hear! 

in 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay,  30 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers  35 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them!  Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 

The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 

The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know  40 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  oh,  hear! 

ODE  TO  THE   WEST   WIND        765 


IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear, 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share  45 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O  uncontrollable!  If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  Heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skyey  speed  50 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh,  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life!  I  bleed! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed  55 

One  too  like  thee:  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

v 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is: 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone,  60 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.  Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
)  My  spirit!  Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 

Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth! 

And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse,  65 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy!  O  Wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind?  ( 1819;  1820)  70 

JOHN  KEATS  Ode  to  %.  nightingale 

MY  HEART  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

766     POOTRY 


One  minute  past,  and  Lethe- wards  had  sunk: 

'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot,  5 

But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness— 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease.  lo 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth! 

0  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South,  15 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth; 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim:  20 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs,  25 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  specter-thin,  and  dies; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 

Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  tomorrow.  30 

Away!  away!  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards: 
Already  with  thee!  tender  is  the  night,  35 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways.  40 

1  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 

ODE   TO   A   NIGHTINGALE        767 


But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 

The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild;  45 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine; 
Fast  fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child. 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves.  5° 

Darkling  I  listen;  and,  for  many  a  time, 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rime, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath; 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die,  55 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasyl 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain— 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod.  60 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown: 

Perhaps  the  self -same  song  that  found  a  path  65 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 

Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.  70 

Forlorn!  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self, 
Adieu!  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu!  adieu!  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades  75 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hillside;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley  glades: 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music— Do  I  wake  or  sleep?   ( 1819)  80 

768      POETRY 


KEATS  Ode  on  a  Grecian  urn 

THOU  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 
Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rime: 
What  leaf -fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape  5 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these?  What  maidens  loth? 
What  mad  pursuit?  What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?  What  wild  ecstasy?  10 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave  *5 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal—yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

Forever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fairl  *> 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new. 
More  happy  love!  more  happy,  happy  lovel  25 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 
Forever  panting,  and  forever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue.  30 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  dressed? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  seashore,  35 

ODE  ON   A   GRECIAN  URN        769 


Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  forevermore 
Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return.  40 

O  Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude  I  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity:  Cold  Pastoral!  45 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 

"Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"— that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know.   (1819;  1820)  50 


KEATS  Ode  on  melancholy 


No,  NO!  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
Wolf s-bane,  tight-rooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kissed 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine; 

Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries,  5 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 

Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily, 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul.  10 

But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all, 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud; 
Then  glut  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose,  15 

Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave, 

Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 

Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave, 

And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes.  20 

770     POETRY 


She  dwells  with  Beauty— Beauty  that  must  die; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh, 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  bee-mouth  sips: 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight  *5 

Veiled  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine, 

Though  seen  of  none  save  him  whose  strenuous  tongue 

Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  fine; 
His  soul  shall  taste  the  sadness  of  her  might, 

And  be  among  her  cloudy  trophies  hung.  ( 1819;  1820)  30 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON  The  rhouorai 

On  Being  Asked,  Whence  Is  the  Flower? 

IN  MAY,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool,  3 

Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool. 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora!  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 

This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky,  10 

Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being: 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew: 

But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose  15 

The  self -same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought  you. 

(1834;  1839) 

Each  and  all 

ETLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon,  5 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

EACH   AND   ALL        771 


Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent.  10 

All  are  needed  by  each  one; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 

I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even;  15 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky;— 

He  sang  to  my  ear,— they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave  20 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home;  25 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 

With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed,  30 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage;— 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone,  35 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "I  covet  truth; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth":— 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet  40 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground;  45 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 


772     POETRY 


EMERSON 


Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird;— 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole;  50 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole.  (1834?;  1839) 

Days     . 

DAUGHTERS  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 

To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will,  5 

Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them  all. 
I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.  I,  too  late,  10 

Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn.    (1852?;  1857) 


ALFRED,   LORD  TENNYSON 


THE  WOODS  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall, 
The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath, 
And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality  5 

Consumes:  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 
Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 
A  white-hair  'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 
The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  morn.  10 

Alas!  for  this  gray  shadow,  once  a  man- 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God! 

I  ask'd  thee,  "Give  me  immortality."  15 

Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile, 
Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  give. 
But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work'd  their  wills, 
And  beat  me  down  and  marr'd  and  wasted  me, 

TITHONUS        773 


And  tho'  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me  maim'd  20 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 

Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth, 

And  all  I  was,  in  ashes.  Can  thy  love, 

Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho'  even  now, 

Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide,  25 

Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with  tears 

To  hear  me?  Let  me  go:  take  back  thy  gift: 

Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance  30 

Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  all? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart;  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure,  35 

And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro'  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise,  40 

And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd  manes, 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo!  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek.  45 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  tears, 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learnt, 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true? 
"The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their  gifts." 

Ay  mel  ay  me!  with  what  another  heart  50 

In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I  used  to  watch— if  I  be  he  that  watch'd— 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee;  saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings; 

Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  blood  55 

Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 


774 


POETRY 


Thy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I  lay, 

Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy-warm 

With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 

Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss'd  &o 

Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet 

Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 

While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East: 

How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine?  65 

Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die,  70 

And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground; 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my  grave: 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn; 
I  earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts,  75 

And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels,   (c.  1842;  1860) 

EDGAR  ALLAN  FOE  To  Helen 

HELEN,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 
Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore, 
That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore.  5 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 

Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 
Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 

To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome.  *o 

Lol  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 

How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  handl 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 

Are  Holy  Landl  (1831)  ^ 

TO  HELEN        775 


The  city  in  the  sea 


E!  DEATH  has  reared  himself  a  throne 
In  a  strange  city  lying  alone 
Far  down  within  the  dim  West, 

Where  the  good  and  the  bad  and  the  worst  and  the  best 
Have  gone  to  their  eternal  rest.  5 

There  shrines  and  palaces  and  towers 
(Time-eaten  towers  that  tremble  not) 
Resemble  nothing  that  is  ours. 
Around,  by  lifting  winds  forgot, 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky  10 

The  melancholy  waters  lie. 

No  rays  from  the  holy  heaven  come  down 

On  the  long  night-time  of  that  town; 

But  light  from  out  the  lurid  sea 

Streams  up  the  turrets  silently,  15 

Gleams  up  the  pinnacles  far  and  free: 

Up  domes,  up  spires,  up  kingly  halls; 

Up  fanes,  up  Babylon-like  walls, 

Up  shadowy  long-forgotten  bowers 

Of  sculptured  ivy  and  stone  flowers,  20 

Up  many  and  many  a  marvelous  shrine 

Whose  wreathed  friezes  intertwine 

The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine. 

Resignedly  beneath  the  sky 

The  melancholy  waters  lie.  25 

So  blend  the  turrets  and  shadows  there 

That  all  seem  pendulous  in  air, 

While  from  a  proud  tower  in  the  town 

Death  looks  gigantically  down. 

There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves  30 

Yawn  level  with  the  luminous  waves; 

But  not  the  riches  there  that  lie 

In  each  idol's  diamond  eye,— 

Not  the  gayly-jewelled  dead, 

Tempt  the  waters  from  their  bed;  35 

For  no  ripples  curl,  alas, 

776     POETRY 


Along  that  wilderness  of  glass; 

No  swellings  tell  that  winds  may  be 

Upon  some  far-off  happier  sea; 

No  heavings  hint  that  winds  have  been  40 

On  seas  less  hideously  serene! 

But  lo,  a  stir  is  in  the  air! 

The  wave— there  is  a  movement  therel 

As  if  the  towers  had  thrust  aside, 

In  slightly  sinking,  the  dull  tide;  45 

As  if  their  tops  had  feebly  given 

A  void  within  the  filmy  Heaven! 

The  waves  have  now  a  redder  glow, 

The  hours  are  breathing  faint  and  low; 

And  when,  amid  no  earthly  moans,  50 

Down,  down  that  town  shall  settle  hence, 

Hell,  rising  from  a  thousand  thrones, 

Shall  do  it  reverence.   (1831;  1845) 


G" 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  cloister 

IR-R-R— there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence! 
Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you! 
What?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming?  3 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims- 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 
Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames! 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together: 

Salve  tibi!  I  must  hear  to 

Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year: 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop:  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt: 
What's  the  Latin  name  for  "parsley"?  15 

What's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout? 

Whew!  We'll  have  our  platter  burnished, 
Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf  I 

SOLILOQUY    OF   THE   SPANISH   CLOISTER        777 


With  a  fire-new  spoon  we're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself ,  20 

Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  'tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps- 
Marked  with  L  for  our  initial! 

(He-he!  There  his  lily  snaps!) 

Saint,  forsooth!  While  brown  Dolores  25 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horsehairs, 

—Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow,  30 

Bright  as  'twere  a  Barbary  corsair's? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show! ) 

When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection,  35 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp— 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp.  40 

Oh,  those  melons!  If  he's  able 

We're  to  have  a  feast!  so  nice! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers?  None  double?  45 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 
Strange!— And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly! 

There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails  50 

Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails: 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying  55 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee? 


778 


Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe:  60 

If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woeful  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in't? 

Or,  there's  Satan!— one  might  venture  65 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of!  Hij,  Zy,  Hine.  . . ,  7° 

'St,  there's  Vespers!  Plena,  gratid, 

Ave,  Virgo!  Gr-r-r— you  swine!    (1842) 

BROWNING  The  bishop  orders  his  tomb  at 
Saint  PraxecPs  Church 

Rome,  15— 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity! 
Draw  round  my  bed;  is  Anselm  keeping  back? 
Nephews— sons  mine  ...  ah,  God,  I  know  not!  Well- 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was!  5 

What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world's  a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it?  As  here  I  lie  10 

In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask, 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"  Peace,  peace  seems  all. 
Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace; 
And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.  I  fought  13 

With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know- 
Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care; 
Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  South 

THE   BISHOP   ORDERS   HIS  TOMB        779 


He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same! 

Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence  20 

One  sees  the  pulpit  o'  the  epistle-side, 

And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 

The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to  lurk; 

And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there,  25 

And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 

With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 

The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands: 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 

As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse.  30 

—Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 

Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him!  True  peach, 

Rosy  and  flawless;  how  I  earned  the  prize! 

Draw  close;  that  conflagration  of  my  church— 

What  then?  So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were  missed!  35 

My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death?  Go  dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 

And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah,  God,  I  know  not,  I!  ... 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves  soft,  40 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 

Some  lump,  ah,  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 

Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 

Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast . . . 

Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all,  45 

That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 

So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 

Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 

For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst!  50 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years; 

Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 

Did  I  say  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons?  Black— 

Twas  ever  antique-black  I  meant!  How  else 

Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath?  55 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 

Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 

The  Savior  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 


780        POETRY 


Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan  60 

Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  . . .  but  I  know 

Ye  mark  me  not!  What  do  they  whisper  thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?  Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp  65 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  moldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  atl 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me—all  of  jasper,  then! 

Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve. 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas!  70 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world— 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs?  75 

—That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second  line— 

Tully,  my  masters?  Ulpian  serves  his  need! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries,  80 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  Mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night,  85 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work;  90 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals,  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount,  95 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet— 

Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT  quoth  our  friend? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  bestl  100 

THE    BISHOP    ORDERS   HIS   TOMB         781 


Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons!  Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas  I  Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul,  *°5 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  visor  and  a  term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down,  no 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask, 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?'*  There,  leave  me,  there! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death—ye  wish  it— God,  ye  wish  it!  Stone—  115 

Gritstone,  a-crumble!  Clammy  squares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through— 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world! 

Well,  go!  I  bless  ye.  Fewer  tapers  there, 

But  in  a  row;  and,  going,  turn  your  backs—  120 

Aye,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers— 

Old  Gandolf— at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was!   ( 1845)  125 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  To  the  dandelion 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 
First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they  5 

An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth,— thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow  10 

Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 
Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 

782        POETRY 


Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease, 

Tis  the  spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 

To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand,  15 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime;  20 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time: 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden  cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent,  25 

His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass,  30 

The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above,  35 

Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long,  40 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers.  45 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam  50 

TO  THE  DANDELION        783 


Of  heaven  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book.   ( 1844;  1845) 


WALT  WHITMAN  OneVself  I  sing 


o 


NE'S-SELF  I  sing,  a  simple  separate  person, 
Yet  utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En-Masse. 


Of  physiology  from  top  to  toe  I  sing, 

Not  physiognomy  alone  nor  brain  alone  is  worthy  for  the  Muse, 

I  say  the  Form  complete  is  worthier  far, 
The  Female  equally  with  the  Male  I  sing.  5 

Of  Life  immense  in  passion,  pulse,  and  power, 
Cheerful,  for  freest  action  form'd  under  the  laws  divine, 
The  Modern  Man  I  sing.   (1867;  1871) 

Once  I  passed  through  a  populous  city 

ONCE  I  pass'd  through  a  populous  city  imprinting  my  brain  for  future 
use  with  its  shows,  architecture,  customs,  traditions, 
Yet  now  of  all  that  city  I  remember  only  a  woman  I  casually  met  there  who 

detain'd  me  for  love  of  me, 
Day  by  day  and  night  by  night  we  were  together— all  else  has  long  been 

forgotten  by  me, 

I  remember  I  say  only  that  woman  who  passionately  clung  to  me, 
Again  she  holds  me  by  the  hand,  I  must  not  go,  5 

I  see  her  close  beside  me  with  silent  lips  sad  and  tremulous.   ( 1860;  1867) 

I  saw  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing 

I  SAW  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing, 
All  alone  stood  it  and  the  moss  hung  down  from  the  branches, 
Without  any  companion  it  grew  there  uttering  joyous  leaves  of  dark  green, 
And  its  look,  rude,  unbending,  lusty,  made  me  think  of  myself, 
But  I  wonder 'd  how  it  could  utter  joyous  leaves  standing  alone   there 
without  its  friend  near,  for  I  knew  I  could  not,  5 

And  I  broke  off  a  twig  with  a  certain  number  of  leaves  upon  it,  and  twined 

around  it  a  little  moss, 
And  brought  it  away,  and  I  have  placed  it  in  sight  in  my  room, 

784     POETRY 


It  is  not  needed  to  remind  me  as  of  my  own  dear  friends, 

(For  I  believe  lately  I  think  of  little  else  than  of  them,) 

Yet  it  remains  to  me  a  curious  token,  it  makes  me  think  of  manly  love;        10 

For  all  that,  and  though  the  live-oak  glistens  there  in  Louisiana  solitary  in 

a  wide  flat  space, 

Uttering  joyous  leaves  all  its  life  without  a  friend,  a  lover  near, 
I  know  very  well  I  could  not.   ( 1860) 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloomed 

i 

WHEN  LILACS  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 
And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky  in  the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning  spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 

Lilac  blooming  perennial  and  drooping  star  in  the  west,  5 

And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

n 

O  powerful  western  fallen  star! 
O  shades  of  night— O  moody,  tearful  night! 
O  great  star  disappear'd— O  the  black  murk  that  hides  the  star! 
O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless— O  helpless  soul  of  me!  10 

O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 

m 

In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the  white-wash'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush,  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 
With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with  the  perfume  strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf  a  miracle— and  from  this  bush  in  the  dooryard,  15 

With  delicate-color'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves  of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 

IV 

In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 

A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush,  20 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settlements, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life  ( for  well  dear  brother  I  know, 

If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely  die).  2? 

WHEN    LILACS    LAST   IN   THE    DOORYARD    BLOOM'p         785 


Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 

Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the  violets  peep'd  from  the 
ground,  spotting  the  gray  debris, 

Amid  the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes,  passing  the  endless  grass; 

Passing  the  yellow-spear'd  wheat,  every  grain  from  its  shroud  in  the  dark- 
brown  fields  uprisen, 

Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the  orchards,  3° 

Carrying  a  coipse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 

Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 

VI 

Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 

Through  day  arid  night  with  the  great  cloud  darkening  the  land, 

With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags,  with  the  cities  draped  in  black,  35 

With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape-veil'd  women  standing, 

With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus  of  the  night, 

With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of  faces  and  the  unbared 

heads, 

With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the  somber  faces, 
With  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand  voices  rising  strong  and 

solemn,  40 

With  all  the  mournful  voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd  around  the  coffin, 
The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs— where  amid  these  you 

journey, 

With  the  tolling  tolling  bells'  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac.  45 

vn 

(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 
Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring. 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  carol  a  song  to  you  O  sane  and 

sacred  death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies,  50 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 

Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes. 

With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 

For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you  O  death. ) 

vm 

O  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven,  55 

Nov;  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month  since  I  walk'd, 


786 


POETRY 


As  I  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 

As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me  night  after  night, 

As  you  droop'd  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my  side  (while  the  othef 

stars  all  look'd  on), 
As  we  wander'd  together  the  solemn  night  (for  something  I  know  not  what 

kept  me  from  sleep),  60 

As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the  west  how  full  you  were 

of  woe, 

As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze  in  the  cold  transparent  night, 
As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the  netherward  black  of  the 

night, 

As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as  where  you  sad  orb, 
Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone.  65 

IX 

Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender,  I  hear  your  notes,  I  hear  your  call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 

But  a  moment  I  linger,  for  the  lustrous  star  has  detained  me, 

The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and  detains  me.  7° 

x 

O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I  loved? 

And  how  shall  I  deck  my  song  for  the  large  sweet  soul  that  has  gone? 

And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I  love? 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 

Blown  from  the  Eastern  sea  and  blown  from  the  Western  sea  till  there  on 
the  prairies  meeting:  75 

These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 

XI 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls? 

And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on  the  walls, 

To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love?  80 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 

With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray  smoke  lucid  and 

bright, 
With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indolent,  sinking  sun, 

burning,  expanding  the  air, 
With  the  fresh  sweet  herbage  under  foot,  and  the  pale  green  leaves  of  the 

trees  prolific, 

WHKNT    LIT. ACS    I  AVT    TM    TMW    nr»T»uvA»r»    nt  f\fMur'n 


In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the  river,  with  a  wind- 
dapple  here  and  there;  85 

With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line  against  the  sky,  and 
shadows; 

And  the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings  so  dense,  and  stacks  of  chimneys, 

And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops,  and  the  workmen  homeward 
returning. 

xn 

Lo,  body  and  soul— this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and  hurrying  tides,  and 
the  ships,  9° 

The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North  in  the  light— Ohio's 
shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 

And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover 'd  with  grass  and  corn. 

Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 

The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 

The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light,  95 

The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfill'd  noon, 

The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the  stars, 

Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 

xm 

Sing  on,  sing  on  you  gray-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant  from  the  bushes;      100 

Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tenderl 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul— O  wondrous  singer!  105 

'  You  only  I  hear— yet  the  star  holds  me  (but  will  soon  depart,) 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 

XIV 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of  spring,  and  the 

farmers  preparing  their  crops, 

In  the  large  unconscious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its  lakes  and  forests,  «» 
In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty  (after  the  perturb'd  winds  and  the  storms,) 
Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift  passing,  and  the  voices 

of  children  and  women, 

788     POETRY 


The  many-moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how  they  sail'd, 

And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the  fields  all  busy  with 

labor, 
And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went  on,  each  with  its  meals 

and  minutia  of  daily  usages;  "5 

And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the  cities  pent— lo,  then 

and  there, 

Falling  upon  them  all  and  among  them  all,  enveloping  me  with  the  rest, 
Appear 'd  the  cloud,  appeared  the  long  black  trail; 
And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge  of  death. 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one  side  of  me,  120 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side  of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  holding  the  hands  of 

companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 
Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the  swamp  in  the  dimness, 
To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so  still.  125 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me, 

The  gray-brown  bird  I  know  receiv'd  us  comrades  three, 

And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I  love. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars  and  the  ghostly  pines  so  still,  130 

Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the  night; 

And  the  voice  of  my  spirit  tallied  the  song  of  the  bird. 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death,  135 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenehj  arriving,  arriving, 
In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 
Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 

For  life  and  joy,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious,  140 

And  for  love,  sweet  love— but  praise!  praise!  praise! 

For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOORYARD  BLOOMED       789 


Dark  mother  aluxiys  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 

Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 

Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all,  145 

I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when  thou  must  indeed  come,  come  unfalteringly. 

Approach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them,  I  joyously  sing  the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 

Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss  O  death.  150 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments  and  f eastings  for  thee, 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread  sky  are  fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful  night. 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star,  155 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose  voice  1  know, 
And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  O  vast  and  well-veil *d  death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and  sinking  waves,  over  the  myriad  fields  and  the  prairies 
wide,  1 60 

Over  the  dense-pack'd  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves  and  ways, 
I  float  this  carol  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  O  death! 

xv 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 
With  pure,  deliberate  notes  spreading  filling  the  night.  165 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 

As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions.  170 

I  saw  askant  the  armies; 

And  I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 

Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierc'd  with  missiles  I  saw  them, 

790     POETRY 


And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and  torn  and  bloody, 

And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs  (and  all  in  silence,)  175 

And  the  staffs  all  splinter 'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of  the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought,  180 

They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer 'd  not, 

The  living  remained  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffered, 

And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade  suffer'd. 

And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffer'd. 

XVI 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night,  185 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 
Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying  song  of  my  soul, 
Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying  ever-altering  song, 
As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and  falling,  flooding  the  night, 
Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning,  and  yet  again  bursting 
with  joy,  190 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As  that  powerful  psalm  in  the  night  I  heard  from  recesses, 
Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac  with  heart-shaped  leaves, 
I  leave  thee  there  in  the  dooryard  blooming,  returning  with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee,  195 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west,  communing  with 

thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  I  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night, 

The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 

The  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul,  200 

With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with  the  countenance  full  of  woe, 

With  the  holders  holding  my  hand  hearing  the  call  of  the  bird, 

Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory  ever  to  keep,  for  the 

dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands— and  this  for  his  dear 

sake; 

Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my  soul,  205 

There  in  the  fragrant,  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim.   ( 1865;  1881 ) 

WHEN   LILACS   LAST  IN   THE   DOORYARD  BLOOMED        791 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  Lucifer  in  starlight 

ON  A  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion,  swung  the  fiend 
Above  the  rolling  ball,  in  cloud  part  screened, 
Where  sinners  hugged  their  specter  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 
And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  leaned, 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Afric's  sands  careened, 
Now  the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  pricked  his  scars 
With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked,  and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  marched,  rank  on  rank, 
The  army  of  unalterable  law.  (1883) 


CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI 


MY  HEART  is  like  a  singing  bird 
Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot; 
My  heart  is  like  an  apple-tree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thick-set  fruit; 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 
That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these 
Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down; 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes; 
Carve  it  in  doves  and  pomegranates, 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes; 
Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 

In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me.  (  1857  ) 


Reprinted  from  Selected  Poems  of  George  Meredith;  copyright  1897  by  George  Mere- 
dith, 1925  by  William  M.  Meredith;  used  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons. 

792         POETRY 


EMILY    DICKINSON 


The 


BECAUSE  I  could  not  stop  for  Death, 

He  kindly  stopped  for  me; 
ie  carriage  held  but  just  ourselves 
And  Immortality. 

We  slowly  drove,  he  knew  no  haste,  5 

And  I  had  put  away 

My  labor  and  my  leisure  too, 

For  his  civility. 

We  passed  the  school  where  children  played 

At  wrestling  in  a  ring;  10 

We  passed  the  fields  of  gazing  grain, 

We  passed  the  setting  sun. 

We  paused  before  a  house  that  seemed 

A  swelling  of  the  ground; 

The  roof  was  scarcely  visible,  15 

The  cornice  but  a  mound. 

Since  then  't  is  centuries;  but  each 

Feels  shorter  than  the  day 

I  first  surmised  the  horses'  heads 

Were  toward  eternity.  (1890)  20 


There's  a  certain  slant  of  light 


r  I  1  HERE'S  a  certain  slant  of  light, 

J_   On  winter  afternoons, 
That  oppresses,  like  the  weight 
Of  cathedral  tunes. 

Heavenly  hurt  it  gives  us;  5 

We  can  find  no  scar, 
But  internal  difference 
Where  the  meanings  are. 

None  may  teach  it  anything, 

Tis  the  seal,  despair,—  10 

THERE'S  A  CERTAIN  SLANT  OF  LIGHT      703 


An  imperial  affliction 
Sent  us  of  the  air. 

When  it  comes,  the  landscape  listens, 

Shadows  hold  their  breath; 

When  it  goes,  'tis  like  the  distance  15 

On  the  look  of  death.   ( 1890 ) 


THOMAS  HARDY  The  darkling  thrush 


J  LEANT  upon  a  coppice  gate 
When  Frost  was  specter-gray, 
d  Winter's  dregs  made  desolate 
The  weakening  eye  of  day. 
The  tangled  bine-stems  scored  the  sky  5 

Like  strings  of  broken  lyres, 
And  all  mankind  that  haunted  night 
Had  sought  their  household  fires. 

The  land's  sharp  features  seemed  to  be 

The  Century's  corpse  outleant,  10 

His  crypt  the  cloudy  canopy, 

The  wind  his  death-lament. 
The  ancient  pulse  of  germ  and  birth 

Was  shrunken  hard  and  dry, 
And  every  spirit  upon  earth  15 

Seemed  fervor  less  as  I. 

At  once  a  voice  arose  among 

The  bleak  twigs  overhead 
In  a  full-hearted  evensong 

Of  joy  illimited;  20 

An  aged  thrush,  frail,  gaunt,  and  small, 

In  blast-beruffled  plume, 
Had  chosen  thus  to  fling  his  soul 

Upon  the  growing  gloom. 

So  little  cause  for  carolings  25 

Of  such  ecstatic  sound 


"The  Darkling  Thrush"  and  "In  Time  of  'The  Breaking  of  Nations' "  from  Collected 
Poems  of  Thomas  Hardy.  Copyright  1923  by  The  Macmillan  Company.  By  permission 
of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 


794        POETEtt 


Was  written  on  terrestrial  things 

Afar  or  nigh  around, 
That  I  could  think  there  trembled  through 

His  happy  good-night  air  30 

Some  blessed  Hope,  whereof  he  knew 

And  I  was  unaware.  (  1900  ) 


In  time  of  cthe  breaking  of  nations' 


GERARD 


ONLY  a  man  harrowing  clods 
In  a  slow  silent  walk 

With  an  old  horse  that  stumbles  and  nods 
Half  asleep  as  they  stalk. 

n 
Only  thin  smoke  without  flame 

From  the  heaps  of  couch-grass; 
Yet  this  will  go  onward  the  same 

Though  Dynasties  pass. 

in 

Yonder  a  maid  and  her  wight 

Come  whispering  by: 
War's  annals  will  cloud  into  night 

Ere  their  story  die.  (1915) 


MANLEY    HOPKINS      The    Habit    of 

ELECTED  Silence,  sing  to  me 
And  beat  upon  my  whorled  ear; 
Pipe  me  to  pastures  still  and  be 
The  music  that  I  care  to  hear. 

Shape  nothing,  lips;  be  lovely-dumb— 
It  is  the  shut,  the  curfew  sent 
From  there  where  all  surrenders  come 
Which  only  makes  you  eloquent. 


"The  Habit  of  Perfection"  and  "I  Wake  and  Feel  the  Fell  of  Dark"  reprinted  from 
The  Poems  of  Gerard  Manley  Hopkins  by  permission  of  the  Hopkins  family  and  the 
Oxford  University  Press. 


THE    HABIT    OF    PERFECTION 


70S 


Be  shelled,  eyes,  with  double  dark 

And  find  the  uncreated  light;  *° 

This  ruck  and  reel  which  you  remark 

Coils,  keeps,  and  teases  simple  sight. 

Palate,  the  hutch  of  tasty  lust, 

Desire  not  to  be  rinsed  with  wine; 

The  can  must  be  so  sweet,  the  crust  *5 

So  fresh  that  come  in  fasts  divinel 

Nostrils,  your  careless  breath  that  spend 

Upon  the  stir  and  keep  of  pride, 

What  relish  shall  the  censers  send 

Along  the  sanctuary  side!  20 

O  feel-of -primrose  hands,  O  feet 
That  want  the  yield  of  plushy  sward, 
But  you  shall  walk  the  golden  street 
And  you  unhouse  and  house  the  Lord. 

And,  Poverty,  be  thou  the  bride  25 

And  now  the  marriage  feast  begun, 

And  lily-colored  clothes  provide 

Your  spouse  not  labored-at  nor  spun.   ( 1866;  1918) 

HOPKINS  I  wake  and  feel  the  fell  of  dark 

I  WAKE  and  feel  the  fell  of  dark,  not  day. 
What  hours,  O  what  black  hours  we  have  spent 
This  night!  what  sights  you,  heart,  saw;  ways  you  went! 
And  more  must,  in  yet  longer  light's  delay. 

With  witness  I  speak  this.  But  where  I  say  5 

Hours  I  mean  years,  mean  life.  And  my  lament 
Is  cries  countless,  cries  like  dead  letters  sent 
To  dearest  him  that  lives  alas!  away. 

I  am  gall,  I  am  heartburn.  God's  most  deep  decree 
Bitter  would  have  me  taste:  my  taste  was  me;  10 

Bones  built  in  me,  flesh  filled,  blood  brimmed  the  curse. 

Selfyeast  of  spirit  a  dull  dough  sours.  I  see 
The  lost  are  like  this,  and  their  scourge  to  be 
As  I  am  mine,  their  sweating  selves;  but  worse.  (1886;  1918) 

796     POETRY 


Contemporary  poems 


A.  E.  HOUSMAN  TllC    tlllC 


THE  LAD  came  to  the  door  at  night, 
When  lovers  crown  their  vows, 
And  whistled  soft  and  out  of  sight 
In  shadow  of  the  boughs. 

"I  shall  not  vex  you  with  my  face  5 

Henceforth,  my  love,  for  aye; 
So  take  me  in  your  arms  a  space 

Before  the  east  is  grey. 

"When  I  from  hence  away  am  past 

I  shall  not  find  a  bride,  10 

And  you  shall  be  the  first  and  last 
I  ever  lay  beside." 

She  heard  and  went  and  knew  not  why; 

Her  heart  to  his  she  laid; 
Light  was  the  air  beneath  the  sky  15 

But  dark  under  the  shade. 

"Oh  do  you  breathe,  lad,  that  your  breast 

Seems  not  to  rise  and  fall, 
And  here  upon  my  bosom  prest 

There  beats  no  heart  at  all?"  20 

"Oh  loud,  my  girl,  it  once  would  knock, 

You  should  have  felt  it  then; 
But  since  for  you  I  stopped  the  clock 

It  never  goes  again." 

"Oh  lad,  what  is  it,  lad,  that  drips  25 

Wet  from  your  neck  on  mine? 

'The  True  Lover"  and  "To  an  Athlete  Dying  Young"  from  A  Shropshire  Lad  by 
A.  E.  Housman.  By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Inc. 

THE  TRUE  LOVER        797 


What  is  it  falling  on  my  lips, 
My  lad,  that  tastes  of  brine?" 

"Oh  like  enough  'tis  blood,  my  dear, 

For  when  the  knife  has  slit  3° 

The  throat  across  from  ear  to  ear 

'Twill  bleed  because  of  it." 

Under  the  stars  the  air  was  light 

But  dark  below  the  boughs, 
The  still  air  of  the  speechless  night,  35 

When  lovers  crown  their  vows.  (1896) 

HOUSMAN  To  an  athlete  dying  young 

THE  TIME  you  won  your  town  the  race 
We  chaired  you  through  the  market-place; 
Man  and  boy  stood  cheering  by, 
And  home  we  brought  you  shoulder-high. 

Today,  the  road  all  runners  come,  5 

Shoulder-high  we  bring  you  home, 
And  set  you  at  your  threshold  down, 
Townsman  of  a  stiller  town. 

Smart  lad,  to  slip  betimes  away 

From  fields  where  glory  does  not  stay  10 

And  early  though  the  laurel  grows 

It  withers  quicker  than  the  rose. 

Eyes  the  shady  night  has  shut 

Cannot  see  the  record  cut, 

And  silence  sounds  no  worse  than  cheers  15 

After  earth  has  stopped  the  ears. 

Now  you  will  not  swell  the  rout 

Of  lads  that  wore  their  honors  out, 

Runners  whom  renown  outran 

And  the  name  died  before  the  man.  20 

So  set,  before  its  echoes  fade, 
798     POTOY 


The  fleet  foot  on  the  sill  of  shade, 
And  hold  to  the  low  lintel  up 
The  still-defended  challenge-cup. 

And  round  that  early-laureled  head  25 

Will  flock  to  gaze  the  strengthless  dead, 

And  find  unwithered  on  its  curls 

The  garland  briefer  than  a  girl's.   (1895;  1896) 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS  Among  school  children 

I 

I  WALK  through  the  long  schoolroom  questioning; 
A  kind  old  nun  in  a  white  hood  replies; 
The  children  learn  to  cipher  and  to  sing, 
To  study  reading-books  and  history, 

To  cut  and  sew,  be  neat  in  everything  5 

In  the  best  modern  way—the  children's  eyes 
In  momentary  wonder  stare  upon 
A  sixty-year-old  smiling  public  man. 

n 

I  dream  of  a  Ledaean  body,  bent 

Above  a  sinking  fire,  a  tale  that  she  10 

Told  of  a  harsh  reproof,  or  trivial  event 
That  changed  some  childish  day  to  tragedy- 
Told,  and  it  seemed  that  our  two  natures  blent 
Into  a  sphere  from  youthful  sympathy, 

Or  else,  to  alter  Plato's  parable,  15 

Into  the  yolk  and  white  of  one  shell. 

m 

And  thinking  of  that  fit  of  grief  or  rage 
I  look  upon  one  child  or  t'other  there 
And  wonder  if  she  stood  so  at  that  age— 

For  even  daughters  of  the  swan  can  share  ao 

Something  of  every  paddler's  heritage— 
And  had  that  color  upon  cheek  or  hair, 
And  thereupon  my  heart  is  driven  wild: 
She  stands  before  me  as  a  living  child. 


From  The  Collected  Poems  of  W.  B.  Yeats.  Copyright  1928  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 
By  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company,  publishers. 

AMONG   SCHOOL   CHILDREN         799 


IV 

Her  present  image  floats  into  the  mind—  23 

Did  Quattrocento  finger  fashion  it 

Hollow  of  cheek  as  though  it  drank  the  wind 

And  took  a  mess  of  shadows  for  its  meat? 

And  I  though  never  of  Ledaean  kind 

Had  pretty  plumage  once— enough  of  that,  30 

Better  to  smile  on  all  that  smile,  and  show 

There  is  a  comfortable  kind  of  old  scarecrow. 

v 

What  youthful  mother,  a  shape  upon  her  lap 
Honey  of  generation  had  betrayed, 

And  that  must  sleep,  shriek,  struggle  to  escape  35 

As  recollection  or  the  drug  decide, 
Would  think  her  son,  did  she  but  see  that  shape 
With  sixty  or  more  winters  on  its  head, 
A  compensation  for  the  pang  of  his  birth, 
Or  the  uncertainty  of  his  setting  forth?  40 

VI 

Plato  thought  nature  but  a  spume  that  plays 

Upon  a  ghostly  paradigm  of  things; 

Solider  Aristotle  played  the  taws 

Upon  the  bottom  of  a  king  of  kings; 

World-famous  golden-thighed  Pythagoras  45 

Fingered  upon  a  fiddle-stick  or  strings 

What  a  star  sang  and  careless  Muses  heard: 

Old  clothes  upon  old  sticks  to  scare  a  bird. 

vn 

Both  nuns  and  mothers  worship  images, 

But  those  the  candles  light  are  not  as  those  50 

That  animate  a  mother's  reveries, 
But  keep  a  marble  or  a  bronze  repose. 
And  yet  they  too  break  hearts— O  Presences 
That  passion,  piety  or  affection  knows, 

And  that  all  heavenly  glory  symbolize—  55 

O  self-born  mockers  of  man's  enterprise; 

vm 

Labor  is  blossoming  or  dancing  where 
The  body  is  not  bruised  to  pleasure  soul, 
Nor  beauty  born  out  of  its  own  despair, 
Nor  blear-eyed  wisdom  out  of  midnight  oil,  60 


800         POETRY 


O  chestnut  tree,  great  rooted  blossomer, 

Are  you  the  leaf,  the  blossom  or  the  bole? 

O  body  swayed  to  music,  O  brightening  glance, 

How  can  we  know  the  dancer  from  the  dance?  (  1903  ) 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

MINIVER  CHEEVY,  child  of  scorn, 
Grew  lean  while  he  assailed  the  seasons; 
He  wept  that  he  was  ever  born, 
And  he  had  reasons. 

Miniver  loved  the  days  of  old  5 

When  swords  were  bright  and  steeds  were  prancing. 

The  vision  of  a  warrior  bold 
Would  set  him  dancing. 

Miniver  sighed  for  what  was  not, 

And  dreamed,  and  rested  from  his  labors;  10 

He  dreamed  of  Thebes  and  Camelot, 

And  Priam's  neighbors. 

Miniver  mourned  the  ripe  renown 

That  made  so  many  a  name  so  fragrant: 
He  mourned  Romance,  now  on  the  town,  15 

And  Art,  a  vagrant. 

Miniver  loved  the  Medici, 

Albeit  he  had  never  seen  one; 
He  would  have  sinned  incessantly 

Could  he  have  been  one.  20 

Miniver  cursed  the  commonplace 

And  eyed  a  khaki  suit  with  loathing; 
He  missed  the  mediaeval  grace 

Of  iron  clothing. 


Reprinted  from  The  Town  Down  the  River  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  copyright 
1910  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1938  by  Ruth  Niveson;  used  by  permission  of  the 
publishers. 

MINIVER   CHEEVY        801 


Miniver  scorned  the  gold  he  sought,  25 

But  sore  annoyed  was  he  without  it; 
Miniver  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought, 

And  thought  about  it. 

Miniver  Cheevy,  born  too  late, 

Scratched  his  head  and  kept  on  thinking:  30 

Miniver  coughed,  and  called  it  fate, 

And  kept  on  drinking.  (1907) 


WALTER    DE    LA    MARE 


The  listeners 


Is  THERE  anybody  there?"  said  the  Traveller, 
Knocking  on  the  moonlit  door; 
And  his  horse  in  the  silence  champed  the  grasses 

Of  the  forest's  ferny  floor: 
And  a  bird  flew  up  out  of  a  turret,  5 

Above  the  Traveller's  head: 
And  he  smote  upon  the  door  again  a  second  time; 

"Is  there  anybody  there?"  he  said. 
But  no  one  descended  to  the  Traveller; 

No  head  from  the  leaf -fringed  sill  10 

Leaned  over  and  looked  into  his  grey  eyes, 

Where  he  stood  perplexed  and  still. 
But  only  a  host  of  phantom  listeners 

That  dwelt  in  the  lone  house  then 
Stood  listening  in  the  quiet  of  the  moonlight  15 

To  that  voice  from  the  world  of  men: 
Stood  thronging  the  faint  moonbeams  on  the  dark  stair, 

That  goes  down  to  the  empty  hall, 
Hearkening  in  an  air  stirred  and  shaken 

By  the  lonely  Traveller's  call.  20 

And  he  felt  in  his  heart  their  strangeness, 

Their  stillness  answering  his  cry, 
While  his  horse  moved,  cropping  the  dark  turf, 

'Neath  the  starred  and  leafy  sky; 
For  he  suddenly  smote  on  the  door,  even  25 


From  Collected  Poems  by  Walter  de  la  Mare.  Copyright,  1941,  by  Walter  de  la  Mare. 
By  permission  of  the  publishers,  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Inc. 


802 


POETRY 


Louder,  and  lifted  his  head:— 
'Tell  them  I  came,  and  no  one  answered, 

That  I  kept  my  word/  he  said. 
Never  the  least  stir  made  the  listeners, 

Though  every  word  he  spake  3& 

Fell  echoing  through  the  shadowiness  of  the  still  house 

From  the  one  man  left  awake: 
Aye,  they  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stirrup, 

And  the  sound  of  iron  on  stone, 
And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  backward,  35 

When  the  plunging  hoofs  were  gone.    (1912) 


ROBERT  FROST 


AftCf 


MY  LONG  two-pointed  ladder's  sticking  through  a  tree 
Toward  heaven  still, 
And  there's  a  barrel  that  I  didn't  fill 
Beside  it,  and  there  may  be  two  or  three 

Apples  I  didn't  pick  upon  some  bough.  5 

But  I  am  done  with  apple-picking  now. 
Essence  of  winter  sleep  is  on  the  night, 
The  scent  of  apples:  I  am  drowsing  off. 
I  cannot  rub  the  strangeness  from  my  sight 

I  got  from  looking  through  a  pane  of  glass  *o 

I  skimmed  this  morning  from  the  drinking  trough 
And  held  against  the  world  of  hoary  grass. 
It  melted,  and  I  let  it  fall  and  break. 
But  I  was  well 

Upon  my  way  to  sleep  before  it  fell,  15 

And  I  could  tell 

What  form  my  dreaming  was  about  to  take. 
Magnified  apples  appear  and  disappear, 
Stem  end  and  blossom  end, 

And  every  fleck  of  russet  showing  clear.  20 

My  instep  arch  not  only  keeps  the  ache, 
It  keeps  the  pressure  of  a  ladder-round. 
I  feel  the  ladder  sway  as  the  boughs  bend. 
And  I  keep  hearing  from  the  cellar  bin 


From  Collected  Poems  of  Robert  Frost.  Copyright,  1930,  1939,  by  Henry  Holt  and 
Company,  Inc.  Copyright,  1936,  by  Robert  Frost.  By  permission  of  the  publishers, 
Henry  Holt  and  Company,  Inc. 

AFTER   APPLE-PICKING        803 


The  rumbling  sound  25 

Of  load  on  load  of  apples  coming  in. 

For  I  have  had  too  much 

Of  apple-picking:  I  am  overtired 

Of  the  great  harvest  I  myself  desired. 

There  were  ten  thousand  thousand  fruit  to  touch,  30 

Cherish  in  hand,  lift  down,  and  not  let  fall. 

For  all 

That  struck  the  earth, 

No  matter  if  not  bruised  or  spiked  with  stubble, 

Went  surely  to  the  cider-apple  heap  35 

As  of  no  worth. 

One  can  see  what  will  trouble 

This  sleep  of  mine,  whatever  sleep  it  is. 

Were  he  not  gone, 

The  woodchuck  could  say  whether  it's  like  his  40 

Long  sleep,  as  I  describe  its  coming  on, 

Or  just  some  human  sleep.    (1913;  1914) 


JOHN   MASEFIELD    On    gTOWlHg 


BE  WITH  me,  Beauty,  for  the  fire  is  dying, 
My  dog  and  I  are  old,  too  old  for  roving, 
Man,  whose  young  passion  sets  the  spindrift  flying 
Is  soon  too  lame  to  march,  too  cold  for  loving. 

I  take  the  book  and  gather  to  the  fire,  5 

Turning  old  yellow  leaves;  minute  by  minute, 
The  clock  ticks  to  my  heart;  a  withered  wire 
Moves  a  thin  ghost  of  music  in  the  spinet. 

I  cannot  sail  your  seas,  I  cannot  wander 

Your  cornland,  nor  your  hill-land  nor  your  valleys,  10 

Ever  again,  nor  share  the  battle  yonder 

Where  the  young  knight  the  broken  squadron  rallies. 

Only  stay  quiet  while  my  mind  remembers 
The  beauty  of  fire  from  the  beauty  of  embers. 


From  Poems  by  John  Masefield.  Copyright  1942  by  John  Masefield.  By  permission  of 
The  Macmillan  Company. 

804        POETRY 


Beauty,  have  pity,  for  the  strong  have  power,  15 

The  rich  their  wealth,  the  beautiful  their  grace, 
Summer  of  man  its  sunlight  and  its  flower, 
Springtime  of  man  all  April  in  a  face. 

Only,  as  in  the  jostling  in  the  Strand, 

Where  the  mob  thrusts  or  loiters  or  is  loud  20 

The  beggar  with  the  saucer  in  his  hand 

Asks  only  a  penny  from  the  passing  crowd, 

So,  from  this  glittering  world  with  all  its  fashion, 

Its  fire  and  play  of  men,  its  stir,  its  march, 

Let  me  have  wisdom,  Beauty,  wisdom  and  passion,  25 

Bread  to  the  soul,  rain  where  the  summers  parch. 

Give  me  but  these,  and  though  the  darkness  close 
Even  the  night  will  blossom  as  the  rose.  ( 1922 ) 

LINDSAY  The  leaden-eyed 

Er  NOT  young  souls  be  smothered  out  before 
They  do  quaint  deeds  and  fully  flaunt  their  pride. 
It  is  the  world's  one  crime  its  babes  grow  dull, 
Its  poor  are  ox-like,  limp  and  leaden-eyed. 
Not  that  they  starve,  but  starve  so  dreamlessly;  5 

Not  that  they  sow,  but  that  they  seldom  reap; 
Not  that  they  serve,  but  have  no  gods  to  serve; 
Not  that  they  die,  but  that  they  die  like  sheep.  (1912) 

SARA    TEASDALE   TllC    loilg    hill 

I  MUST  have  passed  the  crest  a  while  ago 
And  now  I  am  going  down- 
Strange  to  have  crossed  the  crest  and  not  to  know, 
But  the  brambles  were  always  catching  the  hem  of  my  gown. 


From  Collected  Poems  by  Vachel  Lindsay.  Copyright  1925  by  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany. By  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 

From  The  Collected  Poems  of  Sara  Teasdale.  Copyright  1937  by  The  Macmillan 
Company.  By  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 

THE    LONG  HILL        805 


All  the  morning  I  thought  how  proud  I  should  be 

To  stand  there  straight  as  a  queen, 
Wrapped  in  the  wind  and  the  sun  with  the  world  under  me— 

But  it's  no  use  now  to  think  of  turning  back, 

It  was  nearly  level  along  the  beaten  track 

And  the  brambles  caught  in  my  gown- 
But  it's  no  use  now  to  think  of  turning  back, 

The  rest  of  the  way  will  be  only  going  down.  ( 1920) 


ELINOR    WYLIE 


shoes 

Er  us  walk  in  the  white  snow 
In  a  soundless  space; 
With  footsteps  quiet  and  slow, 
At  a  tranquil  pace, 
Under  veils  of  white  lace.  5 

I  shall  go  shod  in  silk, 

And  you  in  wool, 
White  as  a  white  cow's  milk, 

More  beautiful 

Than  the  breast  of  a  gull.  10 

We  shall  walk  through  the  still  town 

In  a  windless  peace; 
We  shall  step  upon  white  down, 

Upon  silver  fleece, 

Upon  softer  than  these.  15 

We  shall  walk  in  velvet  shoes: 

Wherever  we  go 
Silence  will  fall  like  dews 

On  white  silence  below. 

We  shall  walk  in  the  snow.  ( 1921 )  20 


Reprinted  from  The  Collected  Poems  of  Elinor  Wylie,  by  permission  of  Alfred  A. 
Knopf,  Inc.  Copyright  1921,  1932  by  Alfred  A.  Knopf,  Inc. 


806 


POETRY 


LEONARD  BACON  An  afternoon  in  Artillery  Walk 

(Mary  Milton  loquitur) 

I  THINK  it  is  his  blindness  makes  him  so 
He  is  so  angry,  and  so  querulous. 
Yes,  Fatherl  I  will  look  in  Scaliger. 
Yes,  Cousin  Phillips  took  the  notes— I  think— 
May  all  the  evil  angels  fly  away  5 

With  Cousin  Phillips  to  the  Serbonian  Bog, 
Wherever  that  may  be.  And  here  am  I 
Locked  in  with  him  the  livelong  afternoon. 
There's  Anne  gone  limping  with  that  love  of  hers, 
Her  master-carpenter,  and  Deborah  10 

Stolen  away.  Yes,  Father,  'tis  an  aleph 
But  the  Greek  glose  on't  in  the  Septuagint 
Is  something  that  I  cannot  quite  make  out. 
The  letter's  rubbed. 

Oh,  thus  to  wear  away  15 

My  soul  and  body  with  this  dry-as-dust 
This  tearer-up  of  words,  this  plaguey  seeker 
After  the  things  that  no  man  understands. 
'Tis  April.  I  am  seventeen  years  old, 

And  Abram  Clark  will  come  a-courting  me.  20 

Oh  what  a  Hell  a  midday  house  can  be! 
Dusty  and  bright  and  dumb  and  shadowless, 
Full  of  this  sunshot  dryness,  like  the  soul 
Of  this  old  pedant  here.  I  will  not  bear 

Longer  this  tyranny  of  death  in  life  25 

That  drains  my  spirit  like  a  succubus. 
I  am  too  full  of  blood  and  life  for  this— 
This  dull  soul-gnawing  discipline  he  sets 
Upon  our  shoulders,  the  sad  characters. 

Chapter  on  chapter,  blank  and  meaningless.  30 

Now  by  the  May-pole  merry-makers  run, 
And  the  music  throbs  and  pulses  in  light  limbs, 
And  the  girls'  kirtles  are  lifted  to  the  knee. 
Ah  would  that  I  were  blowsy  with  the  heat, 
Being  bussed  by  some  tall  fellow,  and  kissing  him  35 


From  Guinea-Fowl  and  Other  Poetry  by  Leonard  Bacon.  Copyright,  1927,  by  Harper 
and  Brothers. 

AN  AFTERNOON    IN    ARTILLERY  WALK        807 


On  his  hot  red  lips—some  bully  royalist 

With  gold  in's  purse  and  lace  about  his  throat 

And  a  long  rapier  for  the  Puritans. 

Or  I  would  wander  by  some  cool  yew-hedge, 

Dallying  with  my  lover  all  the  afternoon,  40 

And  then  to  cards  and  supper— cinnamon, 

Some  delicate  pastry,  and  an  amber  wine 

Burning  on  these  lips  that  know  a  year-long  lent. 

Then  to  the  theatre,  and  Mistress  Nell 

That  the  king's  fond  of.  Mayhap  gentlemen  45 

About  would  praise  me,  and  I  should  hear  them  buzz, 

And  feel  my  cheek  grow  warm  beneath  my  mask, 

And  glance  most  kindly— 

I  was  in  a  muse 

I  have  the  paper,  father,  and  the  pens.  50 

Now  for  the  damnable  dictation.  So! 
"High— on  a  throne— of  royal  state— 

which  far 

Outshone— the  wealth  of  Ormus"—S  or  Z? 

How  should  I  know  the  letter?— "and  of  Ind.  55 

Or  where— the  gorgeous  East— with  richest  hand 
Showers— on  her  kings— barbaric— pearl  and  gold. 
Satan  exalted  sate."  (1927) 

.  s.  ELIOT  Sweeney  among  the  nightingales 

&IJIOL  TreTrXrjYjucu  Kaiplav  irXrjyrjv  ccrco.1 

A>ENECK  SWEENEY  spreads  his  knees 
Letting  his  arms  hang  down  to  laugh, 
The  zebra  stripes  along  his  jaw 
Swelling  to  maculate  giraffe. 

The  circles  of  the  stormy  moon  5 

Slide  westward  toward  the  River  Plate, 
Death  and  the  Raven  drift  above 
And  Sweeney  guards  the  horned  gate. 


From  Collected  Poems  1909-1935  by  T.  S.  Eliot.  Copyright,  1936,  by  Harcourt,  Brace 
and  Company,  Inc. 

1  Alas!  I  am  stricken  by  a  timely  blow  within  (from  the  drama  Agamemnon  of 
Aeschylus ) . 


POETRY 


Gloomy  Orion  and  the  Dog 

Are  veiled;  and  hushed  the  shrunken  seas;  *s 

The  person  in  the  Spanish  cape 

Tries  to  sit  on  Sweeney's  knees 

Slips  and  pulls  the  table  cloth 

Overturns  a  coffee-cup, 

Reorganized  upon  the  floor  15 

She  yawns  and  draws  a  stocking  up; 

The  silent  man  in  mocha  brown 

Sprawls  at  the  window-sill  and  gapes; 

The  waiter  brings  in  oranges 

Bananas,  figs  and  hothouse  grapes;  20 

The  silent  vertebrate  in  brown 
Contracts  and  concentrates,  withdraws; 
Rachel  n&e  Rabinovitch 
Tears  at  the  grapes  with  murderous  paws; 

She  and  the  lady  in  the  cape  25 

Are  suspect,  thought  to  be  in  league; 
Therefore  the  man  with  heavy  eyes 
Declines  the  gambit,  shows  fatigue, 

Leaves  the  room  and  reappears 

Outside  the  window,  leaning  in,  30 

Branches  of  wistaria 

Circumscribe  a  golden  grin; 

The  host  with  someone  indistinct 

Converses  at  the  door  apart, 

The  nightingales  are  singing  near  35 

The  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart, 

And  sang  within  the  bloody  wood 

When  Agamemnon  cried  aloud, 

And  let  their  liquid  sittings  fall 

To  stain  the  stiff  dishonoured  shroud.    (1919)  40 

SWEENEY    AMONG    THE    NIGHTINGALES         809 


ARCHIBALD  MACLEisH  You,  Andrew  Marvell 


Aro  HERE  face  down  beneath  the  sun, 
And  here  upon  earth's  noonward  height, 
To  feel  the  always  coming  on, 
The  always  rising  of  the  night. 

To  feel  creep  up  the  curving  east  5 

The  earthly  chill  of  dusk  and  slow 
Upon  those  under  lands  the  vast 
And  ever-climbing  shadow  grow, 

And  strange  at  Ecbatan  the  trees 

Take  leaf  by  leaf  the  evening,  strange,  10 

The  flooding  dark  about  their  knees, 

The  mountains  over  Persia  change, 

And  now  at  Kermanshah  the  gate, 

Dark,  empty,  and  the  withered  grass, 

And  through  the  twilight  now  the  late  15 

Few  travellers  in  the  westward  pass. 

And  Baghdad  darken  and  the  bridge 

Across  the  silent  river  gone, 

And  through  Arabia  the  edge 

Of  evening  widen  and  steal  on,  20 

And  deepen  on  Palmyra's  street 
The  wheel  rut  in  the  ruined  stone, 
And  Lebanon  fade  out  and  Crete 
High  through  the  clouds  and  overblown, 

And  over  Sicily  the  air  25 

Still  flashing  with  the  landward  gulls, 
And  loom  and  slowly  disappear 
The  sails  above  the  shadowy  hulls, 


Reprinted  by  permission  of  Houghton  Mifflin  Company,  publishers. 

810        POETRY 


And  Spain  go  under  and  the  shore 

Of  Africa,  the  gilded  sand,  30 

And  evening  vanish  and  no  more 

The  low  pale  light  across  that  land, 

Nor  now  the  long  light  on  the  sea— 

And  here  face  downward  in  the  sun 

To  feel  how  swift,  how  secretly,  35 

The  shadow  of  the  night  comes  on (1926;  1930) 


HART  CRANE 


At  Melville's  tomb 


OFTEN  beneath  the  wave,  wide  from  this  ledge 
The  dice  of  drowned  men's  bones  he  saw  bequeath 
An  embassy.  Their  numbers  as  he  watched, 
Beat  on  the  dusty  shore  and  were  obscured. 

And  wrecks  passed  without  sound  of  bells,  5 

The  calyx  of  death's  bounty  giving  back 
A  scattered  chapter,  livid  hieroglyph, 
The  portent  wound  in  corridors  of  shells. 

Then  in  the  circuit  calm  of  one  vast  coil, 

Its  lashings  charmed  and  malice  reconciled,  10 

Frosted  eyes  there  were  that  lifted  altars; 

And  silent  answers  crept  across  the  stars. 

Compass,  quadrant  and  sextant  contrive 

No  farther  tides  . . .  High  in  the  azure  steeps 

Monody  shall  not  wake  the  mariner.  15 

This  fabulous  shadow  only  the  sea  keeps,   (1930) 


ADAMS  Country  summer 


N 


Iow  the  rich  cherry  whose  sleek  wood 
And  top  with  silver  petals  traced, 
Like  a  strict  box  its  gems  encased, 


From  the  Collected  Poems  of  Hart  Crane.   By  permission  of  Liveright  Publishing  Cor- 
poration. 

Copyright  by  Leonie  Adams,  1929.  By  permission  of  The  John  Day  Company. 

COUNTRY   SUMMER        811 


Has  spilt  from  out  that  cunning  lid, 

All  in  an  innocent  green  round,  5 

Those  melting  rubies  which  it  hid; 

With  moss  ripe-strawberry-encrusted, 

So  birds  get  half,  and  minds  lapse  merry 

To  taste  that  deep-red  lark's-bite  berry, 

And  blackcap-bloom  is  yellow-dusted.  10 

The  wren  that  thieved  it  in  the  eaves 

A  trailer  of  the  rose  could  catch 

To  her  poor  droopy  sloven  thatch, 

And  side  by  side  with  the  wren's  brood,— 

O  lovely  time  of  beggars'  luck—  15 

Opens  the  quaint  and  hairy  bud. 

And  full  and  golden  is  the  yield 

Of  cows  that  never  have  to  house. 

But  all  night  nibble  under  boughs, 

Or  cool  their  sides  in  the  moist  field.  20 

Into  the  rooms  flow  meadow  airs, 

The  warm  farm-baking  smell  blows  round; 

Inside  and  out  and  sky  and  ground 

Are  much  the  same;  the  wishing  star, 

Hesperus,  kind  and  early-born,  25 

Is  risen  only  finger-far. 

All  stars  stand  close  in  summer  air, 

And  tremble,  and  look  mild  as  amber; 

When  wicks  are  lighted  in  the  chamber 

You  might  say  stars  were  settling  there.  30 

Now  straightening  from  the  flowery  hay, 

Down  the  still  light  the  mowers  look; 

Or  turn,  because  their  dreaming  shook, 

And  they  waked  half  to  other  days, 

When  left  alone  in  yellow-stubble,  35 

The  rusty-coated  mare  would  graze. 

Yet  thick  the  lazy  dreams  are  born; 

Another  thought  can  come  to  mind, 

But  like  the  shivering  of  the  wind, 

Morning  and  evening  in  the  corn.   (1926;  1929)  40 


812 


POETRY 


w.  H.  AUDEN  Musee  des  beaux  arts 

AJOUT  suffering  they  were  never  wrong, 
The  Old  Masters:  how  well  they  understood 
Its  human  position;  how  it  takes  place 
While  someone  else  is  eating  or  opening  a  window  or  just  walking  dully 

along; 

How,  when  the  aged  are  reverently,  passionately  waiting  5 

For  the  miraculous  birth,  there  always  must  be 
Children  who  did  not  specially  want  it  to  happen,  skating 
On  a  pond  at  the  edge  of  the  wood: 
They  never  forgot 

That  even  the  dreadful  martyrdom  must  run  its  course  10 

Anyhow  in  a  corner,  some  untidy  spot 

Where  the  dogs  go  on  with  their  doggy  life  and  the  torturer's  horse 
Scratches  its  innocent  behind  on  a  tree. 

In  Brueghel's  Icarus,  for  instance:  how  everything  turns  away 

Quite  leisurely  from  the  disaster;  the  ploughman  may  15 

Have  heard  the  splash,  the  forsaken  cry, 

But  for  him  it  was  not  an  important  failure;  the  sun  shone 

As  it  had  to  on  the  white  legs  disappearing  into  the  green 

Water;  and  the  expensive  delicate  ship  that  must  have  seen 

Something  amazing,  a  boy  falling  out  of  the  sky,  20 

Had  somewhere  to  get  to  and  sailed  calmly  on.  (1940) 

STEPHEN   SPENDER   The    6X01688 

ATER  the  first  powerful  plain  manifesto 
The  black  statement  of  pistons,  without  more  fuss 
But  gliding  like  a  queen,  she  leaves  the  station. 
Without  bowing  and  with  restrained  unconcern 
She  passes  the  houses  which  humbly  crowd  outside,  5 

The  gasworks  and  at  last  the  heavy  page 
Of  death,  printed  by  gravestones  in  the  cemetery. 
Beyond  the  town  there  lies  the  open  country 
Where,  gathering  speed,  she  acquires  mystery, 
The  luminous  self-possession  of  ships  on  ocean.  10 


Copyright,  1945,  by  W.  H.  Auden.   Used  by  permission  of  Random  House,  Inc. 
Copyright,  1934,  by  the  Modern  Library.  Used  by  permission  of  Random  House,  Inc. 

THE   EXPRESS        813 


It  is  now  she  begins  to  sing—at  first  quite  low 

Then  loud,  and  at  last  with  a  jazzy  madness— 

The  song  of  her  whistle  screaming  at  curves, 

Of  deafening  tunnels,  brakes,  innumerable  bolts. 

And  always  light,  aerial,  underneath  i) 

Goes  the  elate  meter  of  her  wheels. 

Steaming  through  metal  landscape  on  her  lines 

She  plunges  new  eras  of  wild  happiness 

Where  speed  throws  up  strange  shapes,  broad  curves 

And  parallels  clean  like  the  steel  of  guns.  20 

At  last,  further  than  Edinburgh  or  Rome, 

Beyond  the  crest  of  the  world,  she  reaches  night 

Where  only  a  low  streamline  brightness 

Of  phosphorus  on  the  tossing  hills  is  white. 

Ah,  like  a  comet  through  flames  she  moves  entranced  25 

Wrapt  in  her  music  no  bird  song,  no,  nor  bough 

Breaking  with  honey  buds,  shall  ever  equal.  (1933) 


KARL    SHAPIRO 


AutO 


ITS  QUICK  soft  silver  bell  beating,  beating, 
And  down  the  dark  one  ruby  flare 
Pulsing  out  red  light  like  an  artery, 
The  ambulance  at  top  speed  floating  down 
Past  beacons  and  illuminated  clocks  5 

Wings  in  a  heavy  curve,  dips  down, 
And  brakes  speed,  entering  the  crowd. 
The  doors  leap  open,  emptying  light; 
Stretchers  are  laid  out,  the  mangled  lifted 
And  stowed  into  the  little  hospital.  10 

Then  the  bell,  breaking  the  hush,  tolls  once, 
And  the  ambulance  with  its  terrible  cargo 
Rocking,  slightly  rocking,  moves  away, 
As  the  doors,  and  afterthought,  are  closed. 

We  are  deranged,  walking  among  the  cops  15 

Who  sweep  glass  and  are  large  and  composed. 

Reprinted  from  Person,  Place  and  Thing  by  Karl  Shapiro.  Used  by  permission  of 
Reynal  and  Hitchcock,  N.  Y. 

814      POETRY 


One  is  still  making  notes  under  the  light. 

One  with  a  bucket  douches  ponds  of  blood 

Into  the  street  and  gutter. 

One  hangs  lanterns  on  the  wrecks  that  cling,  20 

Empty  husks  of  locusts,  to  iron  poles. 

Our  throats  were  tight  as  tourniquets, 

Our  feet  were  bound  with  splints,  but  now 

Like  convalescents  intimate  and  gauche, 

We  speak  through  sickly  smiles  and  warn  25 

With  the  stubborn  saw  of  common  sense, 

The  grim  joke  and  the  banal  resolution. 

The  traffic  moves  around  with  care, 

But  we  remain,  touching  a  wound 

That  opens  to  our  richest  horror.  30 

Already  old,  the  question  Who  shall  die? 

Becomes  unspoken  Who  is  innocent? 

For  death  in  war  is  done  by  hands; 

Suicide  has  cause  and  stillbirth,  logic. 

But  this  invites  the  occult  mind,  35 

Cancels  our  physics  with  a  sneer, 

And  spatters  all  we  knew  of  denouement 

Across  the  expedient  and  wicked  stones.  (1942) 


DYLAN  THOMAS  Twenty-four  years 


TWENTY-FOUR  years  remind  the  tears  of  my  eyes. 
(Bury  the  dead  for  fear  that  they  walk  to  the  grave  in  labour.) 
In  the  groin  of  the  natural  doorway  I  crouched  like  a  tailor 
Sewing  a  shroud  for  a  journey 
By  the  light  of  the  meat-eating  sun. 
Dressed  to  die,  the  sensual  strut  begun, 
With  my  red  veins  full  of  money, 
In  the  final  direction  of  the  elementary  town 
I  advance  for  as  long  as  forever  is.  (1939) 


By  permission  of  New  Directions. 

TWENTY-FOUR   YEARS       815 


ROBERT  LOWELL  The  holy  innocents 


LISTEN,  the  hay-bells  tinkle  as  the  cart 
Wavers  on  rubber  tires  along  the  tar 
And  cindered  ice  below  the  burlap  mill 
And  ale-wife  run.  The  oxen  drool  and  start 
In  wonder  at  the  fenders  of  a  car  5 

And  blunder  hugely  up  St.  Peter's  hill. 
These  are  the  undefiled  by  woman— their 
Sorrow  is  not  the  sorrow  of  this  world: 
King  Herod  shrieking  vengeance  at  the  curled 
Up  knees  of  Jesus  choking  in  the  air,  10 

A  king  of  speechless  clods  and  infants.  Still 

The  world  out-Herods  Herod;  and  the  year, 

The  nineteen-hundred  forty-fifth  of  grace, 

Lumbers  with  losses  up  the  clinkered  hill 

Of  our  purgation;  and  the  oxen  near  15 

The  worn  foundations  of  their  resting  place, 

The  holy  manger  where  their  bed  is  corn 

And  holly  torn  for  Christmas.  If  they  die, 

As  Jesus,  in  the  harness,  who  will  mourn? 

Lamb  of  the  shepherds,  Child,  how  still  you  lie.  ( 1946 )  20 


From  Lord  Weary 's  Castle,  copyright,  1944,  1946,  by  Robert  Lowell.  Reprinted  by 
permission  of  Harcourt,  Brace  and  Company,  Inc. 


567891011  121314161617181920    64636261606958 


816 


POETRY 


GLOSSARY  AND  INDEX 
OF  CRITICAL  TERMS 

USED    IN    BETTER   READING    TWO:    LITERATURE 


ABSTRACT,  apart  from  particular  persons, 
places,  and  things.  Thus,  life  and  firmness 
are  abstract  when  considered  apart  from 
a  person  who  is  alive  or  a  thing  which  is 
firm.  3,  81f. 

ACCENT,  the  stress  given  a  syllable  because 
of  its  length,  sound,  position,  nature,  or 
meaning.  693. 

ACT,  a  division  of  a  drama  which,  as  a 
rule,  marks  off  a  stage  in  the  development 
of  the  action.  In  the  modern  theater,  its 
beginning  and  conclusion  are  indicated  by 
the  raising  and  lowering  of  the  curtain. 
456. 

ACTION,  that  which  occurs  during  the 
course  of  a  narrative.  See  happenings, 
36-51.  See  also  patterns  of,  37-38;  proba- 
ble action,  53;  relationship  to  characters, 
53,  54,  100. 

ALEXANDRINE,  a  line  of  poetry  regularly 
consisting  of  six  iambic  feet  with  a  caesura 
or  break  after  the  third. 

ALLEGORY,  an  expanded  metaphor  in  the 
form  of  a  narrative,  using  characters,  hap- 
penings, and  other  elements  to  expound  a 
concept.  219. 

ALLITERATION,  the  repetition  of  consonant 
sounds,  usually  those  at  the  beginnings  of 
words. 

And  how  the  silence  surged  softly  back- 
ward 

ANALOGY,  a  comparison.  Usually  the  term 
is  applied  to  a  figurative  rather  than  a 
literal  comparison. 

ANAPEST,  693. 

ANTAGONIST,  54,  70. 

ANTICLIMAX,  a  sentence  or  work  in  which 
the  effect  decreases  at  the  conclusion. 

ANTITHESIS,  a  contrast,  heightened  by  the 
arrangement  of  the  opposing  elements. 

APOLOGUE,  a  short  piece  of  fiction  designed 


to    communicate    a    moral    or    practical 
truth. 

ASSONANCE,  strictly  speaking,  a  repetition 
of  vowel  sounds.  Often,  however,  the  term 
is  used  to  indicate  any  repetition  of 
sounds  not  exact  enough  to  be  classified 
as  rhyme. 
There  open  fanes  and  gaping  graves 

ATMOSPHERE,  the  emotional  quality  in  a 
literary  work  achieved  by  the  handling 
of  the  setting.  71f. 

ATTRACTIVE  CHARACTER,  one  toward  whom 
the  reader  is  generally  sympathetic.  54, 
111,  457. 

BACKGROUND,  the  setting  against  which  the 
events  in  an  imaginative  work  take  place. 
70,  692. 

BALLAD,  a  simple  and  often  tragic  story 
told  in  verse.  Conventionally  the  ballad 
appears  in  four-line  stanzas  of  alternating 
iambic  tetrameter  and  trimeter.  The  folk 
ballad  is  usually  distinguished  from  the 
literary  ballad,  the  former  being  often  of 
indeterminate  origin  and  usually  con- 
cerned with  physical  action  of  a  vig- 
orous and  melancholy  sort.  The  latter  is 
written  as  an  imitation  of  the  folk  ballad, 
and  is  usually  more  sophisticated,  more 
concerned  with  the  psychological  and 
moral  implications  of  the  action. 

BLANK  VERSE,  unrhymed  iambic  pentam- 
eter. A  good  example  in  this  book  is  the 
selection  from  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  740. 

BURLESQUE,  108. 

CACOPHONY,  harsh  and  unpleasing  sound. 

CAESURA,  a  pause  or  break,  demanded  by 
the  sense,  coming  within  a  line  of  poetry. 

CATHARSIS,  a  term  used  by  Aristotle  to 
describe  the  proper  effect  of  tragedy— 
"a  purging  of  pity  and  fear."  162. 

CHARACTERISTICS,  52. 


817 


CHARACTERIZATION,  52f.,  70-71,  692. 

CHARACTERS,  52-69,  152,  216ff.  See  also 
antagonist;  attractive;  complex,  52;  con- 
fidant; developing;  foil;  functions  of,  52, 
53-55;  hero;  heroine;  in  drama,  455;  pro- 
tagonist;  raisonneur;  related  to  author, 
97ff.;  to  happenings,  53;  relationship  be- 
tween, 113f.;  simple,  52,  150;  stock;  type, 
149f,,  458;  unattractive;  villain,  54,  140, 
458. 

CHORUS,  (1)  in  Greek  drama,  462;  (2)  in 
poetry,  a  stanzaic  refrain  repeated  after 
each  verse  of  the  lyric. 

CLASSICISM,  often  defined  as  the  golden 
mean  between  romanticism  and  realism. 
Based  on  the  tenets  of  Greek  art  and 
literature,  it  stresses  such  characteristics 
as  beauty  and  simplicity  of  form,  restraint 
of  emotion,  and  clarity  of  statement. 

CLIMAX,  the  high  point  of  a  series  of  hap- 
penings. In  some  narratives,  the  action 
mounts  to  a  climax  at  the  end;  in  others, 
the  climax  occurs  at  the  point  of  a  re- 
versal. At  times,  critics  define  "climax" 
as  the  point  in  reading  or  seeing  a  work 
where  the  reader  or  spectator  experi- 
ences the  highest  emotional  reaction.  38. 

CLOSED  COUPLET,  a  couplet  in  which  an 
idea  is  begun  and  completed.  Ordinarily 
the  punctuation  at  the  end  of  a  closed 
couplet  is  a  colon,  semicolon,  or  period. 
True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well 

express'd; 
145.  See  also  heroic  couplet. 

COINCIDENCE,  an  incident  in  a  series  of 
happenings  which  can  only  be  accounted 
for  as  accidental  or  fortuitous.  149. 

COMEDY,  457ff.  See  also  manners,  come- 
dy of. 

COMPLICATION,  a  situation  which  forces  a 
character  in  a  narrative  to  react, 

CONCRETE,  that  which  is  experienced 
through  or  appeals  to  the  senses.  3,  81ff., 
94,  218f.,  696. 

CONFIDANT,  a  character  to  whom  another 
character  expresses  his  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. 

CONFLICT,  the  interplay  between  opposing 


forces  in  a  narrative.  38,  113-114,  457f. 

CONNOTATION,  an  experience,  feeling,  atti- 
tude, or  association  suggested  by  a  word. 
82,  84,  696. 

CONSISTENCY,  150ff. 

CONVENTION,  an  artistic  practice  generally 
accepted  as  a  substitute  for  a  more  natural 
and  realistic  mode  of  expression.  A  good 
example  is  the  lowering  of  the  curtain 
during  a  play  to  indicate  the  passing  of 
time.  210,  455. 

COUPLET,  two  successive  lines  of  poetry 
which  rhyme.  Usually  they  are  of  about 
the  same  length.  See  closed  couplet  and 
heroic  couplet. 

DACTYL,  694. 

DENOTATION,  the  dictionary  or  scientific 
meaning  of  a  word,  irrespective  of  its 
associations.  82. 

DENOUEMENT,  literally,  the  untying;  hence, 
the  untangling  of  the  threads  of  a  plot, 
the  solution  or  outcome  of  a  series  of  hap- 
penings. See  happenings,  36-51. 

DESCRIPTION,  discourse  designed  to  re- 
create human  experience  in  words.  Often 
the  term  is  applied  more  narrowly  to  that 
discourse  which  attempts  to  re-create  for 
the  imagination  the  outward  aspects  of  a 
person,  place,  or  thing.  3,  70. 

DEVELOPING  CHARACTER,  one  whose  char- 
acteristics undergo  change  in  the  course 
of  a  narrative.  71,  178. 

DIALOGUE,  the  presentation,  in  direct  dis- 
course, of  conversation  between  two  or 
more  characters.  53,  84,  100. 

DICTION,  the  language  employed  in  a  work. 
See  language,  81-95. 

DIDACTICISM,  obvious  preachiness  in  lit- 
erary works.  99. 

DRAMA,  imaginative  narrative  designed  to 
be  performed  by  actors  before  an  au- 
dience. See  454-691.  See  also  acts  in,  456, 
closet,  454;  experimental,  647;  foreshad- 
owing; Greek,  460ff.;  parts  in,  456;  rela- 
tionship to  audience,  to  theater,  454,  507f., 
577f.;  representation  of,  454;  scenes  in, 
456;  tone  in,  456-459;  treatment  of,  454. 

DRAMATIC,  descriptive  of  an  action— in 
drama,  fiction,  or  poetry— in  a  way  which 


818 


is  concrete  and  direct  rather  than  sum- 
marized; also  sometimes  used  to  signify 
the  emotional  quality  of  happenings  in- 
volving conflicts.  94. 

DRAMATIC  IRONY,  a  device  by  which  the 
audience  is  made  aware  of  the  outcome 
of  a  situation  before  the  characters  in  the 
play  realize  it. 

ELEGY,  a  poem  soberly  and  philosophically 
treating  of  death.  Its  parts  often  involve 
(1)  a  lamentation,  (2)  a  discussion  of 
the  philosophical  implications,  and  (3) 
an  affirmation  of  belief,  resulting  in  con- 
solation. 

EMPHASIS,  81,  149,  218-219. 

ENVELOPING  ACTION,  that  part  of  a  narra- 
tive at  the  beginning  and  perhaps  at  the 
end  which  introduces  a  narrator  and  un- 
folds the  circumstances  under  which  the 
story  is  told.  Examples  are  the  opening 
paragraphs  of  Heart  of  Darkness  (317ff. ), 
or  the  Prologue  to  The  Canterbury  Tales 
(714ff.). 

EPIC,  a  narrative  poem  dealing  with  action 
of  heroic  proportions.  Usually  the  chief 
characters  are  national  heroes,  either  real 
or  mythical.  Familiar  epics  are  the  Greek 
Iliad  and  Odyssey,  the  Latin  Aeneid,  the 
German  Nibelungenlied,  the  Finnish  Ka- 
levala,  and  the  Anglo-Saxon  Beowulf. 

EPISODE,  a  happening  in  a  narrative  which 
is  complete  in  itself  and  which  may  or 
may  not  be  loosely  connected  with  the 
main  line  of  action.  458. 

EUPHONY,  a  verbal  effect  which  is  pleasing 
to  the  ear. 

EVALUATION,  a  thoughtful  appraisal.  In 
literary  criticism  the  term  implies  an  ap- 
praisal reached  through  the  use  of  stand- 
ards which  are  themselves  clear  and  valid. 
6,  135-213. 

EVALUATION,  STANDARDS  OF:  clarity,  138- 
139;  criticism  of  life,  191-194;  effect  upon 
reader,  161-165;  escape,  140-141;  internal 
consistency,  138,  176-179;  personality  of 
author,  95f.,  166-176;  pleasure  in  details, 
155-157;  real  life,  147-155;  special  doc- 
trine, 142-146. 

EXPOSITION,    explanation;    in    fiction    and 


drama  specifically  the  explanation  of  the 
situation  and  character  which  is  necessary 
for  an  understanding  of  what  takes  place. 

EXPRESSIONISM,  a  dramatic  mode  in  which 
the  author  conveys  meanings,  not  by 
literal  realism,  but  by  fantastic  or  psycho- 
logical symbolism;  e.g.,  O'Neill's  The 
Hairy  Ape  and  the  dream  scenes  in  Em- 
peror Jones. 

FABLE,  a  narrative,  usually  about  animals, 
designed  to  make  clear  a  moral  truth* 
Sometimes  the  term  applies  to  the  action 
or  plot  of  a  literary  work,  usually  a  play, 
an  epic,  or  a  narrative  poem. 

FARCE,  458f. 

FICTION,  the  interpretation  of  life  in  an 
imaginative  narrative.  2-35,  216.  See  also 
adventure,  140;  detective,  140,  193;  ro- 
mantic, 140. 

FIGURES  OF  SPEECH,  rhetorical  devices  de- 
signed to  appeal  to  the  reader's  senses 
and  intellect  in  such  a  way  as  to  heighten 
his  perception  of  the  essential  quality  of 
the  experience  described.  Figures  which 
appeal  primarily  to  the  senses  are  simile, 
metaphor,  personification,  synecdoche, 
metonymy,  hyperbole,  litotes,  allegory, 
fable,  apologue,  and  parable;  those  which 
appeal  primarily  to  the  intellect  are  anal- 
ogy, antithesis,  and  irony.  82f .,  85,  94,  697. 

Focus,  the  centering  of  attention  by  the 
author  upon  a  certain  element  or  certain 
elements  of  a  literary  work.  A  figurative 
term  for  emphasis.  221. 

Focus  OF  NARRATION,  the  point  of  view. 
219. 

FOIL  CHARACTER,  a  character  whose  quali- 
ties contrast  to,  and  thus  illuminate,  the 
nature  of  another  character. 

FOOT,  METRICAL,  693,  694. 

FORESHADOWING,  the  pointing  forward  to  a 
happening  in  an  imaginative  work;  an 
intimation  to  the  reader  of  what  is  to  fol- 
low. 456. 

FORM,  in  literature  a  species  of  produc- 
tion, such  as  fiction,  drama,  or  poetry;  or 
a  subspecies,  such  as  the  novel,  one-act 
play,  or  sonnet.  The  term  is  also  used  to 
designate  the  arrangement  or  structure  of 


819 


a  work  as  distinct  from  its  content,  or  to 
designate  everything  that  appears  on  the 
printed  page  as  distinct  from  what  went 
through  the  author's  mind  or  goes  through 
the  reader's.  96-97,  216. 

FREE  VERSE,  694. 

FREUDIANS,  authors  and  critics  who  believe 
that  life  should  be  interpreted  in  litera- 
ture in  terms  of  the  psychology  of  Sig- 
mund  Freud  (1856-1939).  148. 

FUNCTIONAL,  applies  to  details  in  character- 
ization, happenings,  and  other  elements 
in  a  work  which  are  useful  to  other  ele- 
ments or  to  the  unity  of  the  work  as  a 
whole.  Thus  some  characterizations  moti- 
vate action,  and  some  actions  contribute 
to  total  meaning.  70,  152. 

HAPPENINGS,  36-51,  53,  81-82,  97f.,  692. 

HERO,  the  chief  attractive  male  character 
in  an  imaginative  work;  the  male  pro- 
tagonist. 54,  141,  457f. 

HEROIC  COUPLET,  a  closed  couplet  in  which 
the  metrical  form  is  iambic  pentameter. 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee, 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be! 

HEROINE,  the  chief  attractive  feminine  char- 
acter in  an  imaginative  work;  the  femi- 
nine protagonist.  54,  141,  457f. 

HYPERBOLE,  an  extravagant  exaggeration 
as  a  rule  deliberately  planned  with  an  eye 
to  its  effect. 

IAMBUS,  693. 

IMAGERY,  concrete  details  whiph  stimulate 
the  senses.  Often  the  term  is  employed 
more  narrowly  to  designate  figurative  de- 
tails as  distinct  from  literal  ones.  697. 

IMAGISM,  the  type  of  poetry  which  is  in- 
tended to  do  no  more  than  present  small, 
sharp  pictures  with  special  attention  to 
mass,  line,  and  color. 

IMPRESSIONISM,  in  literature  the  mode  of 
writing  in  which  the  author  describes  an 
object  or  experience,  not  in  clear  terms 
of  its  reality  as  he  knows  or  thinks  it  is, 
but  in  terms  of  his  immediate,  sometimes 
momentary  sensory  reactions  to  it. 

INCONSISTENCY,  458.  See  also  consistency. 

INEVITABILITY,  in  a  literary  work,  the  relat- 
ing of  character  and  action  in  such  a 


way  as  to  convince  the  reader  that  the 
action  is  the  only  possible  one  under  the 
circumstances  presented.  457. 

IRONY,  discourse  in  which  the  author  or 
speaker  says  the  opposite  of  what  he 
means,  yet  does  it  in  such  a  fashion  as  to 
imply  his  real  meaning.  112. 

ITALIAN  SONNET,  see  sonnet. 

LANGUAGE,  81-95,  156;  dialect,  151;  poetic, 
692. 

LITOTES,  a  deliberate  understatement  for 
the  sake  of  effect.  The  opposite  of  hy- 
perbole. 

MANNERS,  COMEDY  OF,  a  comedy  which 
shows  and  satirizes  the  manners  and  con- 
ventions of  contemporary  upper-class  so- 
ciety. 

MARXISTS,  critics  and  authors  who  believe 
that  literature  should  interpret  life  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  social  and  economic 
doctrines  of  Karl  Marx  (1818-1883).  144. 

MEANINGS,  110-135,  192,  217;  in  poetry, 
696;  related  to  character,  55. 

MELODRAMA,  458. 

METAPHOR,  an  implied  comparison.  113, 
697. 

METAPHYSICAL  POETRY,  poetry  character- 
ized by  subtleties  of  thought  and  expres- 
sion. Most  frequently  the  term  is  applied 
to  the  work  of  seventeenth-century  poets 
like  Donne  and  Herbert. 

METER,  693. 

METONYMY,  a  figure  of  speech  using  an 
associated  idea  for  the  one  meant,  as  a 
cause  for  an  effect,  an  effect  for  a  cause, 
the  container  for  the  thing  contained,  an 
attribute  of  an  object  for  the  object  itself. 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatter  d  hamlets 

rose, 

Unwieldy   wealth    and   cumbrous    pomp 
repose. 

MONOLOGUE,  the  direct  representation  of 
the  speech  or  thought  of  a  single  char- 
acter; e.g.,  My  Last  Duchess,  60. 

MOTIVATION,  the  depiction  of  the  person- 
alities and  of  the  circumstances  acting 
upon  them  in  an  imaginative  work  which 
makes  certain  actions  of  theirs  probable 
or  inevitable.  151,  455. 


820 


NATURALISM,  an  extreme  form  of  realism 
which  emphasizes  scientific  aspects  of 
heredity  and  environment,  and  which  is 
relatively  very  frank  in  its  presentation 
of  unpleasant  details. 

OBJECTIVE  PRESENTATION,  ( 1 )  with  regard 
to  the  author,  a  presentation  which  in- 
volves a  minimum  of  the  overt  expression 
of  the  author's  feelings;  (2)  with  regard 
to  the  character,  the  objective  or  dramatic 
point  of  view.  219,  221,  455. 

OBLIGATORY  SCENE,  the  scene  in  which  the 
main  conflict  in  a  literary  work  reaches  a 
decisive  stage.  It  is  called  "obligatory" 
since  ordinarily  the  author  is  obliged  to 
give  dramatic  treatment  to  this  important 
happening. 

ODE,  a  formal,  dignified,  and  elaborate 
poem  written  for  a  special  purpose  and 
often  for  a  special  occasion.  The  regular 
or  Pindaric  ode,  designed  to  be  chanted 
by  a  chorus,  has  three  parts:  the  strophe, 
antistrophe,  and  epode.  The  stanzaic  or 
Horatian  ode  breaks  with  this  formality 
but  is  written  in  regular  stanzas.  The 
irregular  ode  follows  no  set  pattern. 
462. 

OMNISCIENCE,  the  point  of  view  of  an 
author  who  sees  and  records  what  is  going 
on  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  all  the  char- 
acters. 220. 

ONOMATOPOEIA,  a  device  by  which  sound 
is  suited  to  the  sense.  84. 

OTTAVA  RIMA,  see  stanza. 

PARABLE,  a  brief  fictional  work  which  con- 
cretely illustrates  an  abstract  idea  or  ideas; 
for  example,  Christ's  parable  of  the  prodi- 
gal son. 

PARADOX,  a  statement  which  is  or  which 
seems  to  be  self-contradictory. 

PARODY,  108. 

PASTICHE,  108. 

PENTAMETER,  694. 

PERSONAL  NARRATIVE,  narrative  written  in 
the  first  person.  220ff. 

PERSONALITY,  (1)  of  authors,  95ff.;  166- 
] 76;  (2)  of  characters,  52-53. 

PERSONIFICATION,  a  figure  of  speech  in 
which  human  qualities  are  attributed  to 


inanimate  objects  or  to  abstract  qualities. 
697. 

PETRARCHAN  SONNET,  694f .  See  also  sonnet. 

PLOT,  the  patterned  sequence  of  happen- 
ings which  makes  up  an  imaginative  nar- 
rative. The  term  is  variously  defined, 
sometimes  as  the  structure  of  action,  some- 
times as  a  series  of  stages  in  a  conflict, 
etc.  37,  70-71,  454.  See  also  happenings, 
36-51. 

POETRY,  83f.,  156f.,  176f.;  692-816. 

POINT  OF  VIEW,  219-222. 

PRIMITIVISTS,  authors  and  critics  who  be- 
lieve that  the  primitive  and  universal  emo- 
tions related  to  physical  pleasure  or  pain 
are  those  most  significant  both  in  life  and 
art. 

PROSODY,  the  science  or  art  of  metrical 
structure.  More  specifically  the  term  is 
used  to  designate  a  particular  theory  or 
practice  in  versification,  like  Keats'  pros- 
ody. 

PROTAGONIST  (from  a  Greek  word  mean- 
ing "first  contestant"),  the  leading  figure 
in  a  narrative.  54,  457. 

PYRRHUS,  694. 

RAISONNEUR,  a  character  in  a  drama  or 
fictional  work  who  voices  and  supports 
the  attitude  of  the  author  concerning  the 
problem  involved. 

REALISM,  variously  defined,  has  been  char- 
acterized by  James  Weber  Linn  and 
Hough  ton  Taylor,  in  A  Foreword  to  Fie- 
tion,  as  "the  tendency  to  accept  in  some 
way  the  limitations  which  actual  circum- 
stances put  on  human  desires  and  motives, 
and  to  portray  some  of  the  effects  of  these 
circumstances."  They  continue,  "One  must 
say  some  because  no  realist,  even  the  ap- 
parently most  unsclective,  can  make  clear 
all  the  kinds  of  limitation  at  once.  But  if 
the  novelist  shows  even  one  aspect  of  the 
confining  power  of  actuality,  if  he  shows 
in  any  way  how  life  actually  affects  peo- 
ple, what  feelings  and  motives  they  ac- 
tually have,  he  is  to  that  extent  a  realist." 
147. 

RESOLUTION  OF  PLOT,  see  denouement. 

REVERSAL,  38,  53. 


821 


RHYME,  similarity  in  the  terminal  sounds 
of  words.  By  nature,  rhyme  can  be  perfect 
(cloud,  proud),  imperfect  (woman,  hu- 
man), apparent  (gone,  bone),  and  iden- 
tical (light,  used  in  two  senses).  Accord- 
ing to  the  placement  of  words  in  poetry, 
rhyme  can  be  tail  or  terminal  (words  at 
the  ends  of  lines  rhyming),  internal  (word 
within  a  line  rhyming  with  end  word), 
and  initial  (beginning  words  rhyming). 
Any  of  these  Can,  in  turn,  be  masculine 
(ending  on  an  accented  syllable),  or 
feminine  (ending  on  an  unaccented  syl- 
lable). 156,  694. 

RHYTHM,  the  cadence  created  chiefly  by 
the  accent  pattern,  though  other  elements 
like  sound  values  and  sentence  structure 
are  contributory  causes.  83-84;  in  poetry, 
94,  693-694,  698. 

RIME  ROYAL,  see  stanza. 

ROMANTICISM,  the  opposite  of  realism  in 
the  sense  that  it  is  a  tendency  to  avoid 
accepting  the  limitations  which  actual  cir- 
cumstances put  on  human  desires  and 
motives.  Contrary  to  realism,  romanticism 
stresses  the  exotic  rather  than  the  ordinary, 
the  individual  rather  than  society  as  a 
whole,  the  subjective  rather  than  the  ob- 
jective, the  idealistic  rather  than  the  skep- 
tical, a  disregard  for  laws  and  conventions 
rather  than  a  resignation  to  them  in  the 
belief  that  they  are  irresistible. 

RUN-ON  LINE,  a  line  of  poetry  in  which  the 
sense  flows  without  stop  to  the  succeeding 
line.  A  run-on  line  is  easily  recognized 
by  the  absence  of  any  end  punctuation. 

SATIRE,  a  witty  or  humorous  criticism,  in 
fiction,  drama,  or  poetry,  of  some  indi- 
vidual, class,  institution,  or  idea. 

SCENE,  in  drama,  a  division  of  an  act  or 
of  a  whole  play  which  indicates  ( 1 )  a 
stage  in  the  action,  (2)  a  shift  in  place, 
or  (3)  a  change  in  the  number  of  actors 
on  the  stage.  456.  As  background,  see 
setting,  70-80. 

SCENE  A  FAIRE,  see  obligatory  scene. 

SELECTION,  36-37,  79,  82,  695f. 

SENTENCES,  83-84,  85. 

SENTIMENTALISM,  excessive  emotional  re- 


sponse—on the  part  of  a  character,  the 
author,  or  the  reader— to  life  or  to  an 
imaginative  work  or  some  element  in  an 
imaginative  work. 

SETTING,  70-80,  97,  217,  219,  692. 

SHAKESPEARIAN  SONNET,  see  sonnet. 

SHORT  STORY,  216-453. 

SIBILANTS,  sounds  which  resemble  hissing. 
In  English  the  sibilants  are  s,  z,  sh,  zh, 
ch,  and  /.  84. 

SIMILE,  a  stated  comparison,  usually  dis- 
tinguishable because  of  the  presence  of 
the  word  like  or  as.  82,  697. 

SOLILOQUY,  a  speech  revealing  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  of  a  character  in  a  play,  and 
usually  delivered  when  the  character  is 
alone  on  the  stage.  455. 

SONNET,  a  short,  formalized,  lyrical  poem 
containing  fourteen  lines  and  written  in 
iambic  pentameter.  The  Italian  or  Petrar- 
chan sonnet  contains  an  octet  (eight 
lines)  rhyming  abba  abba,  and  a  sestet 
(six  lines)  most  frequently  rhyming  cde 
cde  or  cdc  dcd.  The  English  or  Shake- 
spearian sonnet  contains  three  quatrains 
and  a  couplet,  and  rhymes  abab  cdcd 
efef  gg.  A  variation  on  this  is  the  Spen- 
serian sonnet,  which  rhymes  abab  bcbc 
cdcd  ee.  Much  of  the  skill  in  writing 
sonnets  is  in  making  thought  breaks  cor- 
respond with  rhyme  breaks.  694f. 

SPENSERIAN  SONNET,  see  sonnet. 

SPENSERIAN  STANZA,  a  nine-line  stanza 
rhyming  ababbcbcc.  The  first  eight  lines 
are  iambic  pentameter;  the  last  is  iambic 
hexameter  or  an  Alexandrine. 

SPONDEE,  694. 

STANZA,  a  group  of  lines  composing  a 
division  within  a  poem.  Usually  these  divi- 
sions are  relatively  short  and  have  the 
same  pattern.  The  most  familiar  stanzas 
are  the  quatrain  (four  lines),  quintain 
(five  lines ) ,  sextain  ( six  lines ) ,  and  octave 
(eight  lines).  A  few  special  forms  are  the 
heroic  stanza  (an  iambic  pentameter 
quatrain  with  alternate  lines  rhyming), 
ballad  stanza  (alternating  tetrameter  and 
trimeter  iambic  lines  which  form  a  qua- 
train rhyming  abcb),  rime  royal  (a  seven- 


822 


line  stanza  of  iambic  pentameter  rhyming 
ababbcc),  and  ottava  rima  (an  iambic 
pentameter  octave  rhyming  ababdbcc). 
156,  176f. 

STOCK  CHARACTER,  one  conventionally  as- 
sociated with  certain  types  of  dramas  or 
scenes;  e.g.,  the  villain  in  the  old-fash- 
ioned melodrama  who  threatens  to  fore- 
close the  mortgage  on  the  farm.  150. 

STREAM-OF-CONSCIOUSNESS,  221. 

STRUCTURE,  the  selection,  arrangement,  and 
handling  of  details  and  elements  in  an 
imaginative  work  which  give  the  work 
the  form  and  unity  it  has.  156f.,  179. 

STYLE,  variously  defined,  a  term  used  to 
signify  ( 1 )  the  language  of  an  author, 
(2)  the  distinctive  handling  of  language 
by  an  author,  (3)  the  distinctive  crafts- 
manship in  general  of  an  imaginative 
artist  92f.,  99. 

SUBJECTIVE  PRESENTATION,  presentation 
which  stresses  the  author's  reaction  to  his 
material  rather  than  the  material  itself. 

SUSPENSE,  ( 1 )  the  excited  interest  of  reader 
or  spectator  in  what  will  happen  next,  (2) 
the  quality  or  form  of  the  work  which 
excites  such  an  interest. 

SYMBOL,  anything  used  to  represent  some- 
thing else,  as  a  word  is  used  to  represent 
an  idea.  In  literature  the  term  usually  re- 
fers to  a  concrete  image  employed  to 
designate  an  abstract  quality  or  concept. 
112-113. 

SYNECDOCHE,  a  figure  of  speech  in  which 
a  part  is  used  for  a  whole  or  a  whole  for 
a  part.  The  world  is  too  much  with  us 

TECHNIQUE,  the  craftsmanship  employed 
by  the  author  to  give  a  literary  work  form 
and  significance.  169. 

TETRAMETER,  694. 


THEME,  115f.,  219. 

THESIS,  the  theme,  proposition,  or  central 
idea. 

THRENODY,  a  poem  in  which  the  poet 
somberly  writes  of  death  and  of  its  im- 
plications. 

TONE,  95-109,  112,  217. 

TONE-COLOR,  the  effect  achieved  by  the 
arrangement  of  sounds.  Chiefly  it  is  de- 
pendent upon  the  natural  pitch  of  vowel 
sounds  and  upon  the  emotional  responses 
which  we  make  to  different  sounds.  Poe's 
The  Bells  is  an  exercise  in  tone-color.  For 
words  quoted  from  it,  see  696.  See  also 
84,  156. 

TRAGEDY,  457ff. 

TRITENESS,  the  quality  of  an  artistic  work 
which  derives  from  the  author's  using 
phrasings  or  materials  which  have  been 
used  in  other  works  until  the  reader  has 
become  tired  of  them. 

TROCHEE,  693. 

UNATTRACTIVE  CHARACTER,  one  toward 
whom  the  reader  is  generally  unsympa- 
thetic. 54,  100. 

UNITIES,  DRAMATIC,  elements  in  drama 
wrongly  ascribed  to  Aristotle  and  rigidly 
prescribed  by  French  classicists.  These 
include  unity  of  time  ( a  twenty-four-hour 
period),  of  place  (one  setting),  and  of 
action  (one  main  action). 

UNITY,  the  quality  achieved  by  an  artistic 
work  when  everything  in  it  is  so  inter- 
related as  to  form  a  complete  whole.  37f., 
162,  177,  216ff. 

VERSE,  a  line  or  stanza  of  poetry.  The  term 
also  designates  poetry  in  general. 

VERSIFICATION,  the  art  or  science  of  met- 
rical composition. 


823 


INDEX   OF   TITLES  AND  AUTHORS 

WITH   BIOGRAPHICAL   INFORMATION 


In  the  Index  of  Titles  and  Authors,  Better  Reading  One:  Factual  Prose  is  designated 
by  i  and  Better  Reading  Two:  Literature  by  n. 

ADAMS,  LEONIE  (Fuller),  1899-,  American 
poet,  author  of  Those  Not  Elect  (1925) 
and  High  Falcon  (1929).  n:  811 

Adventures  of  Huckleberry  Finn,  The,  ex- 
cerpt from,  n:  86 

After  Apple-Picking,  11:  803 

Afternoon  in  Artillery  Walk,  11:  807 

Alice  Weller,  n:  12 

ALLEN,  FREDERICK  LEWIS,  1890-1954, 
American  editor  and  writer;  author  of 
Only  'Yesterday  (1931)  and  The  Big 
Change  (1952).  i:  356 

ALSOP,  JOSEPH  W.,  JR.,  1910-,  American 
journalist,  i:  81 

Among  School  Children,  11:  799 

ANDERSON,  SHERWOOD,  1876-1941,  Ameri- 
can novelist  and  short  story  writer;  author 
of  Winesburg,  Ohio  (1919)  and  Memoirs 
(1942).  i:  331 

Animal  Chemistry,  i:  39 

Anthropology's  Contribution  to  Inter-racial 
Understanding,  i:  113 

Araby,  n:  388 

Armored  with  Genuine  Faith,  i:  297 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW,  1822-1888,  English 
educator,  poet,  and  critic  during  the  Vic- 
torian period,  n:  181,  H:  182,  n:  192 

Arnold's  "Dover  Beach"  n:  182 

Ars  Poetica,  n:  183,  discussion  of,  n:  184 

Assassination  of  Lincoln,  The,  i:  141 

At  Melville's  Tomb,  n:  811 

AUDEN,  W(ystan)  H(ugh),  1907-,  Eng- 
lish poet  now  living  in  America,  often 
concerned  with  social  and  political  prob- 
lems, author  of  On  This  Island  (1937). 
n:  813 

Auto  Wreck,  n:  814 

Autobiography  of  an  Uneducated  Man, 
The,  i:  182 


Babbitt  Visits  Eathorne,  n:  55 

BACON,  LEONARD,  1887-1954,  American 
teacher  and  poet,  author  of  Guinea-Fowl 
and  Other  Poultry  (1927).  n:  807 

BARR,  ALFRED  H.,  JR.,  1902-,  American  art 
historian;  director  of  collections  at  the 
Museum  of  Modern  Art,  New  York,  i:  267 

BARZUN,  JACQUES,  1907-,  French  born; 
American  educator  and  author;  professor 
of  history  at  Columbia;  author  of  Berlioz 
and  the  Romantic  Century  ( 1950 )  and 
God's  Country  and  Mine  (1954).  i:  205 

Battlefield  of  Waterloo,  The,  i:  12 

Bear,  The,  n:  423 

BECKER,  CARL,  1873-1945,  American  his- 
torian and  political  scientist,  i:  44 

BENCHLEY,  ROBERT,  1889-1945,  American 
critic  and  humorist;  drama  editor  of  Life, 
1920-1929,  and  of  The  New  Yorker, 
1929-1945.  i:  204 

Bible,  The,  i:  281,  i:  375 

Bible  in  Modern  Undress,  The,  i:  163 

Birthday,  A,  n:  792 

Bishojj  Orders  His  Tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's 
Church,  The,  n:  779 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM,  1757-1827,  English  artist 
and  romantic  poet,  n:  753 

Blow,  Blow,  Thou  Winter  Wind,  IT:  725 

BOCCACCIO,  GIOVANNI,  1313-1375,  Italian 
writer  and  humanist  important  in  the 
Renaissance,  n:  227 

Boless,  n :  208 

Book  of  Ruth,  The,  n:  223 

Book  Review  Digest,  excerpts  from,  n:  194 

Bound  East  for  Cardiff,  n:  647 

BOYNTON,  PERCY  HOLMES,  1875-1946, 
American  educator  and  author;  professor 
of  English  at  the  University  of  Chicago; 
author  of  Literature  and  American  Life 


824 


(1936)  and  America  in  Contemporary 
Fiction  (1940).i:  161 

Brahma,  n:  139 

BROWNING,  ROBERT,  1812-1889,  English 
poet,  developer  of  the  dramatic  mono- 
logue, ii :  60,  ii :  777 

Build  Me  a  Bungalow  Small,  n:  198 

BURGESS,  GELETT,  1866-1951,  American 
humorist  and  novelist;  author  of  Goops 
and  How  to  Be  Them  (1900)  and  Look 
Eleven  Years  Younger  (1937).  i:  125, 
i:  132 

BURNS,  ROBERT,  1759-1796,  Scottish  na- 
tional poet,  n :  755 

Butcher  Boy  of  Stratford,  The,  i:  132 

CAREW,  THOMAS,  1595P-1645?,  English 
Cavalier  poet,  n:  734 

Cargoes,  n:  176 

Cask  of  Amontillado,  The,  n:  72 

Character  of  a  Great  Man,  The,  n:  103 

Chariot,  The,  n:  793 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY,  c.  1340-1400,  Eng- 
lish poet  of  the  Middle  English  period, 
ii :  714 

CHEKHOV,  ANTON  (Pavlovich),  1860-1904, 
Russian  playwright  and  fiction  writer,  n: 
63,  ii :  289 

Churchill  True  to  Form,  i:  88 

City  in  the  Sea,  The,  n:  776 

Class  System  of  Plainville,  The,  i:  342 

CLEMENS,  SAMUEL  (Langhorne),  see 
TWAIN,  MARK. 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR,  1772-1834, 
English  essayist,  critic,  and  poet  of  the 
romantic  period,  ii:  762 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM,  1721-1759,  English 
poet,  ii :  749 

COMMAGER,  HENRY  STEELE,  1902-,  Amer- 
ican educator  and  historian;  author  with 
Samuel  Eliot  Morison  of  The  Growth  of 
the  American  Republic  (1942).  i:  135 

CONRAD,  JOSEPH  (Teodor  Josef  Konrad 
Korzeniowski),  1857-1924,  born  in  Po- 
land, but,  as  a  British  citizen,  one  of 
England's  prominent  novelists,  ii:  82ff., 
n:  317 

COOPER,  JAMES  FENIMORE,  1789-1851, 
American  novelist  and  social  critic  of  the 
Early  National  period,  author  of  the 


Leatherstocking  Tales,  historical  romances, 
novels  of  social  criticism,  and  sea  stories, 
n:  170 

COPLAND,  AARON,  1900-,  American  com- 
poser; author  of  What  to  Listen  for  in 
Music  (1939).i:  261 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying,  n:  732 

Country  Summer,  H:  811 

COUSINS,  NORMAN,  1912-,  American  editor 
and  writer;  author  of  Modern  Man  Is 
Obsolete  (1945).i:  61 

CRANE,  (Harold)  HART,  1899-1932,  Amer- 
ican symbolist  poet,  author  of  The  Bridge 
(1930).  n:  811 

CRANSTON,  HOY,  1865-,  Canadian  citizen; 
studied  in  New  York  City,  i:  130 

Creative  Process  in  Music,  The,  i:  261 

Crito,  i:  380 

Cub  Reporter,  i:  301 

DALE,  EDGAR,  1900-,  American  educator; 
professor  of  education  at  Ohio  State  Uni- 
versity; co-editor  of  The  News  Letter. 
i:  306 

DANIELS,  EARL,  1893-,  American  scholar 
and  teacher,  ii:  179 

Darkling  Thrush,  The,  n:  794 

Darling,  The,  ii:  289 

DAUDET,  ALPHONSE,  1840-1897,  French 
novelist  and  short  story  writer,  n:  246 

DAVIS,  NORBERT,  1909-,  American  fiction 
writer  and  contributor  to  popular  maga- 
zines, ii:  198 

DAY,  CLARENCE,  1874-1935,  American  au- 
thor and  illustrator;  particularly  known 
for  satirical  works;  author  of  The  Crow's 
Nest  (1921)  and  Life  with  Father 
"(1935).  i:  91 

Days,  ii :  773 

Death  of  the  Dauphin,  The,  n:  246 

Death  of  the  U.N.,  The,  i:  407 

Declaration  of  Independence,  The,  i:  52 

Deil's  Awa  wi'  th'  Exciseman,  The,  n:  755 

DE  LA  MARE,  WALTER  (John),  1873-1956, 
English  poet  and  novelist,  author  of  Col- 
lected Poems  1910-1918  (1918).  u:  802 

Democracy,  i:  44 

Democracy  Is  Not  Dying,  i:  95 

Democratic  Faith  and  Education,  The, 
i:  191 


825 


Detrital  Sediments,  i:  36 

DEUTSCH,  MONROE  E(manuel),  1879-, 
American  educator  and  university  ad- 
ministrator, i:  69 

DEVoro,  BERNARD,  1897-1955,  American 
editor,  historian,  critic,  and  novelist;  edi- 
tor of  'The  Easy  Chair/'  Harpers  Maga- 
zine, 1935-1955;  author  of  The  Year  of 
Decision:  1846  (1943).  i:  13 

DEWEV>  JOHN,  1859-1952,  American  phi- 
losopher and  educator;  author  of  Experi- 
ence in  Education  (1936)  and  Freedom 
and  Culture  (1939).  i:  191 

DICKENS,  CHARLES,  1812-1870,  English 
journalist,  editor,  and  novelist;  known  for 
novels  of  London  life;  author  of  David 
Copperfield  (1850);  wrote  of  impressions 
of  America  in  American  Notes  (1842). 
i:  42 

DICKINSON,  EMILY  (Elizabeth),  1830- 
1886,  American  poet,  a  recluse  whose 
works  became  famous  posthumously,  n: 
141,  ii :  165,  n:  793 

Divine  Comedy,  The,  comment  on,  ii:  164 

DONNE,  JOHN,  1573-1631,  English  poet, 
writer  of  metaphysical  poetry,  and  an 
Anglican  preacher,  ii:  730 

Dover  Beach,  n:  181,  discussion  of,  ii:  182 

Dover  Beach  Revisited,  i:  247 

DRYDEN,  JOHN,  1631-1700,  English  play- 
wright, critic,  and  writer  of  neo-classical 
poetry,  ii:  743 

DUNSANY,  LORD  (Edward  John  Moreton 
Drax  Plunkett),  1878-,  Irish  poet  and 
playwright,  author  of  Tales  of  Wonder 
(1916).  n:  42 

Each  and  All,  n:  771 

EARNEST,  ERNEST,  1901-,  American  edu- 
cator and  author,  i:  199 

East  of  Eden,  reviews  of,  n:  194 

EDWARDS,  JONATHAN,  1703-1758,  Ameri- 
can Puritan  clergyman  arid  theologian, 
author  of  Freedom  of  the  Witt  (1764). 
n:  169 

Effects  of  the  Mass  Media,  The,  i:  306 

EINSTEIN,  ALBERT,  1879-1955,  German- 
born  American  theoretical  physicist, 
noted  for  his  theory  of  rclalivily.  i:  293 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Countiy  Churchy  ardf 
ii:  749 


ELIOT,  T(homas)  S( teams),  1888-,  Amer- 
ican-born essayist  and  poet,  now  a  British 
citizen,  whose  poem,  The  Waste  Land 
(1922),  influenced  a  generation  of  poets. 
H:  129,  ii:  808 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO,  1803-1882, 
American  poet  and  essayist,  author  of 
"The  Over-Soul"  (1841).  n:  139,  n:  771 

Emerson  s  Prose,  i:  161 

English  As  She's  Not  Taught,  i:  205 

Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy,  An,  ii:  731 

Essay  on  Man,  An,  excerpt  from,  n:  746 

Even  A.  B.'s  Must  Eat,  i:  199 

Evening  on  Calais  Beach,  n:  694 

Exodus,  selections  from,  i:  375 

Express,  The,  n:  813 

Falcon,  The,  n:  227 

Fare  Warning:  Roadside  Indigestion,  i:  31 

FAULKNER,  RAY  N.,  1906-,  American  art 
educator;  professor  of  art  at  Stanford 
University;  author  with  Gerald  Hill  and 
Edwin  Ziegfeld  of  Art  Today  (1949). 
i:  16 

FAULKNER,  WILLIAM,  1897-,  American 
short  story  writer  and  novelist  writing 
chiefly  of  the  South,  author  of  The  Sound 
and  the  Fury  (1929).  Winner  of  Nobel 
Prize  (1950).  i :  246,  ii:  423 

FIELDING,  HENRY,  1707-1754,  English 
essayist,  playwright,  and  novelist,  author 
of  Tom  Jones  (1749).  n:  103 

Fierce  Rush  of  All  the  Winds,  A,  n:  91 

FITZGERALD,  F(rancis)  SCOTT  (Key), 
1896-1940,  American  fiction  writer  whose 
novels  depict  the  "lost  generation"  during 
the  20's,  author  of  The  Great  Gatsby 
(1925).  n:  172 

500,000  Years  from  Now  What  Will  We 
Look  Like?  i:  121 

FLINT,  RICHARD  F.,  1902-,  American  ge- 
ologist, associate  editor  of  American 
Journal  of  Science  since  1930;  author 
with  C.  R.  Longwell  and  Adolph  Knopf 
of  A  Textbook  of  Geology  (1939).  i:  36 

Flowering  Judas,  m  413 

Foes  of  the  Humanities,  The,  i:  69 

FOGLE,  RICHARD  H.,  191 1-,  American 
scholar  and  teacher,  n:  186 

For  Esm6—with  Love  and  Squalor,  n:  436 

Fort  Laramie,  i:  173 


826 


Fort  Laramie  in  1846,  i:  172 

Fort  Laramie  National  Monument,  r:  171 

F rankle  and  Johnny,  n:  39 

FROST,  ROBERT  (Lee),  1875-,  American 
poet,  who  writes  mainly  of  rural  New 
England,  author  of  North  of  Boston 
(1914).  ii:  94,  n:  156,  n:  803 

FRY,  CHRISTOPHER,  1907-,  British  play- 
wright, author  of  The  Lady's  Not  for 
Burning  (1948).  n:  659 

GALLAGHER,  BUELL  G(ordon),  1904-, 
American  educator;  president  of  City 
College  of  New  York,  i:  297 

GALLUP,  GEORGE,  1901-,  American  public 
opinion  statistician;  founder  of  the  Ameri- 
can Institute  of  Public  Opinion,  i:  319 

GORKY,  MAXIM  ( Alexei  Maximovich  Pyesh- 
koff),  1868-1936,  Russian  author  of  nov- 
els and  short  stories,  much  admired  in 
Russia  during  his  life  as  a  revolutionist, 
ii :  208 

GRAY,  THOMAS,  1716-1771,  English  poet, 
n :  749 

Great  Frog  Hunt,  The,  i:  7 

Great  Gatsby,  The,  excerpt  from,  n:  172 

Habit  of  Perfection,  The,  n:  795 

HAFEN,  L(eRoy)  R.,  1893-,  American  his- 
torian; author  with  F.  M.  Young  of  Fort 
Laramie  and  the  Pageant  of  the  West 
(1938).  i:  172 

HARDY,  THOMAS,  1840-1928,  English  nov- 
elist and  poet,  author  of  Jude  the  Obscure 
(1895)  and  Satires  of  Circumstance 
(1914).  ii.  794 

HAWTHORNE,  NATHANIEL,  1804-1864, 
American  novelist  and  short  story  writer, 
author  of  The  Scarlet  Letter  (1850).  n: 
110,  ii:  116,  u :  117,  n:  127,  ii:  186 

Hawthorne's  "The  Minister's  Black  Veil," 
in  186 

Heart  of  Darkness,  ii:  317 

Heaven-haven,  ii:  147 

Hedda  Gdbler,  n:  577 

HEMINGWAY,  ERNEST,  1898-,  American 
novelist  and  short  story  writer,  who,  be- 
tween the  wars,  wrote  of  the  "lost  gen- 
eration," author  of  A  Farewell  to  Arms 
(1929).  Winner  of  Nobel  Prize  (1954). 
ii :  81ff.,  n:  97,  n:  404 

HERBERT,    GEORGE,    1593-1633,    English 


clergyman  anoT  metaphysical'  poee.  ii:  735" 

HERRICK,  ROBERT,  1591-1674,  English 
clergyman  and  Cavalier  poet,  n:  84,  n: 
179,  n:  732 

Herrick's  "Upon  Julia's  Clothes?  n;  179 

Higher  Laws,  i:  285 

HILL,  GERALD,  1905-,  American  art  edu- 
cator; author  with  Ray  Faulkner  and 
Edwin  Ziegfeld  of  Art  Today  (1949). 
i:  16 

HITLER,  ADOLF,  1889-1945?,  German  dic- 
tator; leader  of  the  German  State  1933- 
1945;  author  of  Mein  Kampf.  i:  109 

Hollywood  Verdict:  Gilt  But  Not  Guilty, 
i:  310 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL,  1809-1894, 
American  scientist,  teacher,  essayist,  and 
poet;  author  of  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table  (1858)  and  "Old  Iron- 
sides/' i:  39 

Holy  Innocents,  The,  ii:  816 

HOMER,  born  c.  850  B.C.,  traditional  Greek 
poet,  ii :  91,  ii :  701 

HOPKINS,  GERARD  MANLEY,  1844-1889, 
English  Jesuit  and  poet,  much  admired 
by  poets  and  critics  in  recent  years,  ii: 
147,  ii :  795 

HOUSMAN,  A(  Ifred )  E ( dward ) ,  1 859-1936, 
English  classical  scholar  and  poet,  author 
of  A  Shropshire  Lad  ( 1896).  ii:  797 

HUGO,  VICTOR,  1802-1885,  French  poet, 
novelist,  and  dramatist;  author  of  Les 
Miserables  (1862).  i:  12 

Hunger  Artist,  A,  ii:  396 

HUTCHINS,  ROBERT  MAYNARD,  1899-, 
American  educator;  author  of  No  Friendly 
Voice  (1936),  Speaking  of  Education 
(1940),  and  Education  for  Freedom 
(1943).  i:  182 

Hymn  to  Diana,  ii:  732 

I  Become  a  Student,  i:  179 

IBSEN,  HENRIK,  1828-1906,  Norwegian 
playwright,  important  as  a  pioneer  in  the 
field  of  the  problem  play,  n:  11  Iff.,  n:  577 

I  Died  for  Beauty,  n:  165 

Idol's  Eye,  The,  n:  105 

Iliad,  The,  excerpts  from,  n:  701 

Importance  of  Advertising,  The,  i:  67 

Independence  and  the  Great  Declaration^ 
i:  135 


827 


/  Never  Saw  a  Moor,  u:  141 

In  Philadelphia  Nearly  Everybody  Reaa 
The  Bulletin,  i:  59 

In  Time  of  "The  Breaking  of  Nations,  ' 
n:  795 

I  Saw  in  Louisiana  a  Live-Oak  Growing,  n: 
784 

It's  a  Long  Way  to  Seattle,  i:  10 

1  Wake  and  Feel  the  Fell  of  Dark,  n:  796 

JAMES,  HENRY,  1843-1916,  American  nov- 
elist and  short  story  writer  much  of  whose 
work  is  about  Europe,  where  he  spent  the 
last  half  of  his  life,  n:  97,  n:  151,  11:  299 

JEFFERSON,  THOMAS,  1743-1826,  third 
president  of  the  United  States,  i:  52 

Jim  Brown  Knows  the  Way,  i:  22 

John  Steinbeck,  i:  151 

JOHNSON,  CHARLES  S(purgeon),  1893- 
1956,  American  educator;  president  of 
Fisk  University,  i:  57 

JONSON,  BEN,  c.1573-1637,  English  play- 
wright and  poet  roughly  contemporaneous 
with  Shakespeare,  n:  731 

JOYCE,  JAMES,  1882-1941,  Irish  fiction 
writer,  known  especially  for  his  novel 
Ulysses  (1922)  and  his  stream-of-con- 
sciousness  technique,  n:  388 

KAFKA,  FRANZ,  1883-1924,  German  nov- 
elist and  short  story  writer,  author  of  The 
Castle  (1926)  and  Amerika  (1927).  n: 
396 

KEATS,  JOHN,  1795-1821,  English  romantic 
poet,  ii :  79,  n:  109,  11:  766 

Killers,  The,  n:  404 

KINNAIRD,  CLARK,  1901-,  American  writer 
and  journalist;  associate  editor  of  King 
Features  Syndicate;  author  of  The  Real 
F.  D.  R.  ( 1945);  novelist  under  the  pseu- 
donym Edgar  Poe  Norris.  i:  127 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD,  1865-1936,  English 
writer  of  poetry  and  fiction,  much  of  it 
about  life  in  the  Far  East,  n:  98ff.,  ii:  261 

KIRBY,  JOHN  P.,  1905-,  American  scholar 
and  teacher,  n:  182 

KNOPF,  ADOLPH,  1882-,  American  geolo- 
gist; professor  of  geology  at  Yale  Univer- 
sity; author  of  Age  of  the  Earth  ( 1931 ) 
and,  with  C.  R.  Longwell  and  R.  F.  Flint, 
of  A  Textbook  of  Geology  (1939).  i:  36 

Kubla  Khan,  n:  762 


LA  GUARDIA,  FIORELLO  H(enry),  1882- 
1947,  former  congressman,  and  mayor  of 
New  York  City,  i:  371 

Larval  Stage  of  a  Bookworm,  i:  234 

LAWRENCE,  DAVID,  1888-,  American  jour- 
nalist; editor  of  U.S.  News  and  World 
Report,  i:  407 

Leaden-Eyed,  The,  n:  805 

LEE,  IRVING,  1909-1955,  American  seman- 
ticist;  professor  of  speech  at  Northwestern 
University;  author  of  How  to  Talk  with 
People  (1952).  i :  214 

LEWIS,  SINCLAIR,  1885-1951,  American 
novelist  whose  best-known  works  offer  a 
satirical  criticism  of  modern  American  life, 
author  of  Main  Street  (1921)  and  Bab- 
bitt (1922).  Winner  of  Nobel  Prize 
(1930).  n:  55 

Life  of  Brutus,  The,  excerpt  from,  n:  21 

Limits  of  Government  Interference,  They 
i:391 

LINCOLN,  ABRAHAM,  1809-1865,  sixteenth 
president  of  the  United  States,  i:  98 

LINDSAY,  (Nicholas)  VACHEL,  1879-1931, 
American  poet,  famed  during  his  life  as  a 
reciter  of  his  own  work,  author  of  The 
Congo  (1914).n:  805 

Line,  i:  16 

Listeners,  The,  n:  802 

LODGE,  HENRY  CABOT,  JR.,  1902-,  United 
States  representative  to  the  United  Na- 
tions since  1953.  i:  409 

London,  ii:  754 

London,  1802,  n:  757 

Long  Hill,  The,  n:  805 

LONGWELL,  CHESTER  R(ay),  1887-,  Amer- 
ican geologist;  professor  of  geology  at 
Yale  University;  author  with  A.  Knopf 
and  R.  Flint  of  Outlines  of  Geology 
(1934-1941),  A  Textbook  of  Geology 
(1939).  i:  36 

Love's  Alchemy,  n:  730 

Love  Song  of  J.  Alfred  Prufrock,  The,  n: 
129 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL,  1819-1891, 
American  diplomat,  essayist,  critic,  and 
poet,  ii :  164,  n:  782 

LOWELL,  ROBERT  (Traill  Spence,  Jr.), 
1917-,  American  poet,  author  of  Lord 
Weary's  Castle  (1944).  n:  815 


828 


Lucifer  in  Starlight,  ii:  792 

Macbeth,  n:  507 

MACDONALD,  DWIGHT  D.,  1906-,  Ameri- 
can editor  and  writer;  staff  writer  for 
The  New  Yorker,  i:  163 

MACLEISH,  ARCHIBALD,  1892-,  American 
poet,  author  of  Conquistador  ( 1933 )  and 
America  Was  Promises  (1939).  n:  183, 
ii :  184,  n:  810 

MacLeish's  "Ars  Poetica,"  n:  184 

MANSFIELD,  KATHERINE  (nee  Kathleen 
Beauchamp,  Mrs.  John  Middleton  Mur- 
ry ),  1888-1923,  English  short  story  writer, 
author  of  Bliss  and  Other  Stories  (1920). 
n :  392 

Man  Who  Would  Be  King,  The,  ii:  261 

Marginal  Man,  The,  i:  49 

Markheim,  n:  248 

MARVELL,  ANDREW,  1621-1678,  English 
poet  and  satirist,  n:  737 

MASEFIELD,  JOHN,  1878-,  English  poet  and 
playwright,  present  Poet  Laureate  of  Eng- 
land n:  176ff.,  n :  804 

Mass  Infbrmation  or  Mass  Entertainment, 
i:  319 

Mateo  Falcone,  n:  237 

MAUGHAM,  W(illiam)  SOMERSET,  1874-, 
English  novelist  and  dramatist;  author  of 
Of  Human  Bondage  (1915)  and  The 
Summing  Up  (1938).  i:  227 

MAYER,  ARTHUR,  1886-,  American  motion 
picture  executive;  author  of  Merely  Co- 
lossal  (1953).  i :  310 

McWiLLiAMS,  CAREY,  1905-,  American 
author  and  lecturer,  particularly  interested 
in  minority  group  problems;  author  of 
Brothers  Under  the  Skin  (1943)  and  A 
Mask  for  Privilege  (1948).  i:  49 

MELVILLE,  HERMAN,  1819-1891,  American 
novelist  and  short  story  writer,  author  of 
Moby  Dick  (1851).  n:  7,  ii:  8ff.,  H:  113, 
n:  152 

Memnon  the  Philosopher,  n:  232 

MENCKEN,  H(enry)  L(ouis),  1880-1956, 
American  editor,  critic,  and  essayist;  au- 
thor of  The  American  Language  (1936) 
and  Happy  Days  (1940).  i:  234 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE,  1828-1909,  English 
novelist  and  poet,  author  of  The  Egoist 
(1879)  and  Modern  Love  (1862).  n:  792 


MERIMEE,  PROSPER,  1803-1870,  French 
novelist  and  playwright,  who  translated 
many  Russian  works  into  French,  n:  237 

MILL,  JOHN  STUART,  1806-1873,  English 
political  economist  and  philosopher;  au- 
thor of  On  Liberty  ( 1859).  i:  391 

MILLER,  NADINE,  American  business- 
woman, i:  67 

MILTON,  JOHN,  1608-1674,  English  poet 
and  pamphleteer,  author  of  Paradise  Lost 
(1667)  and  Areopagitica  (1644).  H:  738 

Minister's  Black  Veil,  The,  n:  117,  discus- 
sion of,  n:  186 

Miniver  Cheevy,  ii:  801 

Miss  Brill,  ii :  392 

Moby  Dick,  excerpt  from,  n:  7 

MORISON,  SAMUEL  ELIOT,  1887-,  American 
historian;  author  of  Admiral  of  the  Ocean 
Sea  (1942);  coauthor  with  H.  S.  Com- 
mager  of  The  Growth  of  the  American 
Republic  (1942).  i:  135 

MORRIS,  LLOYD,  1893-,  American  writer; 
author  of  Postscript  to  Yesterday  (1947) 
and  America :  The  Last  Fifty  Years 
(1947).  i:  34 

MORRISON,  THEODORE,  1901-,  American 
educator;  director  of  freshman  English  at 
Harvard  University;  director  of  the  Bread 
Loaf  Writers'  Conference,  i:  247 

Mrs.  Medwin,  n:  299 

MUNRO,  H.  H.,  see  SAKI 

Musee  des  Beaux  Arts,  n:  813 

My  First  Encounters  with  Politics,  i:  371 

My  Last  Duchess,  ii:  60 

Night  at  an  Inn,  A,  ii:  42 

Nocturne,  n:  102 

Nothing  Can  Be  More  Fallacious,  i:  78 

Ode,  n:  757 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  n:  769 

Ode  on  Melancholy,  n:  770 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  ii:  766 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  n:  764 

Ode,  Written  in  the  Beginning  of  the  Year 
1746,  n :  749 

Odyssey,  The,  excerpt  from,  H:  91 

Oedipus  the  King,  n:  460 

Old  Man  and  the  Sea,  Thef  reviews  of,  n: 
196 

O  Mistress  Mine,  n:  725 

On  a  Ship  at  Sea,  n:  88 


829 


Once  I  Pass'd  Through  a  Populous  City, 
n:  784 

One-party  Press,  The,  i:  326 

O'NEILL,  EUGENE  (Gladstone),  1888-1953, 
American  playwright,  a  leading  figure  in 
contemporary  drama  ever  since  his  first 
plays  were  produced  by  the  experimental 
Provincetown  Theater  (1916-1920).  u: 
647 

Ones-Self  I  Sing,  11:  784 

On  Growing  Old,  n:  804 

On  His  Blindness,  ii:  739 

On  the  Assembly  Line,  n:  153 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  n:  109 

On  the  Late  Massacre  in  Piedmont,  n:  738 

Open  Air  Life  in  the  West,  i:  13 

Open  Window,  The,  u:  158 

QSBORN,  FAIRFIELD,  1887-,  American  natu- 
ralist; president  of  the  New  York  Zoolog- 
ical Society  since  1940;  author  of  Our 
Plundered  Planet  (1948).  i:  333 

Our  Plundered  Nation,  i:  333 

O,  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast,  n:  756 

Ozymandias,  n:  764 

PAINE,  THOMAS,  1737-1809,  born  in  Eng- 
land; American  political  propagandist  and 
contioversialist;  wrote  Common  Sense 
(1776)  and  The  Age  of  Reason  (1794- 
1796).  i:  78 

Paradise  Lost,  excerpt  from,  n:  739 

PARKER,  DOROTHY  (nee  Rothschild), 
1893-,  American  poet  and  short  story 
writer,  n :  102 

PARKMAN,  FRANCIS,  1823-1893,  American 
historian;  author  of  The  Oregon  Trail 
(1849).  i:  173 

PERELMAN,  S(idney)  J(oseph),  1904-, 
American  humorist,  author  of  Crazy  Like 
a  Fox  (1944)  and  Dream  Department 
(1943).  n:  105 

PERRY,  GEORGE  SESSIONS,  19 10-,  American 
writer;  served  as  war  correspondent  for 
The  New  Yorker  and  The  Saturday  Eve- 
ning Post;  author  of  Hold  Autumn  in 
Your  Hand  ( 1941 )  and  Cities  of  America 
(1945).  i:  10 

Phoenix  Too  Frequent,  A,  H:  659 

Pioneers,  The,  excerpt  from,  n:  170 

PLATO,  427-347  B.C.,  Greek  philosopher; 
student  of  Socrates,  i:  380 


Plug  the  Weep-holes  in  the  Spandrels, 
i:  417 

PLUTARCH,  46P-120?,  Greek  biographer,  n: 
21 

Plutarch's  Lives,  excerpt  from,  n:  21 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN,  1809-1849,  American 
critic,  poet,  and  short  story  writer,  n:  72, 
n:  162,  n:  207,  n:  775 

POPE,  ALEXANDER,  1688-1744,  English 
satirist  and  poet,  n:  746 

PORTER,  KATHERINE  ANNE,  1894-,  Ameri- 
can short  story  writer,  author  of  Flower- 
ing Judas  and  Other  Stories  ( 1930,  1935) 
and  Pale  Horse,  Pale  Rider  ( 1939).  n:  413 

Poverty,  i:  331 

PRIOR,  MATTHEW,  1664-1721,  English  poet 
and  diplomat,  n:  745 

Progressive  Government,  i:  396 

Prologue  to  The  Canterbury  Tales,  excerpts 
from,  ii:  714 

Propagandizing  American  Art,  i:  64 

Psalms:  1,  u:  699;  23,  n:  699;  24,  n:  699; 
100,  ii :  700;  121,  n:  700 

Pseudonym,  Shakespeare,  i:  125 

Purge  of  Performers,  A,  n:  10 

Recipe  for  New  England  Pie,  A,  i:  6 

Reply  to  Mr.  Burgess,  A,  ( 1),  i:  127 

Reply  to  Mr.  Burgess,  A,  (2),  i:  130 

REPPLIER,  AGNES,  1855-1950,  American 
writer;  particularly  prominent  as  an  es- 
sayist; author  of  Books  and  Men  (1888) 
and  Eight  Decades  (1937).  i:  277 

Revolt  of  Capital,  The,  i:  91 

Rhodora,  The,  ii:  771 

ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLINGTON,  1869-1935, 
American  poet,  author  of  Children  of  the 
Night  (1897),  The  Man  Against  the  Sky 
(1916).  n:  801 

ROBINSON,  FRANCIS  P.,  1906-,  American 
educator;  professor  of  psychology  at  Ohio 
State  University;  author  of  Effective 
Study  (1941  and  1946).  i:  8 

ROOSEVELT,  FRANKLIN  DELANO,  1882- 
1945,  thirty-second  president  of  the 
United  States,  i:  95,  i:  396 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA,  1830- 
1894,  English  poet,  author  of  Goblin  Mar- 
ket and  Other  Poems  (1862),  the  sister 
of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  ii:  792 

SAKI  (Hector  Hough  Munro),  1870-1916, 


830 


Scottish  humorist,  author  of  The  Chron- 
icles of  Clovis  (1912).  n:  158 

SALINGER,  J(erome)  D(avid),  1919-, 
American  fiction  writer,  author  of  The 
Catcher  in  the  Rye  (1951).  n:  436 

SANDBURG,  CARL,  1878-,  American  poet, 
biographer,  and  novelist;  author  of  two 
Lincoln  volumes,  The  Prairie  Years 
(1926)  and  The  War  Years  (1939);  Re- 
membrance Rock  (1948).  i:  141 

Sarah  Pierrepont,  n:  169 

Science  and  Religion,  i:  293 

Second  Inaugural  Address,  i:  98 

Self-consciousness,  Culture,  and  the  Car- 
thaginians, i:  241 

Sermon  on  the  Mount,  The,  i:  281 

SEVAREID,  (Arnold)  ERIC,  1912-,  Ameri- 
can journalist;  author  of  Not  So  Wild  a 
Dream  (1946).  i:  301 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM,  1564-1616,  Eng- 
lish playwright  and  poet,  n:  22,  n:  82, 
n:  88,  n:  151,  ii:  167ff.,  n:  507,  n:  725 

SHANE,  TED,  1900-,  American  writer,  i:  31 

SHAPIRO,  HARRY  L(ionel),  1902-,  Ameri- 
can anthropologist;  curator  of  the  Amer- 
ican Museum  of  Natural  History,  New 
York,  i:  113 

SHAPIRO,  KARL,  1913-,  American  poet,  au- 
thor of  Person,  Place  and  Thing  (1942) 
and  An  Essay  on  Rime  ( 1945).  n:  814 

SHAW,  IRWIN,  19 13-,  American  novelist, 
short  story  writer,  and  playwright,  author 
of  The  Young  Lions  ( 1948).  n:  12 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE,  1792-1822,  Eng- 
lish romantic  poet,  n:  764 

Sin,  i:  277 

Sir  Patrick  Spens,  H:  722 

SMITTER,  WESSEL,  1894—1951,  American 
writer  of  fiction  on  modern  industrial  life, 
author  of  F.O.B.  Detroit  (1938).  n:  153 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister,  n:  777 

Song:  Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
H:  734 

Song  for  Saint  Cecilia  s  Day,  A,  n:  743 

Song;  Go  and  catch  a  fatting  star,  n:  730 

Sonnets  (of  Shakespeare):  18,  n:  726;  29, 
n:  726;  30,  n:  727;  73,  n:  727;  94,  ii; 
728;  129,  ii :  728;  146,  n:  728 

SOPHOCLES,  496P-406  B.C.,  Greek  tragic 
playwright,  n:  460 


SPENDER,  STEPHEN,  1909-,  English  poet 
and  critic  now  living  in  America,  formerly 
an  editor  of  the  English  literary  magazine 
Horizon,  n:  813 

Spirit  of  the  Times,  The,  i:  356 

State,  The,  selections  from,  i:  109 

STAUFFER,  DONALD,  1902-1952,  American 
scholar  and  teacher,  n:  184 

STEFFENS,  LINCOLN,  1866-1936,  American 
editor,  writer,  and  lecturer;  author  of  The 
Shame  of  the  Cities  (1904),  Autobiog- 
raphy (1931).  i:  179 

STEINBECK,  JOHN,  1902-,  American  writer 
of  fiction,  usually  about  the  poor  or  op- 
pressed; author  of  Cannery  Row  (1945), 
Tortilla  Flat  (1935),  and  Of  Mice  and 
Men  (1937).  i:  7 

STEVENSON,  ADLAI  E(wing),  1900-,  Ameri- 
can lawyer  and  politican,  presidential 
candidate  in  1952.  I:  326 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis  (Balfour), 
1850-1894,  Scottish  essayist,  poet,  and 
novelist,  author  of  Kidnapped  (1886).  ii: 
71,  ii :  248 

Stopping  by  Woods  on  a  Snowy  Evening, 
ii :  156 

Storm-Fear,  n:  94 

Storm  on  Jackson's  Island,  n:  86 

Survey  Q3R  Method  of  Study,  The,  i:  8 

Survival  Is  Yet  Possible,  i:  61 

Swan  Song,  The,  n:  63 

Sweeney  among  the  Nightingales,  n:  808 

TEASDALE,  SARA,  1884-1933,  American 
poet,  author  of  Love  Songs  (1917)  and 
Dark  of  the  Moon  (1926).  n:  805 

Tempest,  The,  excerpt  from,  ii:  88 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  LORD,  1809-1892, 
English  Victorian  poet,  author  of  Idylls  of 
the  King  (1859-1885),  and  In  Memoriam 
(1850).  ii :  84,  ii:  773 

There  s  a  Certain  Slant  of  Light,  H:  793 

They  Flee  from  Me,  n:  729 

They  Talk  Past  Each  Other,  i:  214 

THIEME,  FRED  P.,  1914-,  American  physi- 
cal anthropologist,  i:  121 

THOMAS,  DYLAN,  1914-1953,  Webh  poet, 
author  of  The  World  I  Breathe  (1939). 
n:  815 

THORBAU,  HENRY  DAVID,  1817-1862, 
American  naturalist  and  writer;  author  of 


831