THE WORLD'S
GREATEST
BOOKS
JOINT EDITORS
ARTHUR MEE
Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge
J. A. HAMMERTON
Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia
VOL. I
FICTION
MCMX
Table of Contents
ABOUT, EDMOND
King of the Mountains
AINSWORTH, HARRISON
Tower of London
ANDERSEN, HANS
Improvisatore
APULEIUS
The Golden Ass
ARABIAN NIGHTS
AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE
AUERBACH, BERTHOLD
On the Height
AUSTEN, JANE
Sense and Sensibility
Pride and Prejudice
Northanger Abbey
Mansfield Park
Emma
Persuasion
BALZAC, HONORÉ DE
Eugénie Grandet
Old Goriot
Magic Skin
Quest of the Absolute
BECKFORD, WILLIAM
History of the Caliph Vathek
BEHN, APHRA
Oroonoko
BERGERAC, CYRANO DE
Voyage to the Moon
BJÖRNSON, BJÖRNSTJERNE
Arne
In God's Way
BLACK, WILLIAM
Daughter of Heth
BLACKMORE, R.D.
Lorna Doone
BOCCACCIO
Decameron
A Complete Index of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the end
of Volume XX.
INTRODUCTION
An enterprise such as THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS is to be judged from
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achievement--the material of which it consists; or it may be judged with
regard to its general utility in the scheme of literature to which it
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In an age which is sometimes ironically called "remarkable" for its
commercialism, nothing has been more truly remarkable than the advancement
in learning as well as in material progress; and of all the instruments
that have contributed to this end, none has been more effective, perhaps,
than the practical popularisation of literature.
In THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS an attempt has been made to effect a
compendium of the world's best literature in a form that shall be at
once accessible to every one and still faithful to its
originals; or, in other words, it has been sought to allow the original
author to tell his own story over again in his own language, but in the
shortest possible space.
Such a method differs entirely from all those in which an author is
represented, either by one or more extracts from his work, or else
by a formal summary or criticism of it in a language not his own. And,
since the style and language of an original is what often constitutes the
wings upon which alone its thought will fly, to have access to its thought
without its form is too often to possess a skeleton without the spirit
which alone could animate it.
Notwithstanding this, however, we are aware that even THE WORLD'S
GREATEST BOOKS will not escape the criticism of a small class of people who
will profess to object to this, as to any kind of interference with an
author's original--in reply to which it can only be said that such
objections are seldom, if ever, made in the true interests of learning, or
in a genuine spirit of inquiry, and too often only proceed from a knowledge
of books or love of them which goes no deeper than their title-page.
For better than all books are the truths which books contain, and to
condense those truths into a form that makes them available is not only to
invest them with new powers and an enlarged range of usefulness, but is
also not necessarily to interfere with any of those essential qualities
that make up the exquisite literary flavor of a fine original.
The selections in THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS have been collected, and
are alphabetically arranged, in ten different divisions,--namely, Fiction,
Lives and Letters, History, Religion, Philosophy, Economics, Science,
Poetry and Drama, Travel and Adventure and Miscellaneous Literature.
An important additional feature of the work is the brief, yet highly
critical biographical and bibliographical note which accompanies every
author and every selection throughout the twenty volumes. To this must be
also added the not less important Introductories, and other
explanations written by experts, which often accompany the selections in
the text--cardinal examples of which will be found in particular in the
section of Religion of this work, in the articles dealing with such
subjects as the Book of the Dead, Brahmanism, Confucianism, the Koran,
Talmud, etc.
With respect to the selections themselves, it may be added that, even
where they are derived from foreign originals, they have often been
prepared from those originals rather than from any existing translations of
them, as in the fine translation of Catullus by Professor Wight Duff, or
the condensations from Euripides, Corneille, Kant, Tacitus, and very many
more. In other cases, again, the selections have been specially prepared
for THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS by their authors or their agents,
such as the two selections by Major Martin Hume in History, by Dr. Bramwell
and Sir Francis Galton in Science, by Mr. Robert Hichens in Fiction, etc.
From this, and still more from the list of authors itself, it will be
found, we hope, that besides a completely modern aim, a distinctly proper
proportion of modern literature has found a place in the work, and that the
best of French, German, Scandinavian, Russian, and other authors take rank
in it with American and English, as do the best of the ancients with the
best among the moderns.
As the aim of THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS has been directed first of all
towards those forms of literature which were in the most need of
condensation to make them readily available, it will not be expected that
the Poetry section of the work will contain the shorter kind of poems.
Moreover, even if the shortness of such poems and their general
accessibility in present-day anthologies did not render their inclusion
here a work of supererogation, it was felt that their place could be far
better filled in a work like the present by the world's best
dramatic literature,--as has been done. This does not apply,
however, to translations from the shorter poems of ancient classical
literature, which, however short they may be, cannot be said to be already
generally available for everyday reading.
Throughout, the claims of literature proper, or of fine writing, have
been intimately considered in conjunction with the claims of pure learning,
or of information, with the result, it is hoped, that to the authority of
the world's best thinkers is added the picturesqueness of their fine
writing. Plato, Spencer, Newton; Darwin, Haeckel, Virchow; Æschylus,
Shelley, Ibsen; Burton, Mandeville, Loti; or Brandes, Matthew Arnold, and
Demosthenes--from old and from modern times they yield up their pearls.
The notion of finality, or of an utter inclusiveness, for such a work as
THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS may be readily disclaimed. To set it up even
would seem ridiculous to any one acquainted with the enormous range of the
subject. Not so ridiculous, however, may seem the claim to have established
a standard and a form of achievement new in the annals of literary
production; and one, moreover, whose importance as an educative
factor, no less than as a test of the special needs of the era wherein
we are living, may be as valid in its own way and in its own time as some
of those other contributions which have helped along the revival of
learning and of letters, from that first awakening of the Renascence
humanists down to our own day.
Edmond About was the son of a grocer at Dieuze, in Lorraine,
France, where he was born Feb. 14, 1828. Even in childhood he displayed the
vivacity of mind and the irreverent spirit which were to make him the most
entertaining anti-clerical writer of his period. His tales have the
qualities of the best writing of the eighteenth century, enhanced by the
modern interest of his own century. "The King of the Mountains" is the
best-known of his novels, as it is also the best. In 1854 About was working
as a poor archaeologist at the French School at Athens, where he noticed
there was a curious understanding between the brigands and the police of
modern Hellas. Brigandage was becoming a safe and almost a respectable
Greek industry. "Why not make it quite respectable and regular?" said
About. "Why does not some brigand chief, with a good connection, convert
his business into a properly registered joint-stock company?" So he
produced, in 1856, one of the most delightful of satirical novels, "The
King of the Mountains." Edmond About died on January 17, 1885, shortly
after his election to the French Academy.
I.--The Brigand and His Business
I am no coward; still, I have some regard for my life. It is a present I
received from my parents, and I wish to preserve it as long as possible in
remembrance of them. So, on my arrival at Athens, in April, 1856, I
refrained from going into the country.
Had the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens said to me when I left
Germany: "My dear Hermann Schultz, I want you to go to Greece and draw up a
report on the remarkable system of brigandage obtaining in that land," I
might bravely have begun by going for a ride outside Athens, as my American
friends, John Harris and William Lobster, did. But I had merely been sent,
at a salary of £10 a month, to collect the rarer specimens of the flora of
Greece. I therefore began by studying the native plants in the royal
gardens; and put off the work of searching for new species and
varieties.
John Harris and William Lobster, who lodged with me at the shop of the
pastry cook, Christodulos, in Hermes Street, were persons of a more
adventurous temperament. Borrowing the only two horses that Christodulos
possessed, they rode out into the country. But they had scarcely gone a
mile when they were stopped by a band of brigands, and urgently invited to
pay a visit to the King of the Mountains. The Americans refused to go, as
the King of the Mountains had an unkindly way of holding his visitors to
large ransoms, and killing them if the money were not quickly paid. But the
brigands--there were fourteen of them--insisted, and got out ropes and
began to bind their captives. Neither Harris nor Lobster was made of the
kind of wood of which faggots are composed. They drew their revolvers, and
used them with astonishing effect. They lost the horses, but got safely
back to Athens.
"I suppose I mustn't grumble over two horses," said Christodulos. "I
served under Hadgi Stavros, the King of the Mountains, in the War of
Independence, and earned enough money to set up in business."
Then, over a bottle of Santorin wine, Christodulos related the story of
the great brigand chief. Hadgi Stavros was by far the most popular leader
among the insurgent Greeks. His hatred of the Turks did not blind him to
such a point that he passed through a Greek village without plundering it.
A vigorous impartiality enabled him to advance his fame by increasing his
wealth. Lord Byron dedicated an ode to him, and sympathisers with the Greek
cause throughout Europe sent him subsidies. The result was that when Greece
was at last liberated from the Turks, Hadgi Stavros returned to his old
trade with a large capital, and a genius for organisation which enabled him
to revolutionise the business of brigandage. He entered into arrangements
with army officers and politicians, and saw to it that his allies were
entrusted with the government of his free, enlightened and progressive
country.
"But the pity of it is," continued our honest host, "that poor Hadgi
Stavros is growing very old and has no son to succeed him. For the sake of
his only daughter, he is investing all his wealth in foreign stocks and
shares, instead of using it to extend his business."
"I say, I should be glad of an introduction to Miss Stavros," said John
Harris. "I wouldn't mind throwing up my job as captain of the Fancy,
now lying at the Piraeus, in order to marry the richest heiress in Greece.
Do you think it is worth getting captured for the sake of meeting her?"
As Christodulos was about to reply, the shop-bell rang, and a young lady
entered. Like nine out of ten Athenian girls, she had plain features. Her
teeth were white and even, and her hair was beautiful; but that was all.
Happily, in this world of ours, the ugliest little goose generally finds
some honest gander to admire her. Dimitri, the son of the pastry cook, ran
forward with a cry of delight, exclaiming, "It's Photini!"
"Gentlemen, let us talk of something else," whispered Christodulos. "We
must not alarm this charming girl with tales about brigands."
He then introduced Photini to us. She was, it appeared, the daughter of
one of his old companions-in-arms, Colonel John. Colonel John was
apparently a man of means, for Photini was very fashionably dressed, and
she was being educated at the best boarding-school in Athens. Her father
had asked his old friend to allow Photini to come and chat with us, and
improve her knowledge of French and German. The girl, however, was too
timid to enter into conversation, and, to judge by the direction of her
glances, it was not French or German that she would have liked to speak if
she could, but English.
John Harris, I admit, is a very good-looking man; but the way Photini
began to devour him with her eyes, astonished me. I was sitting next to her
at table; but she did not utter a word till the end of the meal. Then she
asked if he were married.
"No, he isn't," I replied, adding with a touch of malice, "I think he
would be glad of an introduction to you."
For something had occurred which made me suspect that she was the
richest heiress in Greece. During the meal, Dimitri came running in with a
newspaper, and looking far from happy.
"Hadgi Stavros has been defeated," he cried. "The troops have burnt his
camp and broken up his army, and pursued him to the marshes of
Marathon."
"It's a lie!" shouted Christodulos, his face red with anger. "The King
of the Mountains could take Athens if he wanted to, and cut the throat of
every man in it."
This, I thought, was strange language from an honest pastry cook, who
was also a lieutenant in the militia. I was still more surprised when I
turned to Photini, and saw that her face was wet with tears.
"You see, my dear Harris," I said, when he and Lobster and I were
talking the matter over in my bedroom, "you have soon got the introduction
you wanted."
"That ugly little over-dressed thing!" exclaimed Harris. "I wouldn't
marry her to save my life."
"Well, at all events," I said, "I shall be able to begin my botanical
researches to-morrow, now that her excellent father has retired to his
mountains."
II.--The King of the Mountains Company, Limited
The next morning, I strapped on my collecting-case, and explored Mount
Parnassus. There I came upon Dimitri and two ladies.
"The old woman is Mrs. Simons, English, very rich," said Dimitri to me.
"The pretty girl is her daughter. I'm their guide. I chose this excursion
in the hope of meeting you. But whatever is the matter with the women?"
They shrieked, and stared, horror-stricken, at a clump of bushes. I
looked in the same direction, and perceived half a dozen gun-barrels
gleaming among the leaves. Then eight ruffians appeared; and I saw that the
only difference between devils and brigands is that devils are less black
than is said, and brigands much dirtier than is supposed. They took all our
money and jewelery, and then allowed Dimitri to depart--I guessed why--and
led the two ladies and myself down the hill, and up a winding path on to a
high plateau, where Hadgi Stavros and his band were now encamped.
The King of the Mountains was sitting, cross-legged, on a square carpet
beneath a pine-tree, a little way from his noisy, crowded camp. Four
secretaries were writing on their knees to his dictation. He was
undoubtedly a man of majestic appearance. He had a fine figure--tall,
supple, and marvelously preserved--and calm, noble features. The only
indications of old age were his long white hair and long white moustaches.
His dress was very simple--a jacket of black cloth, immense blue cotton
trousers, large boots of Russian leather, and a loose red cap. A jeweled
belt was the only costly thing he wore.
He raised his head at our approach.
"You are very welcome," he said with great gravity. "Please sit down
while I finish dictating my letters."
His servant brought us refreshments, consisting of coffee, Turkish
delight, and preserved fruit. Having put us at our ease, the king went on
with his correspondence.
"This," he said, "is to Messrs. Barley and Co., 31 Cavendish Square,
London."
"Excuse me, sire," said his secretary, bending over and whispering in
his ear.
"What does it matter?" said the king in a haughty tone. "I've done
nothing wrong. Let all the world come and listen if they want to. Now, take
this down."
And he dictated the following letter:
"GENTLEMEN,--I observe by your note of April 5 that I now
have £22,750 on current account. Please invest half of this sum in 3 per
cent. Consols and half in bearer bonds before the coupons are detached. I
shall be obliged if you will sell my shares in the Bank of England, and put
the proceeds in London omnibuses. That will be a safe investment and, I
think, a profitable one. Your obedient servant, "HADGI STAVROS.
"P. S. Oblige me by sending a hundred guineas to Messrs. Ralli Brothers
as my subscription towards the Hellenic School at Liverpool."
Mrs. Simons, who, like her daughter, did not speak Greek, leaned towards
me.
"Mr. Schultz, is he dictating the terms of our ransom?" she asked.
"No, madam," I replied. "He is writing to his bankers."
Mrs. Simons turned to the box of Turkish delight. I found more pleasure
in listening to the king's business correspondence. It was extraordinarily
interesting.
The next letter was addressed to George Micrommati, Secretary of the
King of the Mountains Co., Ltd., the Courts of Justice, Athens.
"I am sorry to say," Hadgi Stavros dictated, "that the company's
operations have been much restricted owing to the bad harvest and to the
occupation of a part of our beloved land by foreign troops.
"Our gross receipts from May 1, 1855, to April 30, 1856, amount only to:
fr.
261,482
While our expenses come to 135,482
----------
Leaving fr. 126,000
Which I propose to divide as follows:
One-third of the profits payable to me as managing
director 40,000
Amount added to reserve fund at Bank of Athens 6,000
Amount available for dividend 80,000
----------
Total fr. 126,000
"This comes to about 70 per cent, on our present capital of 120,000
francs. It is, I know, the lowest dividend we have paid since the company
was formed fourteen years ago. But the shareholders must consider the
difficulties we have had to struggle against. Our business is so closely
connected with the interests of the country that it can only flourish in
times of general prosperity. From those who have nothing we can take
nothing, or very little. The tourist season, however, has opened very
favourably, and the affairs of the company will, I think, soon improve. I
will send you a detailed statement in the course of a few days. I am too
busy now."
The king read over the letters, and affixed his seal to them. Then, with
royal courtesy, instead of having us brought before him on the carpet, he
came and sat down by our side. Mrs. Simons at once began to talk at him in
English. I offered to act as interpreter with a view to protecting her from
herself. The king, however, thanked me coldly, and called to one of his
brigands who knew English.
As I had foreseen, Mrs. Simons spoke very largely about her great wealth
and her high position. The result was that the king fixed her ransom and
that of Mary Ann at £4,000. I was determined that he should not
over-estimate my resources.
"It's no good putting a ransom on me," I exclaimed. "My father is a poor
German innkeeper who has been ruined by the railway. I've been forced to
leave home and come to Greece, where I earn a beggarly £10 a month."
"If that is so," said the king, very kindly, "you can return to Athens
at once, or stay here for a few days."
"I shall be happy to stay," I replied, "if you will return the
collecting-case your men took from me. I want to go botanising."
"What! You are a man of science!" cried the king joyfully. "Ah, how I
admire knowledge! Who sent you here to collect our plants? Some famous
university, I'll be bound."
"I'm collecting on behalf of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens," I
answered.
"And do you think, my dear friend," said the king, "that a great
institution like the Hamburg Botanical Gardens would let a man of your
worth perish rather than pay his ransom of £600? Happy young man! You now
see the value of a sound, scientific education. Had you been an utter
ignoramus as I am, I wouldn't have asked the ransom of a penny."
The king listened neither to my objections nor to the cries of Mrs.
Simons. He rose up and departed; and one of his secretaries led us to a
plot of green sward, where a meal had been laid for us.
"The king has ordered everything to be done to make your sojourn as
pleasant as possible," he said. "He is sorry that his men were so
ill-mannered as to rob persons of your importance. Everything they took
will be returned to you. You have thirty days in which to pay your ransom.
Write to your friends without delay, as the king never grants an extension
of time."
"But if I can't get the money?" I asked.
"You will be killed," said the secretary.
I did not know what to do. I knew nobody with £100, much less £600. Then
I thought of John Harris.
"Tell Christodulos," I wrote, "that Hadgi Stavros won't let me go. If he
will not intercede for me, I leave myself, dear friend, in your hands. I
know you are a man of courage and imagination. You will find a way to get
me out of this fix."
All the same, I had very little hope; and Hadgi Stavros came up and
found me looking very gloomy.
"Courage, my boy," he said.
"You know I can't raise £600," I exclaimed. "It's simply murder."
"You're a young fool," said the King of the Mountains. "Were I in your
place, my ransom would be paid in two days. Don't you understand? Here you
have an opportunity of winning a charming wife and an immense fortune."
Mary Ann was sitting with her mother outside one of the caves in the
rocky enclosure, which were to serve as bedrooms. Close at hand was a
stream, which ran through a hole in the rocks, and went tumbling down the
precipitous side of the plateau. I saw that the stretch of green sward
between the rocks had been a lake. This suggested to me a way of
escape.
"Suppose," I said to Mary Ann, "that I closed up the hole in the rocks
with turf, and let the water run into this hollow ground, do you think we
would be able to climb down by the empty river bed?"
She got on the rocks and gazed over the precipice. "I could do it if you
would help me."
"But I couldn't," said Mrs. Simons, very snappishly. "The whole thing's
utterly ridiculous. I've written to the British Ambassador, and we shall be
rescued by the royal troops in two days at the latest."
I then told her of the "King of the Mountains Co., Ltd."
"No doubt," I said, "many of the gallant officers in the Greek
Army have shares in it."
III.--A Way of Escape
And so it proved. Two days afterwards the king was explaining to me his
scheme for transforming brigandage into a peaceful orderly system of
taxation, when four shots were fired in the distance.
"Get out the Aegean wine," he said. "Pericles is coming with some
troops."
Sixty soldiers came marching into the camp. Captain Pericles, whose
figure I had often admired at Athens, ran up to Hadgi Stavros, and kissed
him.
"Good news, my dear godfather! The paymaster-general is sending £1,000
to Argos this morning by the path near the Scironian Rocks," said the
captain.
"Splendid, my boy!" said the king. "I'll go with all my men at once.
Guard the camp, and write out the report of our battle. Defeat me if you
like, but leave ten of your best troops dead on the field. I am in need of
recruits. Look after the three prisoners. They're worth £4,600."
As Hadgi Stavros marched out at the head of his men, they sang a song
composed by their king when he knew Lord Byron:
Down the winding valleys a hillsman went his way;
His eyes were black and flaming, his gun was clean
and bright
He cried unto the vultures: "Oh, follow me to-day,
And you shall have my foeman to feed upon
to-night!"
When Mrs. Simons saw that the brigands had gone, and the troops had
arrived, she was wild with excitement. I told her of the real state of
affairs; but she wouldn't believe me, and gave Pericles her money and
jewels when asked for them. In the evening the king returned with his men,
and the troops departed. Mrs. Simons then broke down.
"If you were an Englishman, you would rescue us, and marry my daughter,"
she exclaimed. "I suppose I must write to Barley & Co., and get Edward
to send our ransom."
"Barley & Co. of Cavendish Square?"
"Yes," said Mary Ann. "Didn't you know my mother and my uncle were
bankers?"
"Then I have found a way of escape," I exclaimed. "Hadgi Stavros banks
with your firm. Do you remember the letter he was dictating when we
arrived? That was to Barley & Co. about an investment."
"I see. I must explain the position at once to him," said Mrs.
Simons.
"And he will want half a million or more ransom," I said. "No! Write at
once to your agents in Athens to send you £4,600. Pay Hadgi Stavros; make
him give you a receipt. Enclose this in the next letter from Messrs. Barley
& Co., with the note--'Item. £4,600 personally remitted by our partner,
Mrs. Simons, as per enclosed receipt.'"
I raised my head, and saw the sweet brown eyes of Mary Ann looking at
me, radiant with joy. I then went to Hadgi Stavros, and explained that the
£4,600 would be paid into his account at the Bank of Athens on the
production of his receipt for that amount. He refused at first to give a
receipt. He had never done such a thing. Then I took him on his weak side,
and said that perhaps it was more prudent not to give one. If ever he were
captured it might be used against him. This touched him.
"I will not give one receipt," he cried. "I will give two--one for Mrs.
and Miss Simons, one for Hermann Schultz."
Alas! from my point of view the result was deplorable. The ransom of the
two ladies was paid, and they were set free. But as Messrs. Barley &
Co. could not recover any money on a receipt given to me, their agent
refused to pay my ransom.
"It doesn't matter," said Mrs. Simons, as she and Mary Ann departed.
"You can escape by the way down the cascade. Your first plan was impossible
with two women, but now you are alone, it is admirable. Come and see us as
soon as you get away."
That night I made friends with the ruffian set to watch over me, and I
plied him with wine until he fell on the grass and was unable to rise. I
then dammed the stream, and climbed down its empty bed. It was difficult
work, as the rocks were wet and the night was very dark. I was covered with
bruises when I reached a platform of rock about ten feet from the bottom of
the precipice. Just as I was about to jump down, a white form appeared
below, and a savage growl came from it. I had forgotten the pack of fierce
dogs, which, as the King of the Mountains had told me, were the best of all
his sentries. Happily, I carried my collecting case, and in it was a packet
of arsenic which I used for stuffing birds. I put some of the powder on a
piece of bread, and threw the poisoned food to the dog; but arsenic takes a
long time to act. In about half an hour's time the creature began to howl
in a frightful manner, and it did not expire until daybreak. It also
succeeded in arousing the camp, and I was recaptured and brought before the
king.
"I don't mind your trying to escape," he said, with a terrible look;
"but in your wild prank you have, drowned the man I set to watch over you.
Were I to give way to my feelings I would have you killed. But I will be
merciful. You will merely be bastinadoed to prevent you from wandering out
of bounds until your ransom is paid."
I received twenty strokes on my feet. At the third I began to bleed. At
the fourth I began to howl. At the tenth I was insensible to pain. When I
came to I was in such an agony that I would have given my soul to kill
Hadgi Stavros. I tried to, but failed. But I would hurt him, though I knew
I should die for it. So, with a torrent of invectives, I explained how I
tricked him over the ransom of Mrs. Simons and her daughter.
"She's a partner in Barley's Bank, you fool, you ass!" I shrieked. "She
will get back all the £4,000 on your receipt."
Hadgi Stavros turned pale and trembled.
"No," he said, very slowly; "I will not kill you. You have not suffered
enough. Four thousand pounds! It is a fortune. You have stolen my
daughter's fortune. What can I do to you? Find me, you brutes," he cried,
turning to his men, "a torture of £4,000."
Then he left me in their hands.
"Treat him gently," he said. "I don't want him to get so exhausted that
he dies before I begin to play with him."
As a beginning, they stripped me to the waist, and their cook put me
close to a great fierce fire, where some lambs were being fried. The red
cinders fell about me, and the heat was unsupportable. I dragged myself
away on my hands--I could not use my feet--but the ruffian kicked me back.
Then he left me for a moment to get some salt and pepper. I remembered that
I had put the arsenic in my trousers pocket. With a supreme effort I rose
up and scattered the powder over the meat.
"What are you doing?" said the cook. "Trying to cast a spell on our
food?"
He had only seen, from a distance, the motion of my hand. I was
avenged!
Suddenly I heard a cry: "The king! Where is the king?" And Dimitri, the
son of Christodulos, came running up.
"Good God!" he said when he saw me. "The poor girl!"
The cook was so astonished that he forgot me for a minute; and I managed
to crawl away and lay on the cold grass. Then Hadgi Stavros appeared. With
a cry of anguish he took me gently in his arms, and carried me to the cave
among the rocks.
"Poor boy!" he said. "How you have suffered! But you will soon be well.
I once had sixty strokes of the bastinado, and two days afterwards I was
dancing the Romaika. It was this ointment that cured me."
"But what has happened?" I murmured.
"Read that!" he cried, throwing me a letter. "What a pirate! What an
assassin! If I only had you and your friend, one in each hand! Oh, he won't
do it! Will he?"
The letter was from John Harris. It ran:
"Hadgi Stavros,--Photini is now on my ship, the
Fancy, which carries four guns. She remains a hostage as long as
Hermann Schultz remains a prisoner. As you treat my friend, so I will treat
your daughter. She shall pay hair for hair, tooth for tooth, head for head.
Answer at once, or I will come and see you.--JOHN HARRIS."
"I know Photini," I said to the king, "and I swear that she will not be
harmed. But I must return to Athens at once. Get four of your men to carry
me down the mountains in a litter."
The king rose up, and then groaned and staggered. I remembered the
arsenic. He must have eaten some of the meat. I tickled the inside of his
throat, and he brought up most of the poison. Soon afterwards the other
brigands came up to the enclosure, screaming with pain, and wanted to
murder me. I had cast a spell over their meat, and it was torturing them,
they cried. I must be killed at once, and then the spell would be removed.
The king commanded them to withdraw. They resisted. He drew his saber, and
cut down two of the ringleaders. The rest seized their guns and began to
shoot. There were about sixty of them, all suffering, more or less, from
the effects of arsenic poisoning. We were only twelve in number, but our
men had the steadier aim; and the king fought like a hero, though his hands
and feet were swelling painfully.
The fact was that he had eaten some time before his men, and I could not
therefore get the poison completely out of his system. But it was the
arsenic that saved his life. He had at last to come and lie down beside me.
We heard the sound of rapid firing in the distance; and suddenly two men
entered our enclosure, with revolvers in each hand, and shot down our
defenders with an extraordinary quickness of aim. They were Harris and
Lobster.
"Hermann, where are you?" Harris yelled at last, with all his strength,
as he turned and found nothing more to shoot at.
"Here," I replied. "The men you've just killed have been fighting for
me. There has been civil war in the camp."
"Well, we've stamped it out!" said Harris. "What's the matter with the
old scoundrel lying beside you?"
"It's Hadgi Stavros," I said. "He and his men have been eating some
arsenic I had in my collecting case."
My friends managed to carry me down the mountain, and at the first
village we came to they got a carriage and took me to Athens. The ointment
used by Hadgi Stavros was, as he had said, marvelous; and in two days I
could walk as well as ever. I at once called on Mrs. and Miss Simons.
"They departed yesterday for Trieste," said the servant, "on their way
to London."
As I was returning to Hermes Street I met Hadgi Stavros and Photini.
"How is it that the King of the Mountains is found walking in the
streets of Athens?" I said.
"What can I do in the mountains now?" he replied. "All my men are
killed, wounded or fled. I might get others. But look at my swollen hands.
How can I use a sword? No; let some one younger now take my place. But I
defy him to equal me in fame or fortune. And I have not done yet. Before
six months are gone, you will see Hadgi Stavros, Prime Minister of Greece.
Oh, there are more ways of making money than one!"
And that was the last I saw of the King of the Mountains. On the advice
of Harris, I at once returned to Hamburg, lest some of the remaining
brigands found me out, and take vengeance for the spell I had cast on their
meat. But some day I hope to go to London, and call at 31, Cavendish
Square.
William Harrison Ainsworth, born at Manchester, England,
Feb. 4, 1805, was a popular rather than a great writer. A solicitor's son,
he was himself trained in the law, but some adventures in journalism led
him finally to the literary life, his first success as a writer of romance
being scored with "Rookwood" in 1834. "Tower of London" was the fourth work
of the novelist, and, according to Ainsworth himself, it was written
chiefly with the aim of interesting his fellow-countrymen in the historical
associations of the Tower. From the popularity of the romance it is
reasonable to suppose that it fulfilled its author's hopes in this respect,
though it must be confessed its history leaves a good deal to be desired.
Here is not the place to discuss the rights and wrongs of Ainsworth's bold
liberties in respect to the historical personages he introduces; but there
is no doubt that the romance is told with vigour and dramatic movement, and
it is an excellent example of the novelist's spirited style of narrative,
though, judged on purely literary merits, like his other works, the "Tower
of London" will not bear comparison with the masterpieces of Sir Walter
Scott in the field of historical romance. Ainsworth died at Reigate on
January 3, 1882.
I.--Prisoners in the Tower
Edward VI. was dead, poisoned, it was rumoured, by the Duke of
Northumberland, Grandmaster of the Realm. For three days had an attempt
been made to keep his death secret, so that the proud and ambitious duke
might seize the persons of the Princess Mary and the Princess Elizabeth.
But the former, warned in time, had escaped the snare; and the Duke of
Northumberland, finding further dissimulation useless, boldly proclaimed
his daughter-in-law, Lady Jane Grey, queen.
On July 10, 1553, Queen Jane, the wisest and most beautiful woman in the
kingdom, though only sixteen years of age, was conducted in state to the
Tower, where it was the custom for the monarchs of England to spend the
first few days of their reign.
But the crowds who watched her departure from Durham House, in the
Strand, were silent and sullen. Her youthful beauty and grace might win an
involuntary cry of admiration, but the heart of the people was not hers.
They recognised that she was but the tool of her father-in-law, whom,
because of his overweening ambition, they hated.
All the pride and pomp of silken banners and cloth of gold could not
mask the gloomy presage of the young queen's reign. The very heavens
thundered; and owing to the press of boats that surrounded the procession,
many small craft were overturned and their occupants thrown into the water.
And if further signs of portending evil were wanted, they could be
discerned in the uneasy whisperings of those lords of the Privy Council who
were present, or in the sinister face of the Spaniard, Simon Renard,
ambassador to the Emperor Charles V.
"This farce will not last long," he said to De Noailles, the French
ambassador. "The Privy Council are the duke's secret enemies, and through
them I shall strike the scepter from Jane's grasp and place it in the hand
of Mary."
Elsewhere in the procession, Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, uttered
in a low voice to Ridley, Bishop of London, his fears for the future; while
certain lords of the Privy Council, who had planned the assassination of
the Duke of Northumberland, and were aware that their plot had been
discovered, approached the portals of the Tower in fear and trembling.
But there was one man at least who did not share the general depression
and uneasiness. Cuthbert Cholmondeley, esquire to Lord Guildford Dudley,
husband of Queen Jane, found much to interest him in the scene. The
reception of her Majesty by Og, Gog, and Magog had already driven away the
sense of portending evil from his mind when he caught sight of a girl's
face in the crowd. It was only for a moment that he had sight of it; but it
left such a deep impression on his mind that for the rest of the day he
burned with impatience to discover who the girl might be.
Much had to happen before he could satisfy his curiosity. Once in the
Tower, plots against Queen Jane and the Duke of Northumberland began to
thicken. At a meeting of the Privy Council the duke compelled the lords,
under threat of imprisonment, to sign a proclamation declaring Princess
Mary illegitimate. Renard lost no time in turning to his own advantage the
bad impression created by these tactics.
"Do you consent to Northumberland's assassination?" he whispered to
Pembroke.
"I do," replied the Earl of Pembroke. "But who will strike the
blow?"
"I will find the man."
This sinister fragment of conversation fell upon the ears of Cuthbert.
He at once sent a warning missive to his master, telling him of the plot
against the duke's life. Then, this duty performed, he set out to try and
find the girl whose face had so impressed him. From the giant warders he
learnt that she was the adopted daughter of Dame Potentia Trusbut, wife of
Peter, the pantler of the Tower. A mystery surrounded her birth. Her mother
had been imprisoned in the Tower by Henry VIII., and in her dungeon had
given birth to Cicely--such was the name of the girl.
Magog, seeing Cuthbert's interest, good-naturedly carried him off with
him to the pantler's quarters. Here a gargantuan feast was in progress, to
which the three giants did full justice, devouring whole joints and pasties
and quaffing vast flagons of wine, to the great delight of the pantler and
his wife. But Cuthbert had no eyes except for Cicely. He was not content
until he was by her side and was able to hear her voice. The attraction
between them was mutual, and it was not long before they were whispering
the first words of love into one another's ears.
While all was merriment, Renard and Pembroke made their appearance
unobserved. They had intercepted Cuthbert's letter, and were anxious to
satisfy themselves as to the identity of the rash youth who had dared to
cross their path.
"Though we have intercepted his missive to Lord Dudley," whispered
Renard, "he may yet betray us. He must not return to the palace."
"He shall never return, my lords," said a tall, dark man, advancing
towards them, "if you will entrust his detention to me."
"Who are you?" demanded Renard, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Lawrence Nightgall, the chief gaoler."
"What is your motive for this offer?"
"Look there!" returned Nightgall. "I love that damsel. He has supplanted
me, but he shall not profit by his good fortune."
"You are the very man I want!" cried Renard, rubbing his hands
gleefully. "Lead me where we can speak more freely."
The three withdrew unobserved. Half an hour later Cuthbert dragged
himself unwillingly from Cicely's side and passed into the open air. As he
did so he received a blow on the back of his head which stretched him
unconscious on the ground.
When he came to his senses he found himself bound by a chain in a gloomy
dungeon, a ghastly, dreadful place, but a few feet in height. His first
instinct was to try to loosen his bonds, but after vainly lacerating his
hands he sank down exhausted.
Terrible recollections flashed upon his mind of the pitiless sufferings
he had heard that the miserable wretches immured in these dungeons endured
before death.
For a time these mental tortures were acute; but at last nature asserted
herself, and he sank exhausted into sleep. He was awakened by a cry, and
perceived the tall, skeleton figure of a woman standing by him. She placed
a thin and bony hand upon his shoulder. He shrank back as far as his chain
would permit, horror-stricken. The figure pursued him, shrieking, "My
child! My child! You have taken my child!"
Suddenly she stopped and stood erect. A distant footstep was heard.
"He comes! He comes!" she cried, and with a loud shriek dashed from the
dungeon and disappeared.
In another second Nightgall stood before him. The gaoler made no attempt
to disguise the motives which prompted him to imprison the young esquire.
No threats that Cuthbert could use had the least effect on him. He quailed
before the charge that Cuthbert made at random--that he had murdered the
child of the unfortunate wretch who had disappeared at his coming, but on
the question of his release he was obdurate. If Cuthbert would agree to
give up Cicely he should be released; otherwise he should meet with a
secret death at the hands of Mauger, the executioner.
At this juncture, Cicely, who had been directed by the dwarf, Xit,
appeared. To save the man she loved she boldly declared that she would wed
Nightgall, provided that he would conduct his prisoner outside the walls of
the Tower.
"Bring me back some token that you have done so, and I am yours," she
said.
Nightgall consented, and agreed to withdraw while Cuthbert and Cicely
arranged privately what the token should be.
Hurriedly Cuthbert gave her a ring to send to Lord Dudley, who, he knew,
would at once effect his release. Then, accompanied by Nightgall, Cicely
withdrew from the gloomy dungeon.
Unable to deliver the ring herself to Lord Dudley, Cicely entrusted that
task to Xit. But the vanity of the dwarf prevented the execution of the
plan. As he was exhibiting the ring to Og, Nightgall suddenly approached,
and snatched it from him, and, without taking any notice of the little
man's threats, made his way to Cicely. When he displayed the ring as the
token that her lover had been set free, Cicely, shrieking "Lost! Lost!"
fell senseless on the floor.
II.--The Twelfth Day Queen
While Renard's intrigues were maturing, and the Duke of Northumberland
had left the Tower on a campaign against the Princess Mary, Cuthbert
Cholmondeley was kept languishing in his terrible dungeon.
At long intervals Nightgall visited him, and once the wretched prisoner,
whom the gaoler called Alexia, came to him, entreating his help against
Nightgall.
At last Cuthbert decided upon a daring plan of escape. After several
days' imprisonment he feigned to be dead. Nightgall, seeing him stretched
on the ground, apparently lifeless, chuckled with delight, and, releasing
the chain that bound his leg, bent over him with the intention of carrying
his body into the burial vault near the moat. But a suspicion crossed his
mind, and he drew his dagger, determined to make sure that his prisoner had
passed away. As he did so, the young esquire sprang to his feet, and
wrested the poniard from his grasp. In another second Nightgall was lying
chained to the floor, where his prisoner had been a moment before.
Despite the gaoler's threats, Cuthbert set out, determined to liberate
Alexia and made good his own escape. He wandered through the terrible
torture chambers, released an old man confined in a cell called Little
Ease, a cell so low and so contrived that the wretched inmate could not
stand, walk, sit, or lie at full length within, and then, unable to
discover the whereabouts of the ill-fated Alexia, returned to the gaoler,
and, possessing himself of his keys and cloak, started forth once more.
After wandering for a long time, chance at last brought him to a secret
door, which led into St. John's Chapel in the White Tower.
While these events were in progress Cicely, despairing of her lover's
safety, sought an audience of Queen Jane, and poured out her story. Moved
by compassion, the queen gave directions for a search to be made, and,
delighted by the grace and charm of Cicely, appointed her one of her
attendants. Lord Guildford Dudley, procuring the assistance of Magog, burst
open the door leading to the subterranean dungeons beneath the Devilin
Tower, and eventually discovered Nightgall, who made a full confession of
his crime as the price of his release.
Cholmondeley's arrival in St. John's Chapel was opportune. Renard, with
Pembroke by his side, had just demanded the resignation of the crown by
Queen Jane, and the queen, helpless but courageous, had ordered Lord
Pembroke to arrest the Spaniard. Pembroke had refused to move, and at this
juncture Cholmondeley stepped forward, and, advancing towards the
ambassador, said, "M. Simon Renard, you are the queen's prisoner."
The Spaniard drew his sword, and, with the assistance of the Earl of
Pembroke, kept Cuthbert at bay until they were both able to slip through
the secret door.
Next day, Queen Jane was forced by the Privy Council to resign her
crown, and that same night, accompanied by Cuthbert and Cicely, she escaped
by a secret passage from the Tower, and, taking a boat, made her way to
Sion House. Here, the following day, she and her husband were arrested, and
learnt the news that the Duke of Northumberland was in captivity, and that
Queen Mary had ascended the throne. Once more Lady Jane was led back to the
Tower, and as she entered by the Traitors' Gate she saw Renard standing
hard by, with a smile of bitter mockery in his face.
"So," he said, "Epiphany is over. The Twelfth Day Queen has played her
part."
III.--The Price of Pardon
Simon Renard's influence was now for the time supreme. At his
instigation the Duke of Northumberland was tricked into a confession of the
Roman Catholic faith on the scaffold, and then executed. Ambitious that
Mary should marry Philip of Spain, he contrived by intrigue to kill her
affection for Courtenay, the young Earl of Devon, and succeeded so
successfully that Courtenay was placed under arrest, and the Princess
Elizabeth, with whom the earl had fallen in love, became the victim of her
sister's jealousy. Cuthbert, though not confined in a cell, was kept
prisoner in the Tower, and occupied quarters in the pantler's house. Cicely
had disappeared, and nothing had been heard of her since the arrest of Lady
Jane Grey at Sion House.
Consumed with anxiety for the safety of the girl he loved, the esquire
began to suspect that she had been kidnapped by Nightgall. He determined to
find her at all cost, and getting Xit to steal the gaoler's keys, he once
more made his way to the subterranean dungeons.
Cell after cell he searched, but nowhere could he find a trace of his
beloved Cicely. All that he discovered was the dead body of Alexia. He made
haste to return to his quarters, and had almost reached them when Nightgall
appeared, and at once placed him under arrest for stealing his keys.
His enemy was now at his mercy, and Nightgall, after burying the body of
Alexia, sought out Cicely, whom be had kept for several weeks a close
prisoner in the Salt Tower. He told her that he was about to remove her to
another prison in the Tower leading to the Iron Gate.
"I will never go thither of my own accord," replied Cicely, shrinking
terrified from him. "Release me, villain; I will die sooner than become
your bride."
"We shall see that," growled the gaoler, seizing hold of her. "You shall
never be set free unless you consent to be mine."
He carried her, shrieking and struggling in his arms, out of the room,
and dragged her by main force down the secret staircase. She continued her
screams, until her head, striking against the stones, she was stunned by
the blow and became insensible. Nightgall raised her, and carried her
quickly to the dark cell he had already prepared. Here she would have
languished for months without seeing anybody save Nightgall, except for a
curious chain of circumstances.
Renard's plan of marrying Mary to Philip of Spain, to which end he had
had Courtenay and the Princess Elizabeth imprisoned in the Tower, was
bitterly opposed by De Noailles. The French ambassador determined to
prevent the Spaniard's plans, and, by means of Xit, sent a communication to
the princess just as she was leaving her prison for Ashbridge. Further, the
little mannikin managed to creep, by way of the chimney, into the chamber
where Courtenay was confined, and arrange a plan by which the Earl was able
to escape. His share in these events, however, was discovered, and, much to
his amazement, he was arrested and taken to the torture chamber. Though
none of the instruments were small enough to inflict much pain upon him, he
was so terrified that he answered every question that Renard asked him,
giving those answers that he thought the Spaniard would approve. The
examination over he was placed in a cell. Here he was visited by Nightgall,
from whose girdle he managed to cut, unobserved, the bunch of keys.
Unlocking his own door, he hurried out into the labyrinth of passages
and cells, and in his wanderings in search of an exit lighted upon the cell
in which Cicely was confined. He was not able to effect her escape, for as
they were setting out Nightgall appeared, and put an end to their
hopes.
Cuthbert had meanwhile been released, together with Lady Jane and her
husband. For a time they lived together quietly in Sion House, but De
Noailles' plan to prevent the Spanish marriage at all costs dragged them
once more into the whirlpool.
Under the leadership of Sir Thomas Wyatt, an insurrection took place,
having for its nominal object the prevention of Mary's marriage with Philip
of Spain; but it was joined by all the forces opposed to the crown.
Courtenay shared in it because he hoped to wed Elizabeth, who would be made
Queen on the deposition of Mary. Lord Guildford Dudley joined in it in the
anticipation that his wife might once more mount the throne.
At first Wyatt carried everything before him. Mary was actually besieged
in the Tower, which it was attempted to carry by force. Supported by
Cuthbert, Lord Guildford led the assault, shouting, "Long live Queen Jane!
Down with Renard and the See of Rome!" The attack had almost succeeded,
when Dudley was struck from behind by Renard and taken prisoner.
Cuthbert only escaped by forcing himself through an aperture, and
dropping into the moat, from where he managed to swim ashore. He made his
way at once to Lady Jane, and related to her how the insurrection had
collapsed, and how her husband had been taken prisoner. For her own safety
Jane had no thought. She at once determined to seek out the queen, and
beseech her to spare her husband.
Accompanied by Cuthbert, she presented herself at the Tower, and,
obtaining an audience with Mary, flung herself at her feet.
"I am come to submit myself to your highness's mercy," she said, as soon
as she could find utterance.
"Mercy?" exclaimed Mary scornfully. "You shall receive justice, but no
mercy."
"I do not sue for myself," rejoined Jane, "but for my husband. I have
come to offer myself for him. If your highness has any pity for me, extend
it to him, and heap his faults on my head."
Queen Mary was deeply moved. Had not Gardiner intervened, she would
undoubtedly have granted the request; but Gardiner suggested that the price
of the pardon should be the public reconciliation of Lady Jane and her
husband with the Church of Rome.
"I cannot," said Jane. "I will die for him, but I cannot destroy my soul
alive."
IV.--The Torture Chamber and the Block
After a week's imprisonment, Cuthbert was closely questioned, and his
answers being deemed unsatisfactory, he was ordered to be examined under
torture. With fiendish delight Nightgall took him to the horrible chamber.
There, the first thing that he saw was the tortured, mangled figure of Lord
Dudley, covered from head to foot by a blood-coloured cloth.
"You here?" cried the ghastly, distorted figure. "Where is Jane? Has she
fled? Has she escaped?"
"She has surrendered herself," replied Cholmondeley, "in the hope of
obtaining your pardon."
"False hope! Delusive expectation!" exclaimed Dudley, in tones of
anguish, as he was carried from the room. "She will share my fate. Oh God!
I am her destroyer!"
Cholmondeley, as soon as his master had been borne away, was seized by
the torturers and placed on the rack. He determined that not a sound should
escape him, and though his whole frame seemed rent asunder, he bravely kept
his resolve.
"Go on," cried Nightgall, as the torturers paused. "Turn the roller
again."
Even as he spoke Cholmondeley fainted, and, finding that no answers
could be extracted from him, he was taken back to his cell and flung upon a
heap of straw. As he lay there, Nightgall, with diabolical cruelty, brought
Cicely to his side, and bade her look on his nerveless arms and crippled
limbs, and mockingly offered to set him free if Cicely would marry him of
her own free will. When at Cuthbert's instigation she refused, he forced
her away, shrieking for help.
Cuthbert sank once more into insensibility. He came to his senses again
to find that men were chafing his limbs and bathing his temples, and that
Renard was in his cell. At the Spaniard's order he was given a cup of wine,
and the rest having withdrawn, Renard questioned him further.
While this examination was going on the cell door opened softly, and a
masked figure appeared. It was Nightgall, who, bribed by De Noailles, had
come to assassinate Renard. He flung himself on his intended victim, and
was about to dispatch him with his poniard, when Cuthbert, summoning up all
his strength, intervened.
Finding that he had two men to deal with instead of one, the gaoler
sprang to his feet, and rushed from the dungeon. Renard followed him,
furious with rage, and Cuthbert at once took advantage of the opportunity
to escape.
After some search he discovered the whereabouts of Cicely, and together
the lovers, happy once more at being united, if only for a short time,
succeeded in finding their way out of the dungeons. As soon as they emerged
into the open air they were arrested by the warders, and taken to the
guard-room in the White Tower, where Cicely received a warm welcome from
the three giants. There was no time to relate their adventures before
Renard appeared, walking before a litter upon which was borne the mangled
body of Nightgall, who, in his attempt to escape the Spaniard's sword, had
been forced to jump from an embrasure of the White Tower.
The wretch was dying; but with his last breath he attempted to make some
amends for all the evil he had done in his life. Bidding Cicely come to his
side, he told her that she was the daughter of Alexia, whose real name was
Lady Mountjoy, and he gave her papers, proving her right to the estates of
her father, Sir Alberic Mountjoy, who had incurred the vengeance of Henry
VIII.
Renard, grateful to Cholmondeley for saving his life, secured his
pardon.
Cicely also returned to the side of Lady Jane Grey, and watched the
splendid fortitude and unswerving courage with which her unfortunate
mistress prepared for the scaffold. The day before her death her wish that
Cicely and Cuthbert should be united was granted, and they were married in
her presence by Master John Bradford, Prebendary of St. Paul's.
At last Monday, the twelfth of February, 1544, dawned, and Lady Jane
Grey was led out to the scaffold. On the way she passed the headless corpse
of Lord Guildford, being borne to the grave. Cicely accompanied the
beautiful girl to the last. It was her hands that helped her to remove her
attire and that tied the handkerchief over those eyes which were never to
look on the world again.
Blindfolded, Jane groped for the block, crying, "What shall I do? Where
is it?"
She was guided to the place, and, laying her head on the block, cried,
"Lord--into Thy hands I commend my spirit!"
The axe then fell, and one of the fairest and wisest heads that ever sat
on human shoulders fell also.
Hans Christian Andersen was born at Odense, in Denmark, on
April 2, 1805, the son of a poor bootmaker. His life was full of exciting
incidents; his early years in particular constitute a record of hard
struggle, poverty and lack of recognition. When nine he tried his hand at
tragedy and comedy, and was sent, after his father's death in 1819, to
Copenhagen, where he engaged in various occupations with little success,
until his talents attracted the attention of a few influential personages,
who provided him with the means for continuing his studies. He won
considerable reputation with some early poems, and was quite well known to
the public before he entered the university in 1828. He next published a
satirical story, and after a journey in Italy, his famous novel, "The
Improvisatore," which gave him an opportunity for a brilliant series of
word-pictures describing the life and character of the parts of Italy he
had visited. Apart from his world-famous fairy tales, by which he set no
great store, being ambitious of fame as a novelist, he wrote several
successful plays, epic poems and novels. His fairy tales have been
translated practically into every language. Hans Andersen died at the age
of seventy, in Copenhagen, on August 4, 1875.
I.--A Boyhood in Rome
My earliest recollections take me back to my tender youth, when I lived
with my widowed mother in a little garret in a Roman square. She supported
us by sewing and by the rent of a larger room, sublet to a young painter.
On the house opposite there was an image of the Virgin, before which, when
the evening bells rang, I and the neighbours' children used to kneel and
sing in honour of the Mother of God and the Child Jesus. Once an English
family stopped to listen; and the gentleman gave me a silver coin, "because
of my fine voice," as my mother told me.
My mother's confessor, Fra Martino, always showed great kindness to me;
and I spent many hours with him at the convent. It was through him that I
became chorister in the Capuchin church, and was allowed to carry the great
censer.
Before I was nine, I was chosen as one of the boys and girls who were to
preach between Christmas and the New Year in the church of Ara Croeli,
before the image of Jesus. I had no fear, and it seemed decided that I, of
all children, gave most delight; but after me came a little girl of
exquisitely delicate form, bright countenance, and so melodious a voice
that even my mother, with all her pride of me, awarded her the palm, and
declared that she was just like an angel. But I had often to repeat my
speech at home, and then made up a new one describing the festival in the
church, which was considered just as good.
One moonlit evening, on returning with my mother from a visit in
Trastevere, we found a crowd in the Piazza di Trevi, listening to a man
singing to a guitar--not songs like those which I had so often heard, but
about things around him, of what we saw and heard, and we ourselves were in
the song. My mother told me he was an improvisatore; and Federigo, our
artist lodger, told me I should also improvise, for I was really a poet.
And I tried it forthwith--singing about the foodshop over the way, with its
attractively set out window and the haggling customers. I gained much
applause; and from this time forth I turned everything into song.
My first visit to the country ended in a sad event, which was to shape
the whole course of my life. It was in June, and my mother and her friend
Mariuccia took me to see the famous flower fête at Genzano. We stayed
the night at an inn, and in the morning joined the dense holiday crowd that
moved over the carpet of flowers on the pavement of the main street.
Suddenly there was a piercing cry--a pair of unmanageable horses rushed
through. I was thrown down, and all was blackness. When I awoke, Mother of
God, I lay with my head on Mariuccia's lap, beside the lifeless form of my
mother, crushed by the carriage wheel! The occupant of the carriage, a
gentleman of the Borghese family, had escaped with a shaking, and sent a
servant in rich livery with a purse containing twenty scudi for the
motherless child.
Mariuccia took me back to Rome; it was decided that her parents, who
kept flocks in the Campagna--honest people to whom my twenty scudi would be
wealth--should take charge of me. Thus, in the dreary Campagna, with honest
Benedetto and kindly Domenica, I spent the summer and the early autumn in
the ancient tomb which they had transformed into a hut. The first week it
rained incessantly; then, with the sun, came the insufferable heat,
increasing in intensity from day to day, from week to week. Even the
buffaloes lay like dead masses upon the burnt-up grass, unless, excited to
madness by the poison-stings of myriads of flies, that covered them as if
they were carrion, they rushed in mad career to the Tiber to roll
themselves in the yellow water.
One day, towards sunset, I was just opening the door to leave the hut,
when a man darted in so suddenly that I was thrown down. With lightning
speed he shut the door, and in a distressed tone uttered the name of the
Madonna, when a violent blow shattered the door, and the whole opening was
filled with the head of a fierce buffalo, whose body was tightly squeezed
into the doorway. The stranger seized a gun from the wall, took aim, and
shot the beast. The danger over, he lifted me from the ground, and said:
"Blessed be Madonna! You have saved my life." He inquired about me. I was
made to show him my abominable sketches upon bits of paper and to sing to
him, and caused him astonishment at my improvising about the Madonna and
himself and the buffalo. He finally asked Domenica to bring me next morning
to see him at the Borghese Palace. He was the powerful prince himself, who
had unwittingly been the cause of my poor mother's death!
II.--In the School of Life
The prince, his daughter Francesca, and her fiance Fabiani, overwhelmed
me with kindness. The visit had to be frequently repeated; and I became
quite accustomed to the splendours of the palazzo. Finally, Eccellenza
decided to have me educated in the Jesuits' school; and I had to bid
farewell to good Domenica and to enter upon my school life. New occupations
engrossed me; new acquaintances presented themselves; the dramatic portion
of my life began to unfold itself. Here years compress themselves
together.
I became particularly attached to one of my school-fellows, Bernardo, a
gay, almost dissolute son of a Roman senator. When he suddenly left school
to join the Papal Guard the whole world seemed to me empty and deserted.
One day I saw him pass my window on a prancing horse. I rushed out, but ran
across the porter's wife of the Borghese Palace, who informed me that the
young Eccellenza and her husband had just arrived. Would I not come to give
them welcome? To the palace I went, was graciously received by Fabiani and
Francesca, who brought me their little daughter Flaminia, the "little
abbess," as she was called, having been destined from her birth for the
life of a nun. The child had wonderfully bright eyes, and came towards me
as though we were old acquaintances, laughing and chattering, and showing
me her toys.
On my way back, early in the evening, as luck would have it, I almost
ran into the arms of Bernardo. He was delighted to see me, told me of his
merry life and adventures, and wanted to drag me into an artists' tavern to
drink a bottle of wine. That was impossible for me, a Jesuits' pupil. I
refused. As we walked on we met a crowd hustling an old Jew. A thick-set
brute of a fellow wanted to force him to jump over a long stick, and
everybody shouted, "Leap, Jew!" Bernardo sprang forth, snatched the stick
out of the fellow's hand, brandished his sword, and cried in a strong,
manly voice, "Leap yourself, or I shall cleave your head!" He made him
jump, and jump again, and struck him lightly with the flat of his sword.
The crowd veered round at once, laughed and applauded, the old Jew
meanwhile making his escape. "Come," said I, when we were out of the crowd,
"come! Let them say what they may, I will drink a bottle of wine with you.
May we always be friends!"
I met Bernardo again some time after at the Vatican. His joy equalled
mine, and he immediately plunged into confidences. One day, when straying
into the Ghetto, he had encountered the old Jew of our adventure, bowing
and scraping, and requesting the honour of receiving, him in his house.
They entered; wine was brought to him by a dark Jewish maiden, of such
beauty as to set his whole blood on fire. Since then he had vainly tried to
see her. He visited the Jew's house on all sorts of pretexts, but his
charmer remained invisible. He now made the amazing proposition that I
should take up the study of Hebrew with the old Jew, and thus help him in
this affair. I explained the utter impossibility of aiding him in a project
of this nature. He was obviously offended; and when we parted he returned
my warmth with chilly politeness.
We met but rarely after this meeting; Bernardo was always jovial and
friendly, though not confidential, until, on the occasion of a dance at the
Borghese Palace, when I asked him about the handsome Jewish maiden, he
laughed. "I have found," he said, "another and tamer little golden bird.
The other has flown out of the Ghetto--nay, even out of Rome!"
My patron's family left Rome; and I had to throw myself into the study
for the examination that was to bring me the title of an abbé. With
the advent of the carnival I had assumed the black dress and the short silk
coat of an abbate, and had become a new and happier person. For the first
time I took part in the jollities of the carnival, and at the end of the
first day again came across Bernardo, who insisted upon taking me to the
opera to hear a new prima donna who had turned everybody's heart at Naples.
Rumour had not belied her. Her appearance was greeted with rapturous
applause. Bernardo seized my arm; he had recognised in her his Jewish
maiden, just as I was about to exclaim, "It is she!"--the lovely child who
had preached that Christmas at Ara Coeli. There were endless calls for
"Annunciata" when the curtain fell; flowers and garlands were thrown at her
feet, and among them a little poem which I had written under the
inspiration of her exquisite voice. With a crowd of enthusiasts, we hurried
to the stage-door, took the horses from her carriage, and conducted her in
triumph to her apartments.
Bernardo, who, bolder than I, had called on Annunciata, brought me to
her the next day. She was friendly, brilliant in her conversation, and
appeared deeply impressed with my improvisation on "Immortality"--the
immortality first of eternal Rome, and then of the fair singer's art--to
which I was pressed when Bernardo let out the secret of my gift.
"You have given me the sincerest pleasure," she said, and looked
confidingly into my eyes. I ventured to kiss her hand. After that I saw her
every day during the gay carnival, and was more and more captivated by her
charm.
Annunciata left Rome on Ash Wednesday, and with her the brightness
seemed to have gone completely out of my life, my only pleasure being the
recollection of those happy days of the carnival.
III.--Love and Adventure in Rome
I saw Annunciata again when Rome had begun to fill with Easter visitors,
and had the happiness of dining with her the same day. She told me that,
although born in Spain, she had been, as a child, in Rome; that it was she
who preached that day at Ara Coeli, "an orphan, who would have perished of
hunger had not a despised Jew given it shelter and food until it could
flutter forth over the wild, restless sea." Next day I showed her over the
Borghese gallery; and on the day before Easter we drove out to see the
procession which initiated the Easter festival, and in the evening to Monte
Mario to see the illuminations of St. Peter's--an unforgettable sight!
As I went into the little inn to fetch some refreshment I found myself
in the narrow passage face to face with Bernardo, pale, and with glowing
eyes. He wildly seized my hand, and said: "I am not an assassin, Antonio;
but fight with me you shall, or I shall become your murderer!"
I tried to calm him, but he forced a pistol into my hand. "She loves
you," he whispered; "and you, in your vanity, will parade it before all the
Roman people--before me!" He threw himself upon me. I thrust him back. I
heard a report; my hand trembled. Bernardo lay before me in his blood. The
people of the house rushed in, and with them Annunciata. I wanted to fling
myself, in despair, upon Bernardo's body; but Annunciata lay on her knees
beside him, trying to staunch the blood. "Save yourself!" she cried. But I,
overcome by anguish, exclaimed: "I am innocent; the pistol went off by
accident. Yes, Annunciata, we loved you. I would die for you, like he!
Which of us was the dearer to you? Tell me whether you love me, and then I
will escape." She bowed her head down to the dead. I heard her weeping, and
saw her press her lips to Bernardo's brow. Then I heard voices shout "Fly,
fly!" and, as by invisible hands, I was torn out of the house.
Like a madman I rushed through bushes and underwood until I reached the
Tiber. Among the ruins of a tomb I came across three men sitting around a
fire, to whom I explained that I wanted a boat to cross the river. They
agreed to take me across; but I had better give them my money to keep for
safety. I realised that I had fallen into the hands of robbers, gave them
all I had, was tied on to a horse, and taken across the river, riding all
night, until at dawn we reached a wild part of the mountains. They wanted
to keep me for ransom, and dispatched one of their number to Rome to find
out all he could about me. The man returned; and with a thankful heart I
heard that Bernardo was only wounded and on the way to recovery.
My rough hosts having found out my gift, I was asked to sing to them;
and once more my power of improvisation stood me in good stead. When I had
finished, a wrinkled old woman, who seemed to be held in great reverence by
the robbers, came towards me. "Thou hast sung thy ransom!" she exclaimed.
"The sound of music is stronger than gold!" Yet I was detained six days,
during which there were mysterious comings and goings. The old witch
herself, who had made me write on a piece of paper the words "I travel to
Naples" and my name, disappeared for a day, and came back with a letter,
which she commanded me not to read then. Finally, in the midst of night,
she led me out of the robbers' den and took me across a rocky path to a
dumb peasant with an ass, which I was made to mount. She kissed my forehead
and departed. When daylight broke I opened the letter, which contained a
passport in my name, an order for five hundred scudi on a Naples bank, and
the words "Bernardo is out of danger, but do not return to Rome for some
months."
When I joined the high-road, I took carriage for Naples. Among my
travelling companions was a portly, handsome, Neapolitan lady, with whom I
became very friendly, and who invited me to her house. She was the wife of
a Professor Maretti, and her name was Santa. The professor himself was a
little half-famished looking man, full of learning, by the show of which he
was in the habit of boring everybody who came near him. Santa made up for
this by her liveliness and her warm interest in my affairs. Amid music and
laughter I spent many happy hours in her house, made friends, and was
encouraged to make my début as an improvisatore. I had written to
Eccellenza a true account of the reason of my departure, and informed him
of my future intentions; but his reply, which arrived after long delay, was
a stunning blow to me. He was exceedingly annoyed, washed his hands of me,
and wished me not on any account to connect his name with my public
life.
IV.--On the Road to Fame
The bitterness of my misery was brought home to me with new force when I
saw Bernardo at a gambling saloon in the company of a handsome woman of
doubtful reputation. That Annunciata should have preferred this fickle man
to me! My debut at San Carlo aroused great enthusiasm, and Santa, whom I
saw next day in her snug heavily curtained room, seemed radiant with
happiness at my success. She made me sit on a soft silken sofa, stroked my
head, and spoke of my future. I kissed her hand, and looked into her dark
eyes with a purity of soul and thought. She was greatly excited. I saw her
bosom heave violently; she loosened a scarf to breathe more freely. "You
are deserving of love," said she. "Soul and beauty are deserving of any
woman's love!" She drew me towards her; her lips were like fire that flowed
into my very soul!
Eternal Mother of God! The holy image, at that moment, fell down from
the wall. It was no mere accident. "No, no!" I exclaimed, starting up.
"Antonio," cried she, "kill me! kill me! but do not leave me!" But I rushed
out of the house, determined never to set eyes upon Santa again. The sea
air would cool me. I took a boat to Torre del Annunciata; and happiness
gradually returned to me as I realised what danger I had escaped by the
grace of the Virgin.
I joined the crowd watching the fiery stream of lava slowly descending
towards the sea, when I heard somebody calling my name. It was Fabiani, who
insisted on taking me at once to see Francesca. The welcome was hearty.
There were no recriminations, although I resented for a while the tone of
benevolent patronage adopted by my benefactors. I learnt that Bernardo had
entered the King of Naples' service, and that Annunciata was shortly
expected. An expedition was arranged to Pæstum and Capri; and Fabiani
insisted upon my joining the party. He also undertook to write to his
father-in-law on my behalf....
At Pæstum we found the abundance and luxuriance of Sicilian
landscape; its Grecian temples and its poverty. We were surrounded by
crowds of half-naked beggars. One young girl there was, a little away from
the others, scarcely more than eleven years old, but lovely as the goddess
of beauty. Modesty, soul, and a deep expression of suffering were expressed
in her countenance. She was blind! I gave her a scudo. Her cheeks burned.
She kissed my hand; and the touch seemed to go through my blood. The guide
told us afterwards that her name was Lara, and that she generally sat in
the Temple of Neptune.
The ruined temple made a mighty impression upon us; I was requested to
improvise in these romantic surroundings. Deeply moved by my thoughts of
the blind girl, I sang of the glories of Nature and art, and of the poor
maiden from whom all this magnificence was concealed. When we left the
temple, I lagged behind, and, looking around, I saw Lara on her knees, her
hands clasped together. She had heard my song! It smote me to the soul. I
saw her pressing my scudo to her lips and smile; I grew quite warm at the
sight of it, and pressed a hot kiss upon her forehead. With a thrilling cry
she sprang up like a terrified deer, and was gone. I felt as if I had
committed a sin, and sadly joined my party.
Amalfi, Capri--I drank the intoxicating beauty of it all. Then I was
prevailed upon to return to Rome with Fabiani and Francesca. We spent a day
at Naples, where I found two letters waiting for me. The first was a brief
note to this effect: "A faithful heart, which intends honourably and kindly
towards you, expects you this evening." It gave an address, but no
name--merely "Your old friend." The second was from the same hand, and
read: "Come, Antonio! The terror of the last unfortunate moment of our
parting is now well over. Come quickly! Delay not a moment in coming!" The
letters were obviously from Santa.
My mind was made up not to see her again. We left for Rome....
The Palazzo Borghese was now my home. Eccellenza received me with the
greatest kindness, but all the family continued to use the old teaching
tone and depreciating mode of treatment. Thus six years went by; but
somehow my protectors did not realise that I was no longer a boy, and my
dependence gave them the right to make them let me feel the bitterness of
my position. Even my talent as poet and improvisatore was by no means taken
seriously at the palace.
Happiness was brought into my life once more by Flaminia, "the little
abbess," who came home to have her last glimpse of the world before taking
the veil. She had grown tall and pale of complexion, with an expression of
wonderful gentleness in her features. She recalled our early friendship,
when she used to sit on my knee and make me draw pictures for her and tell
her stories. From her, at any rate, I suffered no humiliation, and from day
to day our friendship grew closer. I told her about Bernardo and
Annunciata, and about Lara, who became inexpressibly dear to her. I also
endeavoured to make her reconsider her decision to take the veil and immure
herself for life; but her whole education and inclination tended towards
that goal. At last the day itself came--a day of great solemnity and state.
Flaminia was dead and buried--and Elizabeth the nun, the bride of Heaven,
arose from the bier!
V.--The Sorrowful Wayfarer
In my sadness of heart I thought of my childhood and old Domenica, whom
I had not seen for many months. I went out to the Campagna. Domenica had
died six months back! When I returned I was seized by a violent fever, from
which I recovered but slowly. It was six months after Flaminia had taken
the veil that the doctor allowed me to go out.
My first walk was to the grey convent where she now passed her
monotonous days. Every evening I returned, and often I stood gazing at her
prison and thinking of Flaminia as I used to know her. One evening Fabiani
found me thus, and made me follow him home. He spoke to me with unusual
solemnity in his voice, but with great kindness. I was ill. Travelling,
change of scene, would do me good. I was to move about for a year, and then
return to show what the world had made of me.
I went to Venice. Dreary, sad and quiet seemed to me the Queen of the
Adriatic. In the gently swaying gondola I thought with bitterness of
Annunciata. I felt a grudge even against innocent, pious Flaminia, who
preferred the convent to my strong, brotherly love. Then my thoughts
floated between Lara, the image of beauty, and Santa, the daughter of
sin.
One day I took a boat to the Lido to breathe the fresh air of the sea.
On the beach I came across Poggio, a young Venetian nobleman with whom I
had made friends; and as a storm hung threatening in the sky I decided to
accept his invitation for dinner. We watched the fury of the storm from the
window, and then joined a crowd of women and children anxiously watching a
fishing boat out at sea. Before our very eyes the boat was swallowed by the
waves, and with aching hearts we witnessed the prayers, shrieks, and
despair of the anxious watchers whose husbands and fathers perished thus
within their sight.
Next evening there was a reception at my banker's. The storm became a
topic of conversation; and Poggio related the death of the fishermen,
trying to enlist sympathy for the poor survivors. But nobody seemed to
understand his intention. Then I was asked to improvise. I was quickly
determined. "I know of an emotion," I exclaimed, "which awakens supreme
happiness in everybody, and I have the power of exciting it in every heart.
But this art cannot be given, it must be purchased. He who gives most will
be most deeply initiated." Money and jewels were quickly forthcoming; and I
began to sing of the proud sea and the bold mariners and fishermen. I
described what I had seen; and my art succeeded where Poggio's words had
failed. A tumult of applause arose. A young lady sank at my feet, seized my
hand, and with her beautiful, tear-filled eyes gave me a look of intense
gratitude, which agitated me in strange fashion. Then she withdrew as if in
horror at what she had done.
Poggio afterwards told me that she was the queen of beauty in Venice,
the podestà's niece, adored by everybody, but known by few, since the
podestà's house was most exclusive, and received but few guests. He
accounted me the luckiest of mortals when he heard that I had received an
invitation from the podestà, and would have a chance of improving my
acquaintance with Maria, his beautiful niece. I was received as if I had
been a beloved relative. Something in Maria's expression recalled to me the
blind beggar-girl Lara; but Maria had eyes with a singularly dark glance of
fire. I became a daily visitor at the podestà's house, and spent many happy
hours in Maria's company. Her intellect and charm of character captivated
me as much as her beauty.
VI.--A Marriage in Venice
One evening I strayed into a wretched little theatre, where one of
Mercadante's operas was being performed. How can I describe my feelings
when in one of the singers--a slight, ordinary figure, with a thin, sharp
countenance and deeply sunken eyes, in a poor dress, and with a poorer
voice, but still with surprising grace of manner--I recognised Annunciata?
With aching heart I left the theatre, and ascertained Annunciata's address.
She lived in a miserable garret. She turned deathly pale when she
recognised me, and implored me to leave her. "I come as a friend, as a
brother," I said. "You have been ill, Annunciata!" Then she told me of her
illness, four years back, which robbed her of her youth, her voice, her
money, her friends. She implored me, with a pitiful voice, to leave her. I
could not speak. I pressed her hand to my lips, stammered, "I come--I come
again!" and left her.
Next day I called again, and found Annunciata had left, no one knew
whither.
It was a month later that Maria handed me a letter, which had been given
to her for me by a dying person who had sent for her. The letter was from
Annunciata, who was no more. It told me of her happiness at having seen me
once more--told me that she had always loved me; that her pain at having to
part from me had made her conceal her face on what she then believed to be
Bernardo's dead body; told me that it was she who had sent me those two
letters in Naples, who had believed my love was dead, since I left for Rome
without sending her a reply. It told me of her illness, her years of
poverty, and her undying love. And then she wished me happiness with, as
she had been told, the most beautiful and the noblest maid in Venice for my
bride! ...
In travel I sought forgetfulness and consolation. I went to Padua,
Verona, Milan; but heaviness did not leave my heart. Then came an
irrepressible longing to be back in Venice, to see Maria--a foreboding of
some new misfortune. I hastened back to Venice. The podestà received me
kindly; but when I inquired after Maria, he seemed to me to become grave,
as he told me she had gone to Padua on a short visit. During supper I fell
into a swoon, followed by a violent fever in which I had visions of Maria
dead, laid out before an altar. Then it was Lara I saw on the bier, and I
loudly called her by name. Then everything became bright; a hand passed
softly over my head. I awoke, and found Maria and her aunt by my
bedside.
"Lara, Maria, hear me!" I cried. "It is no dream. You have heard my
voice at Pæstum. You know it again! I feel it. I love you; I have
always loved you!"
"I have loved you, too," she said, kneeling by my side and seizing my
hand. "I have loved you from the day when the sun burnt your kiss into my
forehead--loved you with the intuition of the blind!"
I then learnt that Maria--my Lara--had been cured of her blindness by a
great specialist in Naples, the podestà's brother, who, touched by her
beauty and purity, had her educated, and adopted her as his own child. On
his death his sister took her to Venice, where she found a new home in the
podestà's palace.
Apuleius was born about 125 A.D., at Madaura, in Africa.
After studying at Athens, he practised as an advocate at Rome, and then
wandered about Northern Africa, lecturing on philosophy and rhetoric. At
Tripoli he was charged with having won by witchcraft the love of a rich
widow who had left him her wealth. But he was acquitted after delivering an
interesting defence, included among his extant works. He then settled in
Carthage, where he died at an advanced age. Poor Apuleius! His good fame
was darkened by the success of an amusing romance, "The Golden Ass," which
he wrote, by way of recreation, at Rome. He related the story of the
adventures which befell a young Greek nobleman who, by an extreme curiosity
in regard to witchcraft, got changed into a donkey. It was an age of wild
superstition and foolish credulity; and his readers confused the author of
"The Golden Ass" with the hero of it. Apuleius was credited with a series
of impossible exploits, which he had not even invented. For his work is
merely a Latin adaptation of a lost Greek romance by Lucius of Patras. But
Apuleius deserves our gratitude for preserving a unique specimen of the
lighter literature of the ancient Greeks, together with the beautiful
folk-tale of Cupid and Psyche.
I.--Lucius Sets Out on His Wonderful Adventures
I set out from Corinth in a fever of excitement and expectation, riding
my horse so hard that it fell lame; so I had to do the remainder of the
journey on foot. My heart was filled with joy and terror as I entered the
town of Hypata.
"Here I am, at last," I cried, "in Thessaly! Thessaly, the land of magic
and witchcraft, famous through the world for its marvels and
enchantments!"
Carried away by my desire after strange and mystic knowledge, I gazed
around with wonder and disquietude. Nothing in this marvellous city, I
thought to myself, is really what it seems to be. The stones I stumbled
over appeared to be living creatures petrified by magic. I fancied that the
trees in the gardens and the birds that sang in their branches were men
that had been transformed by Thessalian witches. The very statues seemed as
if they were about to walk; every wall had ears; and I looked up into the
blue, cloudless sky, expecting to hear oracles.
Entering the market place, I passed close to a noble lady who was
walking with a crowd of servants in her train.
"By Hercules!" she cried. "It's Lucius!" I hung back, confused and
blushing, and Byrrhena, for it was she, said to one of her companions:
"It's Salvia's boy! Isn't he the image of his modest, beautiful mother?
Young, tall and fair, with just her bright, grey-blue eyes, and her alert
glance. A Plutarch every bit of him! Lucius, don't you remember your
kinswoman, Byrrhena? Why, I brought you up with my own hands!"
I remembered Byrrhena very well, and loved her. But I did not want to
meet her just then. However, I went with her to her house, a beautiful
building of fine marble, containing some exquisite statuary.
"You will stay here, my dear Lucius, won't you?" she said.
I then told her that I had come to Hypata to see Milo and his wife
Pamphila. My friend Demeas of Corinth had given me a letter of
introduction.
"Don't you know that Pamphila is a witch?" she cried. "Do not go near
her, my child, or she will practise her wicked arts on you. It is just
handsome young men like you that she enchants and destroys."
Far from being terrified by Byrrhena's warning, I was delighted with it.
I longed to become an apprentice to a witch as powerful as Pamphila. With a
hasty excuse I left the house and set out to find Milo. Neither he nor
Pamphila was in when I called. But their maid who opened the door, was such
a pretty wench that I did not regret their absence. Fotis, as she was
called, was a graceful, sprightly little thing, with the loveliest hair I
ever saw. I liked the way it fell in soft puffs on her neck, and rested on
her neat linen tunic.
It was a case of love at first sight with both of us. But before I began
to ask her about Pamphila, Milo returned. He welcomed me very warmly, and
put the best room in his house at my disposal, and desired me to stay to
dinner. But in spite of my ardent curiosity, I was, I must confess, rather
afraid of meeting his wife. So I said that my kinswoman Byrrhena had
already engaged me to dine with her.
On arriving at Byrrhena's mansion I was surprised to find that a
splendid banquet had been prepared, and that all the best people in Hypata
were present. We reclined on couches of ivory, covered with golden drapery,
and a throng of lovely girls served us with exquisite dishes; while pretty
curly-headed boys brought the wine round in goblets of gold and amber.
When the lights were brought in, the talk became freer and gayer;
everybody was bent on laughing and making his neighbours laugh.
"We are, you see, preparing for the great festival to-morrow," Byrrhena
said to me. "Hypata is the only city that keeps the feast of the god of
laughter. You must come, and invent some pleasantry to propitiate the
merriest of all deities."
"By Hercules!" I replied. "If the laughing god will only lend me
inspiration to-night, I will do my best to entertain the townspeople
to-morrow."
II.--The Feast of the God of Laughter
It was the jolliest banquet I was ever at. Even in Corinth we did not do
the thing so well. It was not until I got into the open air, and set out
for Milo's house, that I knew how much wine I had taken. But though I was
rather unsteady on my feet, I retained my presence of mind. I reached the
house, and suddenly three great burly fellows sprang up, and battered
furiously at the door. They were clearly robbers of the most desperate
type, and I drew my sword, and, as they came at me one by one, I plunged it
swiftly into their bodies. Fotis was aroused, and opened the door, and I
entered, utterly worn out by the struggle, and went at once to bed and to
sleep.
Early in the morning I was awakened by a great clamour. A throng of
people burst into my bedroom, and two lictors arrested me, and dragged me
to the forum. But as they took me through the streets and squares,
everybody turned out to see me, and the crowd grew so great that the forum
was not large enough to hold the people, and I was led to the theatre.
There the lictors pushed me down through the proscenium, as though I
were a victim for sacrifice, and put me in the centre of the orchestra.
"Citizens," said the prefect of the watch, "as I was going on my rounds
late last night, I saw this ferocious young foreigner, sword in hand,
slashing and stabbing three inoffensive creatures. When I arrived they were
lying dead upon the ground. Their murderer, overwhelmed by his terrible
crime, fled into a house, and hid there, hoping, no doubt, to escape in the
morning. Men of Hypata, you do not allow your own fellow-townsmen to commit
murder with impunity. Shall, then, this savage, brutal alien avoid the
consequences of his fearful crime?"
For some time I could not reply. The suddenness of the whole thing
terrified me, and it was with a voice broken with sobs that I at last
managed to make my defence.
"They were robbers," I cried, "robbers of the most desperate and vilest
character! I caught them breaking into the house of my friend Milo, your
esteemed fellowtownsman, oh, citizens of Hypata! There were three of
them--three great, rough, burly rascals, each more than a match for a mere
boy like myself. Yet I managed to kill them; and I think I deserve praise
at your hands, and not censure, for my public-spirited action."
Here I stopped, for I saw that all the vast multitude of people was
laughing at me. And what grieved me most was to see my kinswoman Byrrhena
and my host Milo among my mockers. The senior magistrate ordered the wheel
and other instruments of torture to be brought forth.
"I cannot believe a mere boy like this could have slain three great
strong men single-handed," he said. "He must have had accomplices, and we
must torture him until he reveals the names of his partners in this most
dastardly crime. But, first of all, let him look upon the bodies of the men
he has foully murdered. Perhaps that will melt his hard, savage
nature."
The lictors then led me to the bier, and forced me to uncover the
bodies. Ye gods! The corpses were merely three inflated wine-skins, and I
observed that they were cut in the very spots in which I thought I had
wounded the robbers. I had, indeed, invented a pleasantry for the festival
of the god of laughter! The townspeople laughed with the inextinguishable
laughter of the Olympian deities. They climbed up to the roof to get a good
look at me; they swarmed up the pillars; they clung to the statues; they
hung from the windows at the risk of their lives; all shouting at me in
wild jollity.
"Sir Lucius," the magistrate then said to me, "we are not ignorant of
your dignity and your rank. The noble family to which you belong is famous
throughout Greece. So do not take this pleasantry in honour of the joyful
god of laughter as an insult. In return for your excellent services at this
great festival, the city of Hypata has decreed that your statue shall be
cast in bronze and erected in a place of honour."
By this time I had recovered somewhat of my good humour. But knowing how
mercilessly I should be teased at the banquet Byrrhena wished to give in
celebration of my exploits, I went quickly home with Milo, and after
supping with him, retired at a very early hour to my bed-chamber.
III.--Lucius Becomes an Ass
In the middle of the night I heard a knock at my door. I opened it, and
in came pretty Fotis, looking a picture of misery.
"I can't sleep without telling you everything," she said. "I was the
cause of all the trouble that befell you to-day. As my mistress was coming
from the baths yesterday, she saw a handsome young gentleman having his
hair cut by a barber. Seized with a wild passion for him, she ordered me to
get some of his hair. But the barber saw me and drove me away. I knew I
should get a cruel whipping if I returned empty-handed. Close by was a man
shaving some wine-bags of goat-skin; the hair was soft and yellow like the
young gentleman's, so I took some of it to Pamphila. You know my mistress
is a terrible witch, so you can guess what happened. She rose up in the
night, and burnt the hair in her magic cauldron. As it burnt, the wine-bags
from which it was taken felt the compulsion of the spell. They became like
human beings. Rushing out into the street, they hurled themselves against
the door of our house, as Pamphila expected the young gentleman would do.
You came up--just a little intoxicated, eh?--and committed the horrible
crime of bag-slaughter."
"Now, don't make fun of me, Fotis," I said. "This is a serious matter,
this witchcraft. What is Pamphila doing to-night? I have come here to learn
magic, and I am very anxious to see her practising her strange arts."
"Come, then, and look," said Fotis.
We crept to the room where Pamphila was, and peeped through a chink in
the door. The witch undressed herself, and then took some boxes of ointment
out of a casket, and opened one box and smeared herself with the stuff it
contained. In the twinkling of an eye, feathers sprouted out of her skin,
and she changed into an owl, and flew out of the window.
"She has gone after that handsome young gentleman," said Fotis. "I have
to wait here all night until she returns, and then give her a lotion of
aniseed and laurel-leaves to restore her to her proper shape."
"Why, my dear Fotis," I exclaimed, in intense admiration, "you know as
much about witchcraft as your mistress! Come, practise on me! Get me some
of that ointment and change me into a bird. Oh, how I should like to
fly!"
After some hesitation she entered the room, and took a box out of the
casket. I stripped myself and smeared the ointment over my body. But never
a feather appeared! Every hair on me changed into a bristle; my hands
turned into hoofed forefeet; a tail grew out of my backbone; my face
lengthened; and I found, to my horror, that I had become an ass.
"Oh, ye gods," said Fotis, "I've taken the wrong box! But no great
harm's done, dear Lucius. I know the antidote. I'll get you some roses to
crunch, and you will be restored to your proper shape."
Fotis, however, dared not go at once into the garden, lest Pamphila
should suddenly return and find me. So she told me to go and wait in the
stable until daybreak, and then she would gather some roses for me. But
when I got into the stable I wished I had waited outside. My own horse and
an ass belonging to Milo conceived a strange dislike to me. They fell upon
me with great fury, and bit me and kicked me, and made such a clamour that
the groom came to see whatever was the matter. He found me standing on my
hind legs trying to reach the garland of roses which he had placed on the
shrine of the goddess Epona in the middle of the stable.
"What a sacrilegious brute!" he cried, falling upon me savagely.
"Attacking the shrine of the divinity who guards over horses! I'll lame
you, that I will!"
As he was belabouring me with a great cudgel, a band of fierce men armed
with swords and carrying lighted torches appeared. At the sight of them the
groom fled in terror.
"Help! Help! Robbers!" I heard Milo and Fotis cry.
But before the groom was able to fetch the watch, the robbers forced
their way into the house, and broke open Milo's strongbox. Then they loaded
me and the horse and the ass with the stolen wealth, and drove us out into
the mountains. Unused to the heavy burden laid on me, I went rather slowly.
This enraged the robbers, and they beat me until I was well-nigh dead. But
at last I saw a sight which filled me with the wildest joy. We passed a
noble country house, surrounded by a garden of sweet-smelling roses. I
rushed open-mouthed upon the flowers. But just as I strained my curling
lips towards them, I stopped. If I changed myself into a man the robbers
would kill me, either as a wizard, or out of fear that I would inform
against them! So I left the roses untouched, and in the evening we came to
the cave in the mountains where the robbers dwelt, and there, to my
delight, I was relieved of my grievous load.
Soon afterwards another band of robbers arrived, carrying a young and
lovely maid arrayed as a bride. Her beautiful features were pale, and wet
with tears, and she tore her hair and her garments. "Take this girl," said
the robbers to the old woman who waited upon them, "and comfort her. Tell
her she's in no danger. Her people are rich, and will soon ransom her."
Charite, for such was the name of the beautiful bride, fell weeping into
one of the old women's arms.
"They tore me away from Tlepolemus," she said, "when he was about to
enter my bridal chamber. Our house was decked with laurel, and the
bridal-song was being sung, when a band of swordsmen entered with drawn
swords, and carried me off. Now I shall never see my bridegroom again."
"Yes, you will, dearie," said the old woman. "But don't let us talk
about it now. After all, you are not in so evil a plight as Psyche was when
she lost her husband, Cupid. Now, listen, while I tell you that marvellous
tale."
And here is the tale of Cupid and Psyche as the old woman related it to
Charite:
IV.--The Marvellous Story of Cupid and Psyche
"There was once a king of a certain city who had three daughters. All of
them were very beautiful, but Psyche, the youngest, was lovelier even than
Venus. The people worshipped her as she walked the streets, and strewed her
path with flowers. Strangers from all parts of the world thronged to see
her and to adore her. The temples of Venus were deserted, and no garlands
were laid at her shrines. Thereupon, the goddess of love and beauty grew
angry. She tossed her head with a cry of rage, and called to her son,
Cupid, and showed him Psyche walking the streets of the city.
"'Avenge me!' she said. 'Fill this maiden with burning love for the
ugliest, wretchedest creature that lives on earth.'
"The king was thereupon commanded by an oracle to array his daughter in
bridal robes, and set her upon a high mountain, so that she might be wedded
to a horrible monster. All the city was filled with grief and lamentation
when Psyche was led out to her doom, and placed upon the lonely peak. Then
a mighty wind arose, and carried the maiden to an enchanted palace, where
she was waited on by unseen spirits who played sweet music for her delight,
and fed her with delicious food. But in the darkness of night someone came
to her couch and wooed her tenderly, and she fell in love with him and
became his wife. And he said: 'Psyche, you may do what you will in the
palace I have built for you. But one thing you must not do--you must not
attempt to see my face.'
"Her husband was very sweet and kind, but he came only in the night
time; and in the daytime Psyche felt very lonesome. So she begged her
husband to let her sisters come and stay with her, and her husband had them
brought on a mighty wind. When they saw how delightfully Psyche lived in
the enchanted palace they grew jealous of her strange happiness.
"'Yes, this is a very pleasant place,' they exclaimed, 'but you know
what the oracle said, Psyche. You are married to a monster! That is the
reason why he will not let you see his face.'
"In the night, when they had departed, Psyche lighted a lamp and looked
at her bedfellow. Oh, joy! It was Cupid, the radiant young god of love,
reposing in his beauty. In her excitement Psyche let a drop of burning oil
fall from the lamp upon his right shoulder. The god leaped up and spread
out his wings, and flew away, saying:
"'Instead of marrying you to a monster, in obedience to my mother's
commands, I wedded you myself. And this is how you serve me! Farewell,
Psyche! Farewell!'
"But Psyche set out to follow him, and after a long and toilsome journey
she reached the court of Venus, where Cupid was now imprisoned. Venus
seized her and beat her, and then set her on dangerous tasks, and tried to
bring about her death. But Psyche was so lovely and gentle that every
living creature wished to help her and save her. Then Venus, fearing that
Cupid would escape and rescue his wife, said:
"'Psyche, take this casket to Proserpine, in the Kingdom of the Dead,
and ask her to fill it with beauty.'
"Psyche was in despair. No mortal had ever returned from the Kingdom of
the Dead. She climbed a high tower, and prepared to throw herself down, and
die. But the very stones took pity upon her.
"'Go to Tænarus,' they said, 'and there you will find a way to the
Underworld. Take two copper coins in your mouth, and two honey-cakes in
your hands.'
"Psyche travelled to Tænarus, near Lacedæmon, and there she
found a hole leading to the Underworld. A ghostly ferryman rowed her over
the River of Death, and took one of her copper coins. Then a monstrous dog
with three heads sprang out, but Psyche fed him with one of her
honey-cakes, and entered the hall of Proserpine, the queen of the dead.
Proserpine filled the casket, and by means of the last honey-cake and the
last copper coin, Psyche returned to the green, bright earth.
"But, alas! she was over-curious, and opened the casket to see the
divine beauty it contained. A deadly vapour came out and overpowered her,
and she fell to the ground. But Cupid, who had now escaped from his prison,
found her lying on the grass, and wiped the vapour from her face. Taking
her in his arms, he spread out his wings, and carried her to Olympus; and
there they live together in unending bliss, with their little child, whose
name is Joy."
V.--The Further Strange Adventures of the Ass
While the old woman was entertaining the beautiful captive with this
charming tale, a tall, fierce young man in ragged clothes stalked boldly in
among the robbers.
"Long life to you, brave comrades!" he said. "Don't judge me by these
rags, my boys. They're a disguise. Have you heard of Hæmus, the
famous Thracian brigand? If so, you've heard of me. My band has been cut
up, but I'm bringing what men I still have to you. Shall we join
forces?"
The robbers had just lost their own captain, so they received
Hæmus with great joy, and made him their leader. Soon afterwards ten
of his men came in, loaded with swollen wine-bags.
"Here's enough wine," he said, "to last us a fortnight if we use it
temperately. Let us celebrate this glorious day by finishing it at one
sitting!"
The robbers at once fell furiously to drinking, and their new captain
forced Charite to come and sit beside him. After a little wooing, she began
to cling to him, and return his kisses.
"Oh, what a frail, fickle, faithless race are women!" I said to myself.
"Scarcely two hours ago she was crying her eyes out for her bridegroom; now
here she is, fondling a wretched assassin."
What an ass I was! It was some time before I noticed that the new
captain did not drink himself, and that the men he brought with him were
only pretending to drink, while forcing the wine on the other robbers, who
soon became too drunk to drink, and rolled over in a deep sleep.
"Up, boys, and disarm and bind these ruffians!" said the new captain,
who was none other than Tlepolemus, the bridegroom of the fair Charite. And
leaving his servants to perform this task, he put Charite on my back, and
led me to his native town. All the inhabitants poured out into the street
to see us pass, and they loudly acclaimed Tlepolemus for his valour and
ingenuity in rescuing his lovely bride, and capturing the robbers.
Charite did not forget me in the scenes of rejoicing. She patted my head
and kissed my rough face, and bade the groom of the stud feed me well, and
let me have the run of the fields.
"Now I shall at last be able to get a mouthful of roses," I thought,
"and recover my human shape."
But, alas! the groom was an avaricious, disobedient slave, and he at
once sold me to a troupe of those infamous beggarly priests of Cybele, who
cart the Syrian goddess about the public squares to the sound of cymbals
and rattles.
The next morning my new owners smeared their faces with rouge, and
painted their eyes with black grease; then they dressed themselves in white
tunics, and set their wretched goddess on my back, and marched out, leaping
and brandishing great swords and axes. On coming to the mansion of a
wealthy man, they raised a wild din, and whirled about, and cut themselves
and scourged themselves until they were covered with blood. The master of
the mansion was so impressed with this savage and degrading spectacle that
he gave the priests a good sum of money, and invited them into his house.
They took the goddess with them, and I scampered out into the fields
searching for some roses.
But I was quickly brought back by the cook. His master had given him a
fat haunch from an enormous stag to roast for the priests' dinner, and a
dog had run off with it. In order to avoid being whipped for his
carelessness, the slave resolved to let the priests dine off a haunch of
their own ass. He locked the door of the kitchen, so that I could not
escape, and then took a long knife and came to kill me. But I had no mind
to perish in this way; and I dashed upstairs into the room where the master
was busy worshipping the goddess in the company of the priests, and knocked
the table over, and the goddess and many of the worshippers.
"Kill the wretched thing," said the master. "It has gone mad."
But the priests did not care to lose their salable property, and they
locked me in their bedroom, and sold me to the first man they met the next
morning. It was a poor gardener who needed an ass to cart his stuff to
market. But as the gardener was taking me home a soldier came tramping
along the road. He, too, wanted an ass to carry his heavy kit. So he struck
the gardener down with his sword and seized me by right of conquest; then,
loading me with his armour and shield and baggage, he took me to the town
to which he was travelling. There he was ordered by his tribune to take
some letters to Rome, so he disposed of me for a small sum to two
confectioners.
By this time I had grown very feeble and thin. Though I was changed into
an ass, L could not relish hay and grass and food of that sort, and I
derived scarcely any nourishment from it. I still had human tastes, as well
as human thoughts and feelings. Happily, I was very well off with my new
masters. Every evening, they brought home the remains of the banquets they
had served--bits of chicken, pork, fish and meat, and various cakes; and
these they put in their room while they went for a bath before dinner. I
used then to creep in and take all the best bits, and when my two masters
returned they began to reproach each other with having filched the choicest
pieces. In the meantime, I grew plump and glossy and broad-backed, and as
my masters observed I ate no hay, they spied on me one evening.
They forgot their quarrel when they saw their ass picking out the best
bits with the taste of an epicure: and, bursting open the door, they cried:
"Let us try him with wine!" Naturally, I drank it very readily.
"We have got a treasure here," they said. They soon found that I was
intelligent, and understood human language. And after training me they took
me to Corinth, and exhibited me there, and made a great deal of money. In a
short time I became famous throughout Greece as the "Golden Ass," and I was
bought by the town for use in the public show. Nobody thought that any
watch need be kept over an animal as thoroughly civilised as I was; and one
evening I succeeded in escaping, and fled to a lonely spot on the
seashore.
VI.--The Miracle of Isis and the Fate of Lucius
As I nestled down on the soft sand, the full-orbed moon rose above the
eastern waves, and shone with a glorious radiance. My heart opened to the
mysteries of the sacred night, and I sprang up, and bathed seven times in
the cleansing water of the sea. Then, with tears upon my cheeks, I prayed
to Isis, the mighty saviour goddess:
"O Queen of Heaven, who dost enlighten the world with thy lovely beams
as thou goest on thy lonely way, hear me now and help me, in my peril and
misery and misfortune! Restore me, O mighty goddess, to my rightful shape,
and let Lucius return to the bosom of his family."
Sleep fell swiftly upon my eyes, and in my sleep the goddess visited me.
She rose up, a vision of light, from the waters. On her head was a crown of
radiant flowers, shaped like the moon, and serpents coiled about her
temples, and her divine body was arrayed in a robe of shining darkness
embroidered with innumerable stars.
"See, Lucius," she said, with a voice that breathed a great sweetness
over me, "Isis appears in answer to your prayer. Cease now to weep and
mourn, for I am come in pity of your lot to show favour to you. To-morrow
my priest will descend to the seashore to celebrate my festival, and in his
left hand he will carry a crown of roses. Go forth without fear, and take
the crown of roses, and then put off the shape of a beast, and put on the
form of a man. Serve me well all the days of your life, and when you go
down to the grave you shall see me as a light amid the darkness--as a queen
in the palace of hell. By my favour you shall be lifted up into the fields
of Paradise, and there you shall worship and adore me for all
eternity."
The saviour goddess then vanished, and I awoke, and the dawn was in the
sky, and the waves of the sea were dancing in the golden light. A long
procession was winding down from the city to the shore to the sound of
flutes and pipes.
First came a great multitude of people carrying lamps and torches and
tapers in honour of the constellations of heaven; then a choir of
sweet-voiced boys and girls in snowy garments; and next a train of men and
women luminous in robes of pure white linen; these were the initiates; and
they were followed by the prelates of the sacred mysteries; and behind them
all walked the high priest, bearing in his right hand the mystic rattle of
Isis, and in his left hand the crown of roses. By divine intervention, the
crowd parted and made a way for me; and when I came to the priest he held
out the roses, and I ate them, and was changed into a man. The people
raised their hands to heaven, wonder-stricken by the miracle, and the fame
of it went out over all the world. The priest initiated me into the
mysteries of Isis and Osiris, and I shaved my head, and entered the College
of Pastors, and became a servant of the high gods.
Or, The Thousand and One Nights
There is as much doubt about the history of "The Thousand
and One Nights" as that which veils the origin of the Homeric poems. It is
said that a certain Caliph Shahryar, having been deceived by his wife, slew
her, and afterwards married a wife only for one day, slaying her on the
morning after. When this slaughter of women had continued some time he
became wedded to one Shahrazad, daughter of his Vizir, who, by telling the
Commander of the Faithful exciting stories and leaving them unfinished
every dawn, so provoked the Caliph's curiosity that he kept her alive, and
at last grew so fond of her that he had no thought of putting her to death.
As for the authorship of the stories, they are certainly not the work of
one mind, and have probably grown with the ages into their present form.
The editions published for Christian countries do not represent the true
character of these legends, which are often exceedingly sensual. The
European versions of this extraordinary entertainment began in 1704 with
the work of one Antoine Galland, Professor of Arabic at the College of
France, a Frenchman who, according to Sir Richard Burton, possessed "in a
high degree that art of telling a tale which is far more captivating than
culture or scholarship." Sir R. Burton (see Vol. XIX) summed up what may be
definitely believed of the Nights in the following conclusion: The
framework of the book is purely Persian perfunctorily Arabised, the
archetype being the Hazar Afsanah. The oldest tales may date from the reign
of Al-Mansur, in the eighth century; others belong to the tenth century;
and the latest may be ascribed to the sixteenth. The work assumed its
present form in the thirteenth century. The author is unknown, "for the
best reason; there never was one."
I.--The Seven Voyages of Sindbad the Sailor
When the father of Sindbad was taken to Almighty Allah, much wealth came
to the possession of his son; but soon did it dwindle in boon
companionship, for the city of Baghdad is sweet to the youthful. Then did
Sindbad bethink him how he might restore his fortune, saying to himself:
"Three things are better than other three; the day of death is better than
the day of birth, a live dog is better than a dead lion, and the grave is
better than want"; and gathering merchandise together, he took ship and
sailed away to foreign countries.
Now it came to pass that the captain of this ship sighted a strange
island, whereon were grass and trees, very pleasant to the eyes. So they
anchored, and many went ashore. When these had gathered fruits, they made a
fire, and were about to warm themselves, when the captain cried out from
the ship: "Ho there! passengers, run for your lives and hasten back to the
ship and leave your gear and save yourselves from destruction. Allah
preserve you! For this island whereon ye stand is no true island, but a
great fish stationary a-middlemost of the sea, whereon the sand hath
settled and trees have sprung up of old time, so that it is become like
unto an island; but when ye lighted fires on it, it felt the heat and
moved; and in a moment it will sink with you into the depths of the sea and
ye will be drowned."
When the fish moved, the captain did not wait for his passengers, but
sailed away, and Sindbad, seizing a tub, floated helpless in the great
waters. But by the mercy of Allah he was thrown upon a true island, where a
beautiful mare lay upon the ground, who cried at his approach. Then a man
started up at the mare's cry, and seeing Sindbad, bore him to an
underground chamber, where he regaled the waif with plenteous food. To him
did this man explain how he was a groom of King Mirjan, and that he brought
the king's mares to pasture on the island, hiding underground while the
stallions of the sea came up out of the waves unto the mares. Presently
Sindbad saw this strange sight, and witnessed how the groom drove the
stallions back to the waves when they would have dragged the mares with
them. After that he was carried before King Mirjan, who entreated him
kindly, and when he had amassed wealth, returned by ship to Bussorah, and
so to Baghdad.
But becoming possessed with the thought of travelling about the ways of
men, he set out on a second voyage. And it came to pass that he landed with
others on a lovely island, and lay down to sleep, after he had eaten many
delicious fruits. Awaking, he found the ship gone. Then, praying to
Almighty Allah, like a man distracted, he roamed about the island,
presently climbing a tree to see what he could see. And he saw a great dome
afar, and journeyed to it.
There was no entrance to this white dome, and as he went round about it,
the sun became suddenly darkened, so that he looked towards it in fear, and
lo! a bird in the heavens whose wings blackened all light. Then did Sindbad
know that the dome was an egg, and that the bird was the bird roc, which
feeds its young upon elephants. Sore afraid, he hid himself, and the bird
settled upon the egg, and brooded upon it. Then Sindbad unwound his turban,
and, tying one end to the leg of the great bird and the other about his own
middle, waited for the dawn.
When the dawn was come, the bird flew into the heavens, unaware of the
weight at its foot, and Sindbad was borne across great seas and far
countries. When at last the bird settled on land, Sindbad unfastened his
turban, and was free.
But the place was filled with frightful serpents, and strewn with
diamonds. Sindbad saw a dead sheep on the ground, with diamonds sticking to
its carcase, and he knew that this was a device of merchants, for eagles
come and carry away these carcases to places beyond the reach of the
serpents, and merchants take the diamonds sticking to the flesh. So he hid
himself under the carcase, and an eagle bore him with it to inhabited
lands, and he was delivered.
Again it came to him to travel, and on this his third voyage the ship
was driven to the mountain of Zughb, inhabited by hairy apes. These apes
seized all the goods and gear, breaking the ship, but spared the men. Then
they perceived a great house and entered it, but nobody was there. At
nightfall, however, a frightful giant entered, and began to feel the men
one by one, till he found the fattest, and him the giant roasted over a
fire and ate like a chicken. This happened many days, till Sindbad
encouraged his friends, and they heated two iron spits in the fire, and
while the giant slept put out his eyes. While they ran to the shore, where
they had built a raft, the giant, bellowing with rage, returned with two
ghuls, and pelted the raft with rocks, killing some, but the rest escaped.
However, three only were alive when they reached land.
The shore on which these three landed was occupied by an immense
serpent, like a dragon, who instantly ate one of the three, while Sindbad
and the other climbed up a tree. Next day the serpent glided up the tree,
and ate the second. Then Sindbad descended, and with planks bound himself
all round so that he was a man surrounded by a fence. Thus did he abide
safe from the serpent till a ship saved him.
Now on his fourth voyage Sindbad's ship was wrecked, and he fell among
hairy men, cannibals, who fattened all that they caught like cattle, and
consumed them. He being thin and wasted by all his misfortunes, escaped
death, and saw all his comrades fattened and roasted, till they went mad,
with cries of anguish. It chanced that the shepherd, who tended these men
in the folds, took pity on Sindbad and showed him the road out of danger,
which taking, he arrived, after divers adventures and difficulties, at the
country of a great king. In this country all were horsemen, but the saddle
was unknown, so Sindbad made first the king, and afterwards the vizir, both
saddle and stirrups, which so delighted them that he was advanced to great
fortune and honour.
Then was he married to a maiden most beautiful and chaste, so lovely to
behold that she ravished the senses, and he lived like one in a dream. But
it came to pass that she died, and when they buried her they took Sindbad
and shut him in the Place of the Dead with her, giving him a little food
and water till he should die. Such was the custom, that husband and wife
should accompany the dead wife or husband in the Place of the Dead--a
mighty cave strewn with dead bodies, dark as night, and littered with
jewels.
While Sindbad bewailed his lot in this place the doors opened, a dead
body of a man was brought in, and with it his live wife, to whom food was
given. Then Sindbad killed this fair lady with the bone of a leg, took her
food and jewels, and thus did he serve all the live people thrust into the
cavern. One day he heard a strange sound far up the cavern, and perceived
in the distance a wild beast. Then he knew that there must be some entrance
at that far end, and journeying thither, found a hole in the mountain which
led to the sea. On the shore Sindbad piled all his jewels, returning every
day to the cavern to gather more, till a ship came and bore him away.
His fifth voyage was interrupted by rocs, whose egg the sailors had
smashed open to see the interior of what they took to be a dome. These
birds flew over the ship with rocks in their claws, and let them fall on to
the ship, so that it was wrecked.
Sindbad reached shore on a plank, and wandering on this island perceived
an old man, very sad, seated by a river. The old man signalled to Sindbad
that he should carry him on his back to a certain point, and this Sindbad
very willingly bent himself to do. But once upon his back, the legs over
the shoulders and wound round about his flanks, the old man refused to get
off, and drove Sindbad hither and thither with most cruel blows. At last
Sindbad took a gourd, hollowed it out, filled it with grape juice, stopped
the mouth, and set it in the sun. Then did he drink of this wine and get
merry and forget his misery, dancing with the old man on his neck. So the
old man asked for the gourd, and drank of it, and fell sleepy, and dropped
from Sindbad's neck, and Sindbad slew him.
After that, Sindbad amassed treasure by pelting apes with pebbles, who
threw back at him cocoanuts, which he sold for money.
On his sixth voyage Sindbad was wrecked on the most frightful mountain
which no ship could pass. The sight of all the useless wealth strewn upon
this terrible place of wreck and death drove all the other passengers mad,
so that they died. But Sindbad, finding a stream, built a raft, and drifted
with it, till, almost dead, he arrived among Indians and Abyssinians. Here
he was well treated, grew rich, and returned in prosperity to Baghdad.
But once again did he travel, and this time his vessel encountered in
the middle seas three vast fish-like islands, which lashed out and
destroyed the ship, eating most, but Sindbad escaped. When he reached land
he found himself well cared for among kind people, and he grew rich in an
old man's house, who married him to his only daughter. One day after the
old man's death, and when he was as rich as any in that land, lo! all the
men grew into the likeness of birds, and Sindbad begged one of them to take
him on his back on the mysterious flight to which they were now bent. After
persuasion the man-bird agreed, and Sindbad was carried up into the
firmament till he could hear the angels glorifying God in the heavenly
dome. Carried away by ecstasy, he shouted praise of Allah into the holy
place, and instantly the bird fell to the ground, for they were evil and
incapable of praising God. But Sindbad returned to his wife, and she told
him how evil were those people, and that her father was not of them, and
induced him to carry her to his own land. So he sold all his possessions,
took ship, and came to Baghdad, where he lived in great splendour and
honour, and this was the seventh and last voyage of Sindbad the Sailor.
II.--The Tale of the Three Apples
The Caliph Haroun al-Raschid, walking by night in the city, found a
fisherman lamenting that he had caught nothing for his wife and children.
"Cast again," said the caliph, "and I will give thee a hundred gold pieces
for whatsoever cometh up." So the man cast his net, and there came up a
box, wherein was found a young damsel foully murdered. Now, to this murder
confessed two men, a youth and an old man; and this was the story of the
youth.
His wife fell ill, and had a longing for apples, so that he made the
journey to Bussorah, and bought three apples from the caliph's gardener.
But his wife would not eat them. One day, as he sat in his shop, passed a
slave, bearing one of the apples. The husband asked how he came by it,
whereat replied the slave that his mistress gave it him, saying that her
wittol of a husband had journeyed to Bussorah for it. Then in rage the
young man returned and slew his wife. Presently his little son came home,
saying that he was afraid of his mother; and when the father questioned
him, replied the child that he had taken one of his mother's three apples
to play with, and that a slave had stolen it. Then did the husband know his
wife to be innocent, and he told her father all, and they both mourned for
her, and both offered themselves to the executioner--the one that he was
guilty, the other to save his son-in-law whose guilt was innocence.
From this story followed that of Noureddin and his son Bedreddin Hassan,
whose marriage to the Lady of Beauty was brought about by a genie, in spite
of great difficulties. And it was after hearing this tale that Haroun
al-Raschid declared to his vizir: "It behoves that these stories be written
in letters of liquid gold."
III.--Hassan, the Rope-Maker
Two men, so it chanced, disputing whether wealth could give happiness,
came before the shop of a poor rope-maker. Said one of the men: "I will
give this fellow two hundred pieces of gold, and see what he does with it."
Hassan, amazed by this gift, put the gold in his turban, except ten pieces,
and went forth to buy hemp for his trade and meat for his children.
As he journeyed, a famished vulture made a pounce at the meat, and
Hassan's turban fell off, with which the vulture, balked of the meat, flew
away, far out of sight.
When the two men returned they found Hassan very unhappy, and the same
who had given before gave him another two hundred pieces, which Hassan hid
carefully, all but ten pieces, in a pot of bran. While he was out buying
hemp, his wife exchanged the pot of bran for some scouring sand with a
sandman in the street. Hassan was maddened when he came home, and beat his
wife, and tore her hair, and howled like an evil spirit. When his friends
returned they were amazed by his tale, but the one who had as yet given
nothing now gave Hassan a lump of lead picked up in the street, saying:
"Good luck shall come of homely lead, where gold profits nothing."
Hassan thought but little of the lead, and when a fisherman sent among
his neighbours that night for a piece of lead wherewith to mend his nets,
very willingly did Hassan part with this gift, the fisherman promising him
the first fish he should catch.
When Hassan's wife cut open this fish to cook it, she found within it a
large piece of glass, crystal clear, which she threw to the children for a
plaything. A Jewess who entered the shop saw this piece of glass, picked it
up, and offered a few pieces of money for it. Hassan's wife dared not do
anything now without her husband's leave, and Hassan, being summoned,
refused all the offers of the Jewess, perceiving that the piece of glass
was surely a precious diamond. At last the Jewess offered a hundred
thousand pieces of gold, and, as this was wealth beyond wealth, Hassan very
willingly agreed to the barter.
IV.--Prince Ahmed and the Fairy
Once upon a time there was a sultan who had three sons, and all these
young men loved their cousin, the fatherless and motherless Nouronnihar,
who lived at their father's court.
To decide which should marry the princess the sultan bade them go forth,
each a separate way, and, after a time, determined to end their travels by
assembling at a certain place. "He of you who brings back from his travels
the greatest of rarities," said the sultan, "he shall marry the princess,
my niece." To Almighty Allah was confided the rest.
The eldest of the princes, Houssain by name, consorted with merchants in
his travels, but saw nothing strange or wonderful till he encountered a man
crying a piece of carpet for forty pieces of gold. "Such is the magic of
this carpet," protested the man, "that he who sits himself upon it is
instantly transported to whatsoever place he desires to visit, be it over
wide seas or tall mountains." The prince bought this carpet, amused himself
with it for some time, and then flew joyfully to the place of assembly.
Hither came the second prince, Ali, who brought from Persia an ivory
tube, down which, if any man looked, he beheld the sight that most he
desired to see; and the third prince, the young Ahmed, who had bought for
thirty-five pieces of gold a magic apple, the smell of which would restore
a soul almost passed through the gate of death.
The three princes, desiring to see their beloved princess, looked down
Ali's ivory tube, and, lo! the tragic sight that met their gaze--for the
princess lay at the point of death.
Swiftly did they seat themselves upon Houssain's magic carpet, and in a
moment of time found themselves beside the princess, whom Ahmed instantly
restored to life and beauty and health by his magic apple.
As it seemed impossible to decide which of these rare things was the
rarest, the sultan commanded that each prince should shoot an arrow, and he
whose arrow flew farthest should become the husband of Nouronnihar.
Houssain drew the first bow; then Ali, whose arrow sped much farther,
and then Ahmed, whose arrow was not to be found.
Houssain, in despair, gave up his right of succession to the throne,
and, with a blighted heart, went out into the wilderness to become a holy
man. Ali was married to the princess, and Ahmed went forth into the world
to seek his lost arrow.
After long wandering, Ahmed found his arrow among desolate rocks, too
far for any man to have shot with the bow; and, while he looked about him,
amazed and dumfounded, he beheld an iron door in the rocks, which yielded
to his touch and led into a very sumptuous palace. There advanced towards
him a lady of surpassing loveliness, who announced that she was a genie,
that she knew well who he was, and had sent the carpet, the tube, and the
apple, and had guided his arrow to her door. Furthermore, she confessed to
the prince great love for him, and offered him all that she possessed,
leading him to a vast and magnificent chamber, where a marriage-feast was
prepared for them.
Prince Ahmed was happy for some while, and then he thought of his
father, grieving for him, and at last obtained leave from the beautiful
genie to go on a visit to his home. At first his father was glad to see
him, but afterwards jealousy of his son and the son's secret place of
dwelling, and suspicion that a son so rich and powerful might have designs
on his throne, led his father to lay hard and cruel burdens on Prince
Ahmed.
However, all that he commanded Ahmed performed by help of the genie,
even things the most impossible. He brought a tent which would cover the
sultan's army, and yet, folded up, lay in the hollow of a man's hand. This
and many other wonderful things did Ahmed perform, till the sultan asked
for a man one foot and a half in height, with a beard thirty feet long, who
could carry a bar of iron weighing five hundredweight.
Such a man the genie found, and the sultan, beholding him, turned away
in disgust; whereat the dwarf flew at him in a rage, and with his iron bar
smote him to death.
Thus, too, did the little man treat all the wicked courtiers and
sorcerers who had incensed the sultan against his son. And Ahmed and the
genie became sultan and sultana of all that world, while Ali and
Nouronnihar reigned over a great province bestowed upon them by Prince
Ahmed.
As for Houssain, he forsook not the life of a holy man living in the
wilderness.
V.--The Hunchback
There lived long ago a poor tailor with a pretty wife to whom he was
tenderly attached. One day there came to his door a hunchback, who played
upon a musical instrument and sang to it so amusingly that the tailor
straightway carried him to his wife. So delighted by the hunchback's
singing was the tailor's wife that she cooked a dish of fish and the three
sat down to be merry. But in the midst of the feast a bone stuck in the
hunchback's throat, and before a man could stare he was dead. Afraid that
they should be accused of murder, the tailor conspired with his wife what
they should do. "I have it," said he, and getting a piece of money he
sallied forth at dark with the hunchback's body and arrived before the
house of a doctor.
Here knocked he on the door, and giving the maid a piece of money, bade
her hasten the doctor to his need. So soon as the maid's back was turned,
he placed the hunchback on the top stair and fled. Now the doctor, coming
quickly, struck against the corpse so that it fell to the bottom of the
stairs. "Woe is me, for I have killed a patient!" said he, and fearing to
be accused of murder, carried the body in to his wife.
Now they had a neighbour who was absent from home, and going to his room
they placed the corpse against the fireplace. This man, returning and
crying out: "So it is not the rats who plunder my larder!" began to
belabour the hunchback, till the body rolled over and lay still. Then in
great fear of his deed, this Mussulman carried the corpse into the street,
and placed it upright against a shop.
Came by a Christian merchant at dawn of day, and running against the
hunchback tumbled him over; then thinking himself attacked he struck the
body, and at that moment the watch came by and haled the merchant before
the sultan.
Now the hunchback was a favourite of the sultan, and he ordered the
Christian merchant to be executed.
To the scaffold, just when death was to be done, came the Mussulman, and
confessed that he was the murderer. So the executioner released the
Christian, and was about to hang the other, when the doctor came and
confessed to being the murderer. So the doctor took the place of the
Mussulman, when the tailor and his wife hastened to the scene, and
confessed that they were guilty.
Now, when this story came to the ears of the sultan, he said: "Great is
Allah, whose will must be done!" and he released all of them, and commanded
this story of the hunchback to be written in a book.
VI.--Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp
There was in the old time a bad and idle boy who lived with his mother,
a poor widow, and gave her much unrest. And there came to him one day a
wicked magician, who called himself the boy's uncle, and made rich presents
to the mother, and one day he led Aladdin out to make him a merchant. Now,
the magician knew by his magic of a vast hoard of wealth, together with a
wonderful lamp, which lay in the earth buried in Aladdin's name. And he
sent the boy to fetch the lamp, giving him a magic ring, and waited on the
earth for his return. But Aladdin, his pockets full of jewels, refused to
give up the lamp till his false uncle helped him to the surface of the
earth, and in rage the magician caused the stone to fall upon the cave, and
left Aladdin to die.
But as he wept, wringing his hands, the genie of the magic ring
appeared, and by his aid Aladdin was restored to his mother. There, with
the genie of the lamp to wait upon him, he lived, till, seeing the sultan's
daughter pass on her way to the bath, he conceived violent love for her,
and sent his mother to the sultan with all his wonderful jewels, asking the
princess in marriage. The sultan, astonished by the gift of jewels, set
Aladdin to perform prodigies of wonder, but all these he accomplished by
aid of the genie, so that at last the sultan was obliged to give him the
princess in marriage. And Aladdin caused a great pavilion to rise near the
sultan's palace, and this was one of the wonders of the world, and there he
abode in honour and fame.
Then the wicked magician, knowing by magic the glory of Aladdin, came
disguised, crying "New Lamps for Old!" and one of the maids in the pavilion
gave him the wonderful lamp, and received a new one from the coppersmith.
The magician transplanted the pavilion to Africa, and Aladdin, coming home,
found the sultan enraged against him and his palace vanished. But by means
of the genie of the ring he discovered the whereabouts of his pavilion, and
going thither, slew the magician, possessed himself anew of the lamp, and
restored his pavilion to its former site.
But the magician's wicked brother, plotting revenge, obtained access to
the princess in disguise of a holy woman he had foully murdered, and he
would have certainly slain Aladdin but for a warning of the genie, by which
Aladdin was enabled to kill the magician. After that Aladdin lived in glory
and peace, and ascended in due course to the throne, and reigned with
honour and mercy.
VII.--Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
Now, the father of Ali Baba left both his sons poor; but Kasim married a
rich wife, and so he lived plenteously, while his poor brother, Ali Baba,
worked in the wood. It came to pass that Ali Baba one day saw in the wood a
company of forty robbers, the captain of whom cried, "Open, Sesame!" to a
great rock, and lo! it opened, and the men disappeared. When they were gone
out again, Ali Baba came from his hiding, and, addressing the rock in the
same way, found that it obeyed him. Then went he in and took much of the
treasure, which he drove home on his mule. Now, when his wife sent to the
brother Kasim for scales, wherewith she might weigh all this treasure, the
sister-in-law being suspicious that one so poor should have need of scales,
smeared the bottom of the pan with wax and grease, and discovered on the
return a gold piece. This she showed to Kasim, who made Ali Baba confess
the tale. Then Kasim went to the cave, entered, loaded much treasure, and
was about to depart, when he found he had forgotten the magic words whereby
he entered. There was he found by the forty thieves, who slew and quartered
him. Ali Baba found the quarters, took them home, got a blind tailor to sew
them together, and gave his brother burial.
Now, the robbers discovered Ali Baba's house, and they hid themselves in
oil-jars hung on the backs of mules, and the captain drove them. Thus came
they to Ali Baba's house, and the captain craved lodging for himself and
his beasts. Surely would Ali Baba have been captured, tortured, and put to
death but for his maid, the faithful and astute Morgiana, who discovered
men in the jars, and, boiling cans of oil, poured it upon them one by one,
and so delivered her master. But the captain had escaped, and Ali Baba
still went in great fear of his life. But when he returned, disguised so
that he might have puzzled the wisest, Morgiana recognised the enemy of her
master; and she was dancing before him and filling his eyes with pleasure;
and when it came for her to take the tambourine and go round for largess,
she strengthened her heart and, quick as the blinding lightning, plunged a
dagger into his vitals. Thus did the faithful Morgiana save her master, and
he married her to his nephew, the son of Kasim, and they lived long in
great joy and blessing.
VIII.--The Fisherman and the Genie
There was once a poor fisherman who every day cast his net four times
into the sea. On a day he went forth, and casting in his net, drew up with
great labour a dead jackass; casting again, an earthen pitcher full of
sand; casting a third time vexatiously, potsherds and shattered glass; and
at the last a jar of yellow copper, leaden-capped, and stamped with the
seal-ring of Solomon, the son of David. His rage was silenced at sight of
the sacred seal, and, removing the cap, smoke issued, which, taking vast
shape, became a terrible genie frightful to see.
Said the genie: "By what manner of death wilt thou die, for I have
sworn, by Allah, to slay the man who freed me!" He moreover explained how
Solomon had placed him in the jar for heresy, and how he had lain all those
years at the bottom of the sea. For a hundred years, he said, he swore that
he would make rich for ever and ever the man who freed him; for the next
hundred, that for such an one he would open the hoards of the earth; then,
that he would perfectly fulfil such an one's three wishes; finally, in his
rage, that he would kill the man who freed him.
Now, the fisherman, having pleaded in vain, said that he did not believe
the tale, seeing that so huge a genie could never have got into so small a
jar. Whereat the genie made smoke of himself, and re-entered the vase.
Instantly then did the fisherman stopper it, nor would he let the genie
free till that wicked one had promised to spare his life and do him
service. Grudgingly and wrathfully did the genie issue forth, but being now
under oath to Allah, he spared the fisherman and did him service.
He took him to a lake in the black mountains, bade him throw in his net,
and bear the catch to the sultan. Now, by the fisherman's catching of four
fish all of a different hue, the sultan discovered that this lake in the
mountains was once a populous and mighty city, whereof the prince and all
the inhabitants had been bewitched in ancient time. When the city was
restored and all those many people called back to life, the sultan enriched
the fisherman, who lived afterwards in wealth.
IX.--The Enchanted Horse
In olden times there came to the Court of Persia a stranger from Ind,
riding a horse made of wood, which, said he, could fly whithersoever its
rider wished. When the sultan had seen the horse fly to a mountain and
back, he asked the Hindu its price, and said the man: "Thy daughter's
hand." Now the prince, standing by, was enraged at this insolence, but his
father said: "Have no fear that I should do this thing. Howsoever, lest
another king become possessed of the horse, I will bargain for it." But the
impetuous prince, doubting the truth of the horse's power, jumped upon its
back, turned the peg which he had observed the Hindu to turn, and instantly
was borne far away.
The king, enraged that the Hindu could not bring back his son, had the
man cast into prison, albeit the Hindu protested that soon the prince must
discover the secret of stopping the horse by means of a second peg, and
therefore would soon return.
Now the prince did not discover this secret till he was far away, and it
was night. He came to earth near a palace, and going in, found there an
exquisite lady sleeping, and knew by her dress that she was of a rank equal
with his own. Then he pleaded to her for succour, and she constrained him
to stay, and for many weeks he abode as a guest. After that time he said,
"Come to my father's court, that we may be married!" And early one dawn he
bore her to Persia on the back of the enchanted horse.
So glad was the king at his son's return that he released the Hindu.
Now the Hindu, hearing what had happened, determined on revenge. He
found where the horse was placed, and going to the palace where the foreign
princess was housed, sent for her in the sultan's name, and she came to
him. Then he seated her upon the horse, and mounting up in full view of the
sultan and his royal son, flew far away with his lovely captive.
It was the Hindu's desire to marry this princess, but when they were
come to earth, she withstood him, and cried for help and succour. To her
came the sultan of that place, and slew the Hindu, and would have married
her, but she was faithful to her lover and feigned madness.
Then the sultan offered rewards to any who should cure her of this
frightful madness, and many physicians came and failed. Now, her lover,
distracted at sight of seeing her in mid-air with the Hindu, had turned
Holy Man, roaming the earth without hope like one who is doomed.
It happened that he came to the palace where the princess lay in her
feigned madness, and hearing the tale of her, and of the enchanted horse,
with new hope and a great joy in his heart, he went in, disguised as a
physician, and in secret made himself known.
Then he stood before the sultan of that land, and said: "From the
enchanted horse hath she contracted this madness, and by the enchanted
horse shall she lose it." And he gave orders to dress her in glorious
array, to crown her with jewels and gold, and to lead her forth to the
palace square.
A vast concourse assembled there, and the prince set his beloved lady on
the horse, and pretending incantations, leapt suddenly upon its back,
turned the peg, and as the enchanted steed flew towards Persia, over his
shoulder cried the glad prince: "When next, O sultan, thou wouldst marry a
princess who implores thy protection, ask first for her consent."
Song-Story of the Twelfth Century
If "Old Antif" of Hainault was, as the best authorities now
incline to think, the author of "Aucassin and Nicolette," Belgium may claim
to have produced the finest poet of the ages of chivalry. He was probably a
contemporary of the English minstrel king, Richard the Lion-hearted. But
nothing is known of him save what can be gathered from the exquisite story
of love which he composed in his old age. Perhaps he, too, was, in his
younger days, a Crusader as well as a minstrel, and fought in the Holy Land
against the Saracens. His "song-story" is certainly Arabian both in form
and substance. Even his hero, Aucassin, the young Christian lord of
Beaucaire, bears an Arabian name--Alcazin. There is nothing in Mohammedan
literature equal to "Aucassin and Nicolette." It can be compared only with
Shakespeare's "As You Like It." The old, sorrowful, tender-hearted minstrel
knight, who wandered from castle to castle in Hainault and Picardy seven
hundred years ago, is one of the master-singers of the world.
I.--Lovers Young and Fair
Listen to a tale of love,
Which an old grey captive wove.
Great delight and solace he
Found in his captivity,
As he told what toils beset
Aucassin and Nicolette;
And the dolour undergone,
And the deeds of prowess done
By a lad of noble race,
For a lady fair of face.
Though a man be old and blind,
Sick in body and in mind,
If he hearken he shall be
Filled with joy and jollity,
So delectable and sweet
Is the tale I now repeat.
Now, a war broke out between Count Bougars of Valence and Count Garin of
Beaucaire; and Count Bougars besieged Beaucaire with a hundred knights and
ten thousand men. Then Count Garin, who was old and feeble, said to his
fair young son, Aucassin:
"Now, son, go and defend our land and people."
"I tell you," said Aucassin, "I will never draw sword unless I have my
sweet love Nicolette to wife."
"And I tell you," said his father, "that I would liefer lose life and
land than see you wedded to her. What! A Saracen girl, bought by one of my
captains! A slave! A heathen! A witch! God! I will burn her in a fire, and
you with her."
"Stay!" said Aucassin. "I will make an agreement. I will fight Count
Bougars, if you will let me speak to Nicolette after the battle."
"I agree," said his father. And he said this because Count Bougars was
well night master of Beaucaire.
Aucassin went out to battle in great joy. But his father went in great
anger to the captain that had bought Nicolette from the Saracens, and
said:
"If I lay hands on that heathen girl, I will burn her in a fire, and you
also, unless you have a care."
And the captain who had adopted Nicolette as his daughter was afraid
both for himself and for his godchild. And he hid her in the tower that
stood in the garden of his house.
In the tower that Nicolette
Prisoned is, may no man get.
Pleasant is her room to see,
Carved and painted wondrously.
But no pleasure can she find
In the paintings, to her mind.
Look! For she is standing there
By the window, with her hair
Yellow like autumnal wheat
When the sunshine falls on it.
Blue-grey eyes she has, and brows
Whiter than the winter snows;
And her face is like a flower,
As she gazes from the tower:
As she gazes far below
Where the garden roses blow,
And the thrush and blackbird sing
In the pleasant time of spring.
"Woe is me!" she cries, "that I
In a prison cell must lie;
Parted by a cruel spite
From my young and lovely knight.
By the eyes of God, I swear
Prisonment I will not bear!
Here for long I shall not stay:
Love will quickly find a way."
In the meantime, Aucassin mounted a great war-horse, and rode out to
battle. Still dreaming of Nicolette, he let the reins fall, and his horse
carried him among his foes. They took him prisoner, and sent word to Count
Bougars to come and see them hang the heir of Beaucaire.
"Ha!" said Aucassin, waking out of his dream. "Ha, my God! My Saviour!
If they hang me, I shall never see my sweet love Nicolette again!"
Striking out in a great passion, he made a havoc about him, like a boar
that turns at bay on the hounds in a forest. Ten knights he struck down,
and seven he wounded. Then, spying Count Bougars, that had come to see him
hanged, he lashed at his helm, and stunned him, and took him prisoner to
Beaucaire.
"Father," he said, "here is Count Bougars. The war is ended. Now let me
see Nicolette."
"I will not," said his father. "That is my last word in this matter. So
help me, God."
"Count Bougars," said Aucassin, "you are my prisoner. I will have a
pledge from you; give me your hand." Count Bougars gave his hand. "Pledge
me," said Aucassin, "that if I set you free, you will do my father all the
hurt and damage and shame you can; for he is a liar."
"In God's name," said Count Bougars, "put me to ransom and take all my
wealth; but do not mock me!"
"Are you my prisoner?" said Aucassin.
"Yes," said Count Bougars.
"Then, so help me, God," said Aucassin, "I will now send your head from
your shoulders unless I have that pledge!"
Thereupon Count Bougars pledged him, and Aucassin set him free. Then
Aucassin went to the captain that was godfather to Nicolette. "What have
you done with my sweet lady?" he asked.
"You will never again see Nicolette, my fair lord," said the captain.
"What would you gain if you took the Saracen maid to bed? Your soul would
go to hell. You would never win to heaven!"
"And what of that?" said Aucassin. "Who is it that win to heaven? Old
priests, and cripples that grovel and pray at altars, and tattered beggars
that die of cold and hunger. These only go to heaven, and I do not want
their company. So I will go to hell. For there go all good scholars and the
brave knights that died in wars, and sweet ladies that had many lovers, and
harpers, and minstrels, and great kings. Give me but my Nicolette, and
gladly I will keep them company."
II.--Love's Song in a Dungeon
Aucassin returned very sorrowfully to the castle, and there his father
put him into a dungeon.
Aucassin is cast and bound
In a dungeon underground;
Never does the sunlight fall
Shining on his prison wall;
Only one faint ray of it
Glimmers down a narrow slit.
But does Aucassin forget
His sweet lady, Nicolette?
Listen! He is singing there,
And his song is all of her:
"Though for love of thee I die
In this dungeon where I lie,
Wonder of the world, I will
Worship thee and praise thee still!
By the beauty of thy face,
By the joy of thy embrace,
By the rapture of thy kiss,
And thy body's sweetnesses,
Miracle of loveliness,
Comfort me in my distress!
Surely, 'twas but yesterday,
That the pilgrim came this way--
Weak and poor and travel-worn--
Who in Limousin was born.
With the falling sickness, he
Stricken was full grievously.
He had prayed to many a saint
For the cure of his complaint;
But no healing did he get
Till he saw my Nicolette.
Even as he lay down to die,
Nicolette came walking by.
On her shining limbs he gazed,
As her kirtle she upraised.
And he rose from off the ground,
Healed and joyful, whole and sound.
Miracle of loveliness,
Comfort me in my distress!"
As Aucassin was singing in his dungeon, Nicolette was devising how to
get out of her tower. It was now summer time, in the month of May, when the
day is warm, long and clear, and the night still and serene. Nicolette lay
on her bed, and the moonlight streamed through the window, and the
nightingale sang in the garden below; and she thought of Aucassin, her
lover, whom she loved, and of Count Garin, who hated her.
"I will stay here no longer," said Nicolette, "or the count will find me
and kill me."
The old woman that was set to watch over her was asleep. Nicolette put
on her fine silken kirtle, and took the bedclothes and knotted them
together, and made a rope. This she fastened to the bar of her window, and
so got down from the tower. Then she lifted up her kirtle with both hands,
because the dew was lying deep on the grass, and went away down the
garden.
Her locks were yellow and curled; her eyes blue-grey and laughing; her
lips were redder than the cherry or rose in summertime; her teeth white and
small; so slim was her waist that you could have clipped her in your two
hands; and so firm were her breasts that they rose against her bodice as if
they were two apples. The daisies that bent above her instep, and broke
beneath her light tread, looked black against her feet; so white the maiden
was.
She came to the postern gate, and unbarred it, and went out through the
streets of Beaucaire, keeping always in the shadows, for the moon was
shining. And so she got to the dungeon where her lover, Aucassin, lay. She
thrust her head through the chink, and there she heard Aucassin grieving
for her whom he loved so much.
"Ah, Aucassin!" she said. "Never will you have joy of me. Your father
hates me to death, and I must cross the sea, and go to some strange
land."
"If you were to go away," said Aucassin, "you would kill me. The first
man that saw you would take you to his bed. And, then, do you think I would
wait till I found a knife? No! I would dash my head to pieces against a
wall or a rock."
"Ah!" she said. "I love you more than you love me."
"Nay, my sweet lady," said he. "Woman cannot love man as much as man
loves woman. Woman only loves with her eyes; man loves with his heart."
Aucassin and Nicolette were thus debating, when the soldiers of the
count came marching down the street. Their swords were drawn, and they were
seeking for Nicolette to slay her.
"God, it were a great pity to kill so fair a maid!" said the warden of
the dungeon. "My young lord Aucassin would die of it, and that would be a
great loss to Beaucaire. Would that I could warn Nicolette!"
And with that, he struck up a merry tune, but the words he sang to it
were not merry.
Lady with the yellow hair,
Lovely, sweet and debonair,
Now take heed.
Death comes on thee unaware.
Turn thee now; oh, turn and flee;
Death is coming suddenly.
And
the swords
Flash that seek to murder thee.
"May God reward you for your fair words!" said Nicolette.
Wrapping herself in her mantle, she hid in the shadows until the
soldiers went by. Then she said farewell to Aucassin, and climbed up the
castle-wall where it had been broken in the siege. But steep and deep was
the moat, and Nicolette's fair hands and feet were bleeding when she got
out. But she did not feel any pain, because of the great fear that was on
her lest she should fall into the hands of the count's men.
Within two bow-shots from Beaucaire was a great forest; and here
Nicolette slept in a thicket, until the herd-boys came in the morning, and
pastured their cattle close to her resting-place. They sat down by a
fountain, and spread out a cloak, and put their bread on it. Their shouting
aroused Nicolette, and she came to them.
"God bless you, sweet boys!" said she.
"God bless you, lady!" said one that had a readier tongue than the
others.
"Do you know Aucassin, the brave young son of Count Garin?" she
said.
"Yes, lady," they said. "We know him very well."
"Then tell him, in the name of God," said she, "that there is a beast in
this forest that he must come and hunt. If he can take it, he will not sell
a limb of it for a hundred marks of gold. Nay, not for any money."
"I tell him that?" said the boy that had a readier tongue than the
others. "Curse me if I do! There's no beast in this forest--stag, boar,
wolf or lion--with a limb worth more than two or three pence. You speak of
some enchantment, and you are a fairy woman. We do not want your company.
Go away."
"Sweet boys," said Nicolette, "you must do as I tell you. For the beast
has a medicine that will cure Aucassin of all his pain. Ah! I have five
pieces of money in my purse. Take them, and tell him. He must come and hunt
within three days, and if he does not, he will never be cured."
"Faith," said the boy, after consulting with his fellows, "we shall tell
him if he comes, but we will not search after him!"
III.--Aucassin Goes in Quest of Nicolette
Nicolette took leave of the herd-boys, and went into the forest down a
green way that led to a place where seven paths met. Close at hand was a
deep thicket, and there Nicolette built a lodge of green boughs, and
covered it with oak-leaves and lily-flowers, and made it sweet and
pleasant, both inside and out. And she stayed in this lodge to see what
Aucassin would do.
In the meantime, the cry went through all the country that Nicolette was
lost. Some said that she had gone away; others that Count Garin had put her
to death. If any man had joy in the news, that man was not Aucassin. His
father let him out of prison, and summoned all the knights and ladies of
the land to a great feast that he made to comfort his young son. But when
the revelry was at its height, there was Aucassin leaning despondently from
a gallery, sorrowful and utterly downcast. And an old knight saw him, and
came to him.
"Aucassin," he said, "there was a time when I, too, was sick with the
sickness that you have. If you will trust me, I will give you some good
counsel."
"Gramercy," answered Aucassin. "Good counsel is indeed a precious
thing."
"Mount your horse and ride into the forest," said the old knight. "You
will see the flowers and the sweet herbs, and hear the birds singing. And,
perchance, you may also hear a word that will take away your sickness."
"Gramercy," said Aucassin. "That is what I will do."
He stole out of the hall, and went to the stable, and bridled and
saddled his horse, and rode swiftly out into the forest. By the fountain he
found the herd-boys. They had spread a cloak out on the grass, and were
eating their bread and making merry.
Jolly herd-boys, every one:
Martin, Emery, and John,
Aubrey, Oliver, and Matt
By the fountain-side they sat.
"Here," said John, "comes Aucassin,
Son of our good Count Garin.
Faith, he is a handsome boy!
Let us wish him luck and joy."
"And the girl with yellow hair
Wandering in the forest there,"
Aubrey said. "She gave us more
Gold than we have seen before.
Say, what shall we go and buy?"
"Cakes!" said greedy Emery.
"Flutes and bagpipes!" Johnny said.
"No," cried Martin; "knives instead!
Knives and swords! Then we can go
Out to war and fight the foe."
"Sweet boys," said Aucassin, as he rode up to them, "sing again the song
that you were singing just now, I pray you."
"We will not," said Aubrey, who had a readier tongue than the
others.
"Do you not know me, then?" said Aucassin.
"Yes," said Aubrey. "You are our young lord, Aucassin. But we are not
your men, but the count's."
"Sweet boys, sing it again, I pray you," said Aucassin.
"God's heart!" cried Aubrey. "Why should I sing for you, if I do not
want to? There is no man in this country--save Count Garin--that dare drive
my cattle from his fields and corn-lands, if I put them there. He would
lose his eyes for it, no matter how rich he were. So, now, why should I
sing for you, if I do not want to?"
"In the name of God," said Aucassin, "take these ten sous, and sing
it!"
"Sir, I will take your money," said Aubrey, "but I will not sing you
anything. Still, if you like, I will tell you something."
"By God," said Aucassin, "something is better than nothing!"
"Sir," said Aubrey, then, "we were eating our bread by this fountain,
between prime and tierce, and a maid came by--the loveliest thing in all
the world. She lighted up the forest with her beauty; so we thought she was
a fairy woman. But she gave us some money; and we promised that if you came
by we would tell you to go hunting in the forest. In there is a beast of
marvellous value. If you took it you would not sell one of its limbs for
many marks of gold, for it has a medicine that will cure your sickness. Now
I have told you all."
"And you have told me enough, sweet boy," said Aucassin. "Farewell! God
give me good hunting!"
And, as he spurred his horse into the forest, Aucassin sang right
joyously:
Track of boar and slot of deer,
Neither do I follow here.
Nicolette I hotly chase
Down the winding, woodland ways--
Thy white body, thy blue eyes,
Thy sweet smiles and low replies
God in heaven give me grace,
Once to meet thee face to face;
Once to meet as we have met,
Nicolette--oh, Nicolette!
IV.--Love in the Forest
Furiously did his horse bear him on through the thorns and briars that
tore his clothes and scratched his body, so that you could have followed
the track of his blood on the grass. But neither hurt nor pain did he feel,
for he thought only of Nicolette. All day he sought for her in the forest,
and when evening drew on, he began to weep because he had not found her.
Night fell, but still he rode on; and he came at last to the place where
the seven roads met, and there he saw the lodge of green boughs and
lily-flowers which Nicolette had made.
"Ah, heaven," said Aucassin, "here Nicolette has been, and she has made
this lodge with her own fair hands! For the sweetness of it, and for love
of her, I will sleep here to-night."
As he sat in the lodge, Aucassin saw the evening star shining through a
gap in the boughs, and he sang:
Star of eve! Oh, star of love,
Gleaming in the sky above!
Nicolette, the bright of brow,
Dwells with thee in heaven now.
God has set her in the skies
To delight my longing eyes;
And her clear and yellow hair
Shines upon the darkness there.
Oh! my lady, would that I
Swiftly up to thee could fly.
Meet thee, greet thee, kiss thee, fold thee
To my aching heart, and hold thee.
Here, without thee, nothing worth
Can I find upon the earth.
When Nicolette heard Aucassin singing, she came into the bower, and
threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Aucassin then set his sweet
love upon his horse, and mounted behind her; and with all haste they rode
out from the forest and came to the seashore.
There Aucassin saw a ship sailing upon the sea, and he beckoned to it;
and the sailors took him and Nicolette on board, and they sailed to the
land of Torelore. And the King of Torelore welcomed them courteously; and
for two whole years they lived in great delight in his beautiful castle by
the sea. But one night the castle was suddenly stormed by the Saracens; and
Aucassin was bound hand and foot and thrown into a ship, and Nicolette into
another.
The ship that carried Aucassin was wrecked in a great storm, and it
drifted over the sea to Beaucaire. The people that ran to break up the
wreck found their young lord, and made great joy over his return. For his
father was dead, and he was now Count Aucassin. The people led him to the
castle, and did homage to him, and he held all his lands in peace. But
little delight had Aucassin in his wealth and power and kingdom.
Though he lived in joy and ease,
And his kingdom was at peace,
Aucassin did so regret
His sweet lady, Nicolette,
That he would have liefer died
In the battle by her side.
"Ah, my Nicolette," he said,
"Are you living, are you dead?
All my kingdom I would give
For the news that still you live.
For the joy of finding you
Would I search the whole world through,
Did I think you living yet,
Nicolette--my Nicolette!"
V.--Nicolette's Love Song
In the meantime, the Saracens took Nicolette to their great city of
Carthage; and because she was lovely and seemed of noble birth, they led
her to their king. And when Nicolette saw the King of Carthage, she knew
him again; and he, also, knew her. For she was his daughter who had been
carried off in her young days by the Christians. Her father held a great
feast in honour of Nicolette, and would have married her to a mighty king
of Paynim. But Nicolette had no mind to marry anyone but Aucassin, and she
devised how she might get news of her lover. One night she smeared her face
with a brown ointment, and dressed herself in minstrel's clothes, and took
a viol, and stole out of her father's palace to the seashore. There she
found a ship that was bound for Provence, and she sailed in it to
Beaucaire. She took her viol, and went playing through the town, and came
to the castle. Aucassin was sitting on the castle steps with his proud
barons and brave knights around him, gazing sorrowfully at the sweet
flowers, and listening to the singing of the birds.
"Shall I sing you a new song, sire?" said Nicolette.
"Yes, fair friend," said Aucassin; "if it be a merry one, for I am very
sad."
"If you like it," said Nicolette, "you will find it merry enough."
She drew the bow across her viol, and made sweet music, and then she
sung:
Once a lover met a maid
Wandering in a forest glade,
Where she had a pretty house
Framed with flowers and leafy boughs.
Maid and lover merrily
Sailed away across the sea,
To a castle by the strand
Of a strange and pleasant land.
There they lived in great delight
Till the Saracens by night
Stormed the keep, and took the maid,
With the captives of their raid.
Back to Carthage they returned,
And the maiden sadly mourned.
But they did not make of her
Paramour or prisoner.
For the King of Carthage said,
When he saw the fair young maid:
"Daughter!" and the maid replied:
"Father!" And they laughed and cried.
For she had been stolen when
She was young by Christian men.
And the captain of Beaucaire
Bought her as a slave-girl there.
Once her lover loved her well
Now, alas! he cannot tell
Who she is. Does he forget--
Aucassin--his Nicolette?
Aucassin leaped down the castle steps, and took his lady in his arms.
Then she went to the house of her godfather, the captain of the town, and
washed all the brownness from her face, and clad herself in robes of rich
silk. And, early on the morrow, Count Aucassin wedded her, and made her
Lady of Beaucaire; and they had great joy of one another. And here my
song-story ends. I know no more.
Berthold Auerbach, a German poet and author of Jewish
descent, was born at Nordstetten, in Würtemberg, on February 28, 1812. On
the completion of his studies at the universities of Tübingen, Munich and
Heidelberg he immediately devoted himself to literature. His first
publication dealt with "Judaism and Recent Literature," and was to be
followed by a series of novels taken from Jewish history. Of this intended
series he actually published, with considerable success, "Spinoza" and
"Poet and Merchant." But real fame and popularity came to him when he began
to occupy himself with the life of the general people which forms the
subject of his best-known works. In these later books, of which "On the
Height" is perhaps the most characteristic and certainly the most famous,
he revealed an unrivalled insight into the soul of the Southern German
country folk, and especially of the peasants of the Black Forest and the
Bavarian Alps. His descriptions are remarkable for their fresh realism,
graceful style and humour. In addition to these qualities, his last books
are marked by great subtlety of psychological analysis. "On the Height" was
first published at Stuttgart in 1861, and has been translated into several
languages. Auerbach died at Cannes on February 8, 1882, when all Germany
was preparing to celebrate his 70th birthday.
I.--A Peasant Nurse in a Royal Palace
Walpurga was as in a dream. It had all happened so quickly! Only a
fortnight ago, on the walk home from Sunday Mass at the village church, her
Hanseï had to make a hay bed for her on a stone-heap by the roadside. She
had thought she could not get back to the cottage in time, but she
recovered after a while and bravely walked home. Her mother was with her in
the hour of suffering, as she had been with her through all the joys and
sorrows of her simple life. Then came the supreme joy of the awakening,
with a new life by her side, a baby-girl groping helplessly for the
mother's breast. Then--was it only yesterday?--when she was waiting for the
return of the christening party, a carriage drove up with the village
doctor and an elegant stranger. There was much beating about the bush, and
then it came out like a thunderbolt. The stranger was a great doctor from
the capital, entrusted with the mission to find in the mountains an honest,
comely peasant woman, and married she must be, to act as wet-nurse for the
expected crown prince or princess.
Then Hanseï came home with the merry party--there was much storming and
angry refusal; but finally the practical sense of the peasant folk
prevailed. It was, after all, only for a year, and it would mean comfort
and wealth, instead of hunger and grinding poverty. And scarcely had their
consent been wrung from them, when shouting and cheering announced the
great event of the crown prince's birth. Then came that strange, long drive
over hill and dale, through the dark night; and now, in the Royal Palace,
she tried to collect herself, to grasp the meaning of all that splendour,
the unintelligible ceremonious talk and bearing of those about her. She was
to be taken at once to see the queen and her precious charge.
Walpurga was full of happiness when she left the queen's bedroom.
Touched by the comely young peasant-woman's naive and familiar kindliness,
the queen, who seemed to her beautiful as an angel, had kissed her, and, on
noticing a tear, had said: "Don't cry, Walpuga! You are a mother, too, like
myself!" The little prince took to his nurse without much trouble, and she
soon became accustomed to her new life, although her thoughts often dwelt
longingly on her native mountains, her own child and mother and husband.
How they would miss her! She knew her Hanseï was a good man at heart, but
not particularly shrewd, and easily gulled or led astray.
Meanwhile, her high spirits, her artless bluntness, the quaint
superstitions of the mountain child, gained her the goodwill and approval
of the king and queen, of Dr. Gunther, the court physician, of the whole
royal household, and, above all, of the lady-in-waiting, Countess Irma
Wildenort.
II.--The Love Affairs of a King
Countess Irma's letters to Emmy, her only convent friend, contained
little of idle gossip and of things that had happened. They had no
continuity. They were introspective, and took the form of a diary taken up
at odd moments and left again to be continued, sometimes the following day,
sometimes after a week. They revealed intellectual development far in
advance of her years, and clear perception of character.
"The queen lives in an exclusive world of sentiment and would like to
raise everybody to her exalted mood--liana-like, in the morning-glow and
evening-glow of sentiment, never in white daylight. She is most gracious
towards me, but we feel it instinctively--there is something in her and in
me that does not harmonise....
"Here all of them think me boundlessly naïve, because I have the courage
to think for myself....
"The king loves reserve, but also gay freeness. The queen is too
serious--eternal organ sound; but you cannot dance to an organ, and we are
young and love to dance.
"A peasant woman from the mountains is nurse to the crown prince. I was
with her at the king's request. I stood by the cot when the king arrived.
He said to me gently: 'It is true, an angel stands by the child's cradle.'
He laid his hand upon mine, which rested on the rail of the cot. The king
went. And just imagine what occurred. The nurse, a fresh, merry person with
blue eyes, buxom and massive, a perfect peasant beauty, to whom I showed
friendliness, so as to cheer her up and save her from feeling homesick, the
nurse tells me in bald words: 'You are an adulteress! You have exchanged
loving glances with the king!'
"Emmy! How you were right in telling me that I idealise the people, and
that they are as corrupt as the great world, and, moreover, without the
curb of culture.
"No! she is a good, intelligent woman. She begged my pardon for her
impertinence; I remain friendly towards her. Yes, I will."
Irma's devotion to her king had something of hero-worship. And the king,
who loved his wife sincerely, but was, and wanted to be, of a heroic
nature, and who was averse to all that savoured of self-torment and
sentimentality, was attracted by Countess Irma's intellectual freedom and
esprit. He felt in her a kindred spirit. Her company was
stimulating; it could not affect the even tenour of his conjugal love. But
the queen, in her sentimental exultation, sought ever for new "documents"
to demonstrate the depth of her affection. And now she wanted to give the
supreme proof by renouncing her Lutheran faith to enter into a yet closer
union with her Catholic husband. To the king this sacrifice seemed not only
sentimentally weak, but politically unwise. He received the confidence
coldly, and begged her to reconsider the matter. He sent Dr. Gunther, who,
in spite of his democratic tendencies, was held in high esteem by the king,
and had great influence over the queen, to exercise his persuasive
powers--with no result.
Where wisdom and experience had failed, the voice of Nature, speaking
out of Walpurga's childish chatter, succeeded. Walpurga told the queen of
her father--how one day on the lake, on hearing the choral singing of the
peasants, he had said: "Now I know how the Almighty feels up there in
Heaven! All the Churches, ours, and the Lutheran, and the Jewish, and the
Turkish, they are all voices in the song. Each sings as he knows, and yet
it sounds well together up there." The queen was radiant next day, when she
informed her spouse that she had the courage of her own inconsistency and
that she had resolved to do his will. The sacrifice was received with
coolness. Was it that her noble act was construed as further evidence of
weakness?
The king had left town for some distant watering-place, and had
requested Irma to write to him at times. Knowing her love of flowers, he
had given orders for a fresh bouquet to be placed every day in her room,
and, perhaps to conceal the favour, in the rooms of two other ladies of the
court. Irma considered both the thought and the expedient unworthy of her
hero, and resolved not to write to him. She spent much of her time at the
studio of a professor of the academy, who not only modelled a bust of her
for a figure of Victory to be placed on the new arsenal, but gave her
instruction in his art. In spite of this new occupation, she found herself
in a state of feverish excitement, which became almost unbearable when the
queen showed her a passage in a letter just received from the king. "Please
make Countess Irma send me regular reports about our son. Remember me to
the dear fourth leaf of our clover-leaf."
She was indignant at this unworthy attempt at forcing her to write. Was
Walpurga right after all? Were lovers' glances to be exchanged over the
child's cradle? She longed for solitude and peace. On the way to her room
she had to stop to think where she was. A gallop might cool her feverish
head. She ordered her horse to be saddled, but had scarcely changed into
her riding-habit when a letter was handed to her, which was unsealed with
trembling fingers. It was a simply worded invitation from her father, who
wished to see her again after her long absence at court. Here was
salvation, balm for her aching heart! She gave a few orders, then hurried
to the queen's apartments to obtain leave of absence; and, accompanied by
her maid, sped to her paternal home the same evening as fast as the horses
would carry her.
The days passed quickly at the manor house, where Irma, for the first
time, gained an insight into the noble mind and firm character of her
father. In his many soothing talks Count Eberhard told her of his regrets
at having been forced by circumstances--her mother's death before Irma had
reached the age of three, and his inability to give her a proper education
in his mountain retreat--to send her first to her aunt, then to the
convent, and thus neglecting his duties as father. A word from him would
have decided her to remain under his roof, but the old philosopher held
that each intelligent being must work out its own destiny, and would not
influence her decision. His slighting remarks about the monarchic system,
about the impossibility of the king, with all his noble intentions, being
able to see the world as it is, since everybody approaches him in pleasing
costume, struck the final jarring note and destroyed the complete
understanding between father and daughter. A half jocular joint letter from
the king and his entourage, in which the signatories expressed in
exaggerated terms their longing for her presence at court, decided her to
return.
The carriage having been sent to the valley in advance, Count Eberhard
walked down with Irma, until they came to the apple-tree which he had
planted on the day of his daughter's birth. He stopped, and picked up a
fallen apple. "Let us part here," he said. "Take this fruit from your
native soil. The apple has left the tree because it has ripened; because
the tree cannot give any more to it. So man leaves home and family. But man
is more than the fruit of a tree. Come, my child, I hold your dear head;
don't weep--or weep! May you never weep for yourself, and only for others!
Remain faithful to yourself! I would give you all my thoughts; remember but
the one: Yield only to such pleasures as will be pleasure in recollection.
Take this kiss. You kiss passionately. May you never give a kiss that does
not leave your soul as pure and full as it is now. Farewell!"
III.--Walpurga Returns Home
Twelve months had passed since Walpurga's arrival at court. Her trunks
were now packed; she had given a last kiss to the boy prince; and now she
asked her Hanseï, who had brought a carriage from the village to take her
home, to wait in the corridor while she took leave from Countess Irma. She
found Irma still in her bed, very pale, with her hair in loose strains on
the pillow.
"I wanted to give you a souvenir," said Irma, "but I think money will be
best for you. Look on the table, and take it all. I don't want any of it.
Take it, and don't be afraid; it is real money, won honestly at the tables.
I always win, always!... Take your kerchief and wrap it up." The room was
so dusky that Walpurga looked around in superstitious fear. The money might
be evil; she quickly made the sign of the Cross over it, and put it into
her ample pocket. "And now, farewell," said Irma. "Be happy. You are
happier than any of us. If ever I don't know where to go, I shall come to
you. You'll have me, won't you? Now go--go! I must sleep. And don't forget
me, Walpurga. Don't thank me, don't speak!"
"Oh, please let me speak, just one word! We both can't know which of us
will die, and then it would be too late. I don't know what's the matter
with you. You are not well, and you may get worse. You often have cold
hands and hot cheeks. I wronged you that day, soon after I arrived. I'll
never think bad of you again, no one shall say evil of you; but, please,
get away from the castle! Go home, to----"
"Enough," exclaimed Irma, thrusting forth her hands as though Walpurga's
words were stones thrown at her. "Farewell; and don't forget me." She held
out her hand for Walpurga to kiss; it was hot and feverish. Walpurga went.
The parrot in the ante-room screamed: "Good-bye, Irma." Walpurga was
frightened, and ran away as though she were chased.
Walpurga's homecoming was not pleasure unalloyed. She did not miss the
luxuries to which she had become accustomed. She rather relished the hard,
manual labour, to which she applied herself with full energy. But her baby
was a stranger to her, cried when she wished to take her up, and became
only gradually accustomed to her. Her faculties had been sharpened, too;
she felt a certain shyness in her husband, noticed his weaknesses, and was
deeply hurt when, on the second evening after her return, he went to the
inn, "so that people should not say he was under her thumb." Then, Hanseï,
coaxed by the shrewd innkeeper, had set his heart upon acquiring the inn,
now that they had "wealth," and upon thus becoming the most important man
in the village. But with much tact and cleverness Walpurga made him give up
the plan, thereby arousing the innkeeper's hostility, which became rampant
when the reunited couple did not appear at a kind of fete which he gave,
ostensibly in their honour, but really to benefit by the proceeds. By this
slight the esteem and admiration of the whole village were turned to
ill-will and spite.
Hanseï and Walpurga were almost boycotted; but their isolation made them
draw closer together, work harder, and enjoy to the fullest the harmony of
their domestic life. Moreover, the freehold farmer, Grubersepp, who was a
personage in the district, and had never before deigned to take much notice
of Hanseï, now called at the cottage and offered his advice on many
questions. When on a Sunday the village doctor and the priest were seen to
visit the cottage, opinion began to veer around once more in the good
people's favour.
It was Walpurga's old uncle Peter, a poor pitch-burner, who was known in
the district as the "pitch-mannikin," who brought the first news that the
freehold farm, where Walpurga's mother had in her young days served as a
maid, was for sale at a very low price for ready money. It was six hours
from the lake, in the mountains--splendid soil, fine forest, everything
perfect. Hanseï decided to have a look at it, and Grubersepp went with him
to value it. The uncle's description was found to be highly coloured; but
after some bargaining the purchase was effected, and soon the news was
bruited about the village that Hanseï had paid "in clinking golden
coin."
The whole village, with a brass band, was assembled on the shore when
Hanseï and Walpurga, with their family and worldly possessions, embarked to
cross the lake on the first stage of their "flitting." All vexations were
forgotten in the hearty send-off, and as the boat glided across the silent
lake it was followed by music, cheering, jodling, and the booming of
mortars.
They approached the opposite shore and Hanseï pointed out the figure of
Uncle Peter waiting for them with the cart and the furniture, when Walpurga
suddenly ceased rowing, and gave a startled cry.
"Heavens! What's that? I could swear, when I was singing I thought if
only my good Countess Irma could see us here together, how happy she would
be. And just now it seemed to me as though----"
"Come on, let's land," said Hanseï.
On the shore a figure in a fluttering garment was running up and down.
It suddenly collapsed when the wind carried a full sound of music across
the lake. Then it rose again, and vanished in the reeds.
"Have you seen nothing?" asked Walpurga.
"Rather! If it were not broad daylight, and if it were not superstition,
I should think it was the mermaid, herself."
The boat at last touched the shore. Walpurga was the first to jump out.
She hurried to the reed-bank, away from her people, and there, behind the
willows, the apparition fell on her neck and broke down.
IV.--The Countess Irma's Atonement
Dr. Gunther received the first telegraphic news of his friend, Count
Eberhard, having lost the power of speech through a stroke of paralysis. He
was to break the news to Irma. For some time she had felt, through the
physician's reserve and sympathetic kindness, that he could read her
secret. And now she realised that sudden knowledge of her disgrace alone
could have struck down her father, whose vigorous constitution had always
kept illness at arm's length.
They arrived at the manor house before midnight, and were shown into the
sufferer's room. Count Eberhard's eyelids moved quickly when he recognised
Dr. Gunther's voice, and he tried to extend his hand towards his friend,
but it fell heavily on the coverlet. Dr. Gunther seized it and held it in a
firm grasp. Irma knelt down before the bed, and her father's trembling hand
felt over her face, and was wetted by her tears. Then he quickly withdrew
it, as though he had touched a poisonous animal; he turned away his face
and pressed his forehead against the wall. Now he turned round again, and
with a gentle movement indicated that he wished her to leave the room.
She was with him again next day. He tried painfully to say something to
her, to make her understand by signs--she could not understand. He bit upon
his lips and tried to sit up. His face was changed--it assumed a strange
colour, a strange expression. Irma saw with a shudder what was happening.
She knelt down and laid her cheek upon his hand. He withdrew the hand. With
supreme effort he wrote a word, a short word, with his finger upon her
forhead. She saw, she heard, she read it--in the air, on her forehead, on
her brain, in her soul--she gave a scream, and fell senseless to the
ground. Dr. Gunther entered quickly, stepped over Irma, closed his friend's
eyes, and all was silence.
For many hours Irma was in her room, shut in with her despair, her
remorse. No one could gain admission. She thought furiously, she raved, and
then fell into a troubled sleep. When she awake her resolution was made.
She asked for light and writing material, and wrote: "My queen,--With death
I atone for my guilt. Forgive and forget! IRMA." On the envelope she wrote:
"To be handed to the queen herself by Dr. Gunther." Then she took another
sheet, and wrote:
"My friend,--For the last time I speak to you. We have gone
astray--terribly. The atonement is mine. You belong to her and to the
people. Your atonement is in life; mine in death. Be calm, be one with the
law that ties you to her and to the people. You have denied both and I have
aided you. Be true again to yourself! This is my dying word, and I die
willingly, if you but listen. Listen to this voice, and do not forget it!
But forget her who speaks to you. I will not be remembered."
She sealed the letters, left them in her writing-case, and asked for her
horse to be saddled. She rode out, followed by a groom, whom, some distance
from home, she sent back on some pretext. When he was out of sight, she
galloped off at full speed, dismounted, struck her horse with the whip to
make it run away, and lost herself in the wood in the direction of the
lake.
V.--A Court Scandal
Irma's torn boots were found on a rock by the lake, her hat floating on
the waters. Although her body could not be recovered, there was no doubt
that the countess had committed suicide. Her father's death must have
bereft her of reason.
When the news was first brought to the king he trembled violently, and
had to seize the back of a chair for support. Then he requested to be left
alone, and with dim eyes he read Irma's farewell message. On the impulse of
the moment, he wanted to send the queen the last words of his friend; he
wanted to write under them, to pour out his whole heart, his whole
repentance. He decided not to act hastily. Even the heaviest task must be
fulfilled without loss of dignity. A chase had been arranged for the
morning. The hunting-party were waiting in the courtyard. With an effort he
pulled himself together, descended with firm step, and entered his
carriage, returning smilingly the salutations of his guests.
The queen was scarcely less shaken by the terrible news, which was
gently broken to her by Dr. Gunther. Her heart was filled with profound
pity for the unfortunate child, and she gave vent to her grief in sobs and
touching lamentations. Dr. Gunther tried to comfort her. "She is not gone
without farewell. She has left this letter for your majesty--surely a
letter that will bring balm in this terrible hour. Even to the last she
proved her loving nature."
The queen seized the letter, read it, and turned deathly pale, then
burning red. When she found words, she exclaimed: "And she has kissed my
child, and he has kissed his child! They talk of the sublime, and their
words do not cut their tongues! Everything is soiled! And he dared say to
me: A prince has no private actions. His doings and his neglects set the
example! Fie! Everything is soiled, everything filthy! Everything!"
She became unconscious. Dr. Gunther sprinkled her forehead with
eau-de-cologne, and had her taken to bed. He sat by the bedside for some
time, until she opened her eyes, thanked him, and expressed her desire to
sleep. He spoke some soothing words, and retired, leaving instructions with
the lady of the bed-chamber in the ante-room.
Some days passed before the king sought his wife's forgiveness. The
interview was brief and decisive. The king spoke nobly, manly and
sincerely; the queen was bitter, sharp and irreconcilable. Her duty as a
queen demanded that the rift should not appear in public; her injured pride
as a woman refused to admit more. He demanded to know whether her friend
and adviser, Dr. Gunther, knew of her decision. She replied he was too
noble to let thoughts of anger or revenge enter his great heart.
"This great being can be made small!"
"You will not rob me of my only friend?"
"Your only friend? I do not know this title. To my knowledge there is no
such office at court. Be what you will! Be alone and seek for support in
yourself."
He stripped the wedding-ring from his hand, placed it on the table, and
moved towards the door. He hesitated a moment--will she call him back? She
looked after him--will he turn around? The moment passed. The door
closed.
In the evening a court was held, and the queen appeared, pale, but
smiling, on her husband's arm. They spoke confidentially, and nobody
noticed the missing ring.
Next day the journals announced that the king's physician had tendered
his resignation.
And court gossip had it that Walpurga had bought a farm with the gold
she had earned as intermediary between the king and the unfortunate
Countess Wildenort.
VI.--Forgiving and Forgiven
Irma had passed four years at Hanseï's mountain farm. Her secret had
been well kept. Even Hanseï, who had promised his wife never to ask any
questions about their permanent guest, was in complete ignorance about her
identity. Irma, who, after having tried her hand at various domestic
occupations, had taken up wood-carving with considerable success, enabling
her to discharge at least the material part of her debt of gratitude, was
generally held to be a half-witted relation of Walpurga's.
Her despair and remorse had gradually given way to resigned sadness.
Self-communion had to make up for lack of intellectual intercourse, and
sharpened her perception. In her diary she entered the profound thoughts
suggested to her active intelligence by her observation of events in
themselves insignificant, and analysed with cool aloofness the working of
her mind. She never entertained the thought of finding a refuge in the
convent--her atonement was to be wrought, not by compulsion, but by free
will. And so the weeks passed, and the months, and the years.
They had all helped in the building of a wooden cowherd's hut on the
height of the mountain, a few hours' climb from the farm. Now Irma felt the
need for more complete solitude, away even from her simple friends. Up
there, on the height, she would find peace and complete her atonement. And
so it was decided to let her have her way, and to let her stay in the hut,
with Peter and his daughter.
The first two days and nights a cloud lingered around them, forming a
veil of dense fog; but on the third day Irma was awakened by the sun and
stepped out to see the awakening of nature. The grandeur, the immensity of
it all, the pure-scented air, the voices of the birds, filled her heart
with gladness. A sunray struck her forehead--the forehead was pure, she
felt it.
Irma now gave up her wood-carving; she had to be urged to eat, and only
took her food to please the kind old "pitch-mannikin." Immovably she would
lie for hours in her favorite meadow, and think and breathe the pure air.
Her life was slowly ebbing from her. A sudden vision of the king with his
companions of the chase galloping past her in pursuit of a stag gave her
the final shock. She cowered on the ground. She bit into the moss, scraped
the earth with her hands--she feared to scream aloud. She staggered back to
the hut, shaken by fever, and threw herself upon her bed. Then she asked
Peter for some paper. She had heard that Dr. Gunther was living with his
family at the summer resort at the foot of the mountain. She wrote with
shaking hand: "Eberhard's daughter calls Dr. Gunther," and sent Peter to
speed down with the message.
In the little town all was excitement and commotion owing to the sojourn
of the royal court. Dr. Gunther, now in favour again, was with the king
when the message arrived. He read the note and was left speechless with
amazement. Then he collected his wits, and hurried with Peter to the dying
penitent's bedside. Irma was sleeping, and he sat by her side until she
awoke. She saw Gunther--pleasure illumined her face, and she held out both
hands towards him. He took them, and she pressed her feverish lips upon his
hands.
Walpurga, to whom the news of Irma's impending end had been brought,
took a quick resolution. She hurried to the little town to seek her queen.
The matter was not easy, for suspicion rested heavily upon her; but her
determination removed all obstacles, and the queen, profoundly moved by
Walpurga's jerky explanation and passionate appeal, and stirred to the very
depths of her soul by Irma's heroism, demanded to be led at once to her.
She was followed in a short while by the king, to whom the whole incident
had been reported.
Gunther sat for hours by Irma's bedside, listening to her heavy
breathing. The door flew open and the queen appeared.
"At last, you have come!" breathed Irma, raising herself and kneeling in
her bed. Then, with a heart-breaking voice, she exclaimed: "Forgive,
forgive!"
"Forgive me, Irma, my sister!" sobbed the queen, and took her in her
arms and kissed her. A smile spread over Irma's face; then with a cry of
pain she fell back dead.
When the king arrived he found his wife kneeling before the bed. He
quietly knelt down by her side. The queen arose, placed her hand upon his
head. "Kurt," she said, "forgive me, as I have forgiven you." Then she
spread a white kerchief over the dead, and they left the hut. They walked
hand in hand through the wood, until they reached the road, where carriages
were waiting.
During the night the "pitch-mannikin" dug a grave on the spot where Irma
had loved to lie in the sun. She was buried there early next morning.
Hanseï and Peter and Dr. Gunther carried the corpse, and Walpurga with her
child formed the procession.
Jane Austen, daughter of the rector of Steventon, in North
Hampshire, England, was born there on December 16, 1775, and received her
education from her father, a former Fellow of St. John's College, Oxford.
Her life was spent in the country or in country towns, chiefly at the
village of Chawton, near Winchester. She died, unmarried, at Winchester on
July 18, 1817, and was buried in the cathedral. The novels of Jane Austen
may be divided into two groups. The first three--"Sense and Sensibility,"
"Pride and Prejudice," and "Northanger Abbey"--were all written, in first
draft, at any rate, between 1792 and 1798. These are the novels composed
during the author's residence at Steventon, which she left in 1801. There
succeeded an interval of practically fourteen years (1798-1812), during
which time the novelist let her mind lie absolutely fallow. As a natural
consequence of the comparatively secluded life which Jane Austen led, the
society with which she deals in her novels is a rather restricted one. It
is the world of the country gentleman and of the upper professional class.
From a very early age Jane Austen had a taste for writing tales, and the
first draft of "Sense and Sensibility "--then called "Elinor and
Marianne"--was composed as early as 1792. The book was recast under its
present title between 1797 and 1798, and again revised prior to its
publication in 1811. In addition to the six novels on which her fame is
based--all of which were issued anonymously--Jane Austen has to her credit
some agreeable "Letters," a fragment of a story called "The Watsons," and a
sort of novelette which bears the name of "Lady Susan."
I.--The Dashwoods of Norland Park
Mr. Henry Dashwood, of Norland Park, Sussex, died leaving his widow and
his three daughters, Elinor, Marianne and Margaret, to the generosity of
Mr. John Dashwood, his son by his first wife and the heir to his estate.
Mr. John, who, apart from the family inheritance, had received one fortune
from his mother and another with his wife, was at first disposed to
increase the portions of his sisters by giving them a thousand pounds
apiece; but under the persuasion of his wife he finally resolved that it
would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for
his father's widow and children than such kind of neighbourly acts as
looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to remove
their things, and sending them presents of fish and game whenever they were
in season.
Taking account of this resolve, as expressed in Mr. John Dashwood's
frequent talk of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the
perpetual demands made upon his purse, and exasperated, too, by the
manifest disapprobation with which Mrs. John Dashwood looked upon the
growing attachment between her own brother, Edward Ferrars, and Elinor,
Mrs. Henry Dashwood and her daughters left their old home with some
abruptness and went to live in Devonshire, where their old friend, Sir John
Middleton, of Barton Park, had provided them with a cottage close to his
own place.
Elinor, the eldest of the daughters, possessed a strength of
understanding and coolness of judgment which qualified her, though only
nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to
counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs.
Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent
heart. Her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but
she knew how to govern them. It was a knowledge which her mother had yet to
learn, and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. She
was sensible and clever, but eager in everything; her sorrows, her joys
could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting; she was
everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was
strikingly great, and her excess of sensibility, which Elinor saw with
concern, was by Mrs. Dashwood valued and cherished.
Margaret, the other sister, was good-humoured; but she had already
imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her
sense, and, at thirteen, she did not bid fair to equal her sisters at a
more advanced period of life.
But whatever the virtues or failings of the Dashwood ladies, their
society was very welcome at Barton Park. Sir John Middleton was a
good-looking man about forty, thoroughly good-humoured in manner and
countenance, friendly and kind-hearted in disposition, who delighted in
collecting about him more young people than his house would hold.
Lady Middleton was a handsome woman of six-and-twenty, well-bred, and
graceful in address, but deficient in frankness, warmth, or anything to say
for herself. She piqued herself upon the elegance of her table appointments
and of all her domestic arrangements; and this kind of vanity it was that
constituted her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. Sir John was a
sportsman; Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured
her children; and these were their only resources. Continual engagements at
home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and
education--supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the
good-breeding of his wife.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, who formed one of the party on
the first occasion of the Dashwoods dining at Barton Park, was a
good-humoured, fat, elderly woman, who talked a good deal, and seemed very
happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before
dinner was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and
husbands, hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and
pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. In fact, this lady was
a born match-maker; and she at once proceeded, by hints here and raillery
there, to promote a match between Marianne, aged seventeen, and Colonel
Brandon, a grave but sensible bachelor on the wrong side of thirty-five.
Marianne, however, scorned and laughed at the idea, being reasonable enough
to allow that a man of five-and-thirty might well have outlived all
acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment; and having met
with an accident which led to her being carried home by a handsome and
vivacious young gentleman called Willoughby, who had a seat called Combe
Magna in Somersetshire, she rapidly developed a liking for his society, and
as quickly discovered that in regard to music, to dancing, and to books,
their tastes were strikingly alike.
"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, after his first visit, "for one morning I
think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr.
Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what to
think of Cowper and Scott; you are aware of his estimating their beauties
as he ought; and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no
more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported
under such extraordinary dispatch of every subject for discourse? You will
soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to
explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty and second marriages, and then
you can have nothing further to ask."
To this Marianne replied, "Is this fair? Is this just? Are my ideas so
scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease--too
happy, too frank. I have erred against every commonplace notion of decorum.
I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved,
spiritless, dull and deceitful. Had I talked only of the weather and the
roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have
been spared."
From which it will be gathered that Marianne began now to perceive that
that desperation which had seized her at sixteen-and-a-half of ever seeing
a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection had been somewhat rash and
quite unjustifiable.
II.--Marianne Dashwood in Love
Willoughby's society soon became Marianne's most exquisite enjoyment.
The mutual attachment was obvious--amusingly obvious. They read, they
talked, they sang, they danced, they drove together, and they even agreed
in depreciating Colonel Brandon as "the kind of man whom everybody spoke
well of and nobody cared about; whom all were delighted to see, and nobody
remembered to talk to." Then, after cutting off a lock of Marianne's hair,
after offering her a horse, and after showing her over the house which
would eventually be his on the death of Mrs. Smith, the elderly relative on
whom he was partially dependent, the young lover suddenly took leave of the
family, having said not a word to Mrs. Dashwood of an engagement, and
having offered no other explanation of his hasty departure than the flimsy
pretext of being sent by his relative on business to London.
Willoughby left for London a few days after Colonel Brandon had also
been unexpectedly summoned to the same place, and he expressed no hope of
any rapid return into Devonshire. On such an occasion Marianne would have
thought herself very inexcusable had she not given way to all her feelings;
and for some days she courted misery and indulged in tears, in solitude,
and in sleeplessness. But she was soon set a better example by Elinor, who
did her utmost to remain cheerful under the depression of heart caused by a
visit paid to the family about this same time by Edward Ferrars. He was
obviously uneasy, low-spirited and reserved, said he had already been a
fortnight in Devonshire stopping with some friends at Plymouth, and, after
a week's stay with the Dashwoods, left them, in spite of their wishes and
his own, and without any restraint on his time. But Elinor and Marianne
were not long allowed leisure to be miserable. Sir John's and Mrs.
Jennings' active zeal in the cause of society soon procured them some other
new acquaintance to see and observe. One of these couples was Lady
Middleton's brother-in-law and younger sister, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. It was
impossible for anyone to be more thoroughly good-natured or more determined
to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and
discontent of her husband gave her no pain, and when he scolded or abused
her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll," she used to say in
a whisper to Elinor; "he is always out of humour." One day, at dinner, his
wife said to him, with her usual laugh, "My love, you contradict everybody.
Do you know that you are quite rude?" To which he replied, "I did not know
I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill-bred." But the
good-natured old lady was in no wise affronted, "Ay; you may abuse me as
much as you please," she said. "You have taken Charlotte off my hands, and
cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip-hand of you."
The other couple of new friends whom Sir John's reluctance to keep even
a third cousin to himself provided for them were the Misses Steele. In a
morning's excursion to Exeter Sir John and Mrs. Jennings had met with two
young ladies whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be
her relations; and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to
the Park as soon as their engagements at Exeter were over. The result was
that Elinor and Marianne were almost forced into an intercourse with two
young women, who, however civil they might be, were obviously underbred.
Miss Steele was a plain girl about thirty, whose whole conversation was of
beaux; while Miss Lucy Steele, a pretty girl of twenty-three, was, despite
her native cleverness, probably common and illiterate.
Marianne, however, who had never much toleration for anything like
impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste
from herself, soon checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side by the
coldness of her behaviour towards them; but Elinor, from politeness,
submitted to the attentions of both, but especially to those of Lucy, who
missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to
improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her
sentiments, until one day, as they were walking together from the Park to
the cottage, she asked Elinor if she were personally acquainted with Mrs.
John Dashwood's mother, Mrs. Ferrars, and, in explanation of her question,
proceeded to confound her by confessing that she knew Mr. Edward Ferrars,
who had been at one time under the care of her uncle, Mr. Pratt, at
Longstaple, near Plymouth, and that she had been engaged to him for the
last four years.
Distressed by this news, which she was quite aware that Lucy had
confided to her merely from jealousy and suspicion, indignant at Edward's
duplicity, though convinced of his genuine attachment to herself, Elinor
resolved not to give pain to her mother and sister by telling them of the
engagement. Indeed, her attention was soon withdrawn from her own to her
sister's love affairs by an invitation which Mrs. Jennings gave the two
girls to spend a few weeks with her in town at her house near Portman
Square, an invitation which was accepted by Marianne in the hope of seeing
Willoughby, and by Elinor with the intention of looking after Marianne.
Mrs. Jennings' party was three days on the road, and arrived in Berkeley
Street at three o'clock in the afternoon, in time to allow Marianne to
write a brief note to Willoughby. But he failed to appear that evening; and
when a loud knock at the door resulted in Colonel Brandon being admitted
instead, she found the shock of disappointment too great to be borne with
calmness, and left the room.
As it happened, a full week elapsed before she discovered, by finding
his card on the table, that her lover had arrived in town. Even then she
could not see him. He failed to call the next morning, and though invited
to dine on the following day with the Middletons in Conduit Street, he
neglected to put in an appearance. Which strange conduct moved Marianne to
send another note to him; and Elinor to write to her mother, entreating her
to demand from Marianne an account of her real situation with respect to
him.
A meeting between Marianne Dashwood and John Willoughby at last took
place at a fashionable party, where the latter greeted the two sisters with
great coldness and reluctance; and a third letter from Marianne, now
frantic with grief, elicited a reply from him in which he announced his
engagement to another lady, "reproached himself for not having been more
guarded in his professions of esteem for Marianne, and returned, with great
regret, the lock of her hair which she had so obligingly bestowed on
him."
A day or two later Colonel Brandon called on Elinor to give her certain
information about Willoughby. He told her that his sudden departure from
Devonshire to London, which had surprised his friends so much, had been due
to an affecting letter he had received from his ward, Miss Williams, the
natural daughter of a beloved sister-in-law. Willoughby had met this
lady--a pretty girl of sixteen--at Bath, and, after a guilty intimacy, had
abandoned her. Colonel Brandon had gone to her rescue and to fight a
bloodless duel with her betrayer.
III.--Matrimonial Intrigues
One day Elinor and Marianne were at Gray's, in Sackville Street,
carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels
belonging to their mother, when they came upon their half-brother, Mr. John
Dashwood. He paid a visit to Mrs. Jennings the next day, and came with a
pretence of an apology for his wife not coming, too. To his sisters his
manners, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings most
attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon coming in soon after himself, he
eyed him with a curiosity that seemed to say that he only wanted to know
him to be rich to be equally civil to him. After staying with them
half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and to
introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton; and as soon as they were out
of the house he began to make inquiries about Colonel Brandon. Which
inquiries having elicited the satisfactory information that the gentleman
had a good property at Delaford Park, in Dorsetshire, Mr.
Dashwood--indifferent to his sister's disclaimers--proceeded to
congratulate her on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in
life, to insist that the objections to a prior attachment on her side were
not insurmountable, and to inform her that the object of that
attachment--Mr. Edward Ferrars--was likely to be married to Miss Morton, a
peer's daughter, with thirty thousand pounds of her own.
Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment that
she waited the very next day on both Mrs. Jennings and her daughter. She
found the former by no means unworthy her notice, and the latter one of the
most charming women in the world. The attraction was mutual, for Lady
Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood.
There was a kind of cold-hearted selfishness on both sides, which
mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid
propriety of demeanour and a general want of understanding. Indeed, the
Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons that, though
not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them a
dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine at
Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house for three months.
Mrs. Jennings and the Misses Dashwood were invited likewise, and so were
Colonel Brandon, as a friend of the young ladies, and the Misses Steele, as
belonging to the Middleton party in Conduit Street. They were to meet Mrs.
Ferrars.
Mrs. Ferrars turned out to be a little, thin woman, upright even to
formality in her figure, and serious even to sourness in her aspect. Her
complexion was sallow, and her features small, without beauty, and
naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had
rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity by giving it the
strong characters of pride and ill-nature. She was not a woman of many
words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number
of her ideas; of the few syllables which did escape her, not one fell to
the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination
of disliking her at all events; whereas towards the Misses
Steele--particularly towards Lucy--both mother and daughter were
ostentatiously gracious. On this occasion Marianne created something of a
scene by openly resenting this treatment of her sister; while Mr. Dashwood,
seeking to interest Colonel Brandon in Elinor, showed him a pretty pair of
screens which she had painted for his wife, and informed him that "a few
months ago Marianne was remarkably handsome, quite as handsome as
Elinor."
The next morning Lucy called on Elinor to exult in Mrs. Ferrars'
flattering treatment of her; her joy, however, was somewhat diminished by
the unexpected appearance of Edward Ferrars in Berkeley Street, for though
both Elinor and Lucy were able to keep up their respective poses towards
him, Marianne confused all three by an open demonstration of her sisterly
affection for him. But an invitation from Mrs. John Dashwood to the Misses
Steele to spend some days in Harley Street soon restored Lucy's equanimity,
and almost made Elinor believe that her rival was a real favourite.
At any rate this was the view taken by foolish Nancy Steele.
"Lord!" thought she to herself, "they are all so fond of Lucy, to be
sure they will make no difficulty about it." And so away she went and told
Mrs. Dashwood all about Lucy's engagement to Edward Ferrars; the result of
which was that the married lady fell into hysterics, while the Misses
Steele were hastily bundled out of the house.
Elinor, on hearing this news from Mrs. Jennings, soon saw the necessity
of preparing Marianne for its discussion. She lost no time, therefore, in
making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her
to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any
uneasiness for her sister or any resentment towards Edward. At first
Marianne wept in grief and amazement; then she began to ascribe Elinor's
long reticence about the engagement to lack of real depth of feeling; and
it was not till the latter had done a deal of protesting that the younger
girl was able to give her sister due credit for self-sacrifice and
generosity. So when Mr. John Dashwood came round to his sisters to tell
them how Edward had refused to break off his engagement, and how Mrs.
Ferrars, on hearing of this, had resolved to cut him off with a shilling,
and to do all in her power to prevent his advancing in any profession, and
had settled on his brother Robert an estate of a thousand pounds which she
had intended to bestow on him, Marianne let her indignation burst forth
only when her brother had quitted the room. A few days later, Elinor met
Nancy Steele in Kensington Gardens, who gave her a certain information,
which subsequently turned out to have been derived from listening at the
keyhole. This was to the effect that Edward, out of consideration for Lucy,
who would be marrying a man with no prospects and with no means save two
thousand pounds, had offered to give her up; but that Lucy had protested
her affection for him, was determined not to give him up, and was building
hopes on his taking orders and getting a living. Fortunately, the much
desired living came far sooner than Lucy could have expected, for Colonel
Brandon, with characteristic kindness, offered the presentation of the
rectory of Delaford to Edward through Elinor.
IV--A Happy Ending to Love's Troubles
Anxious though the Misses Dashwood were to get back to Barton, they
could not refuse an invitation from the Palmers to spend a few days with
them. But, thanks to the romantic folly of Marianne--who, because she
fancied she could see Combe Magna, Willoughby's place, from Cleveland, must
needs take two evening walks in the grounds just where the grass was the
longest and the wettest--the house-party enjoyed not the pleasantest of
times. Marianne had to take to bed, and became so feverish and delirious
that Colonel Brandon volunteered to fetch Mrs. Dashwood himself.
The next evening Elinor, who was acting as her sister's most devoted
nurse, and was hourly expecting her mother's arrival, was astounded by a
visit from Willoughby, who, having met Sir John Middleton in the lobby of
Drury Lane Theatre the previous night, and thus heard of Marianne's serious
illness, had set forth post-haste to make inquiries, and was now delighted
to find her out of danger. Attempting an exculpation of himself, he
confessed that at first meeting Marianne he had tried to engage her regard
without a thought of returning it; that afterwards he grew sincerely fond
of her, but put off from day to day paying her his formal addresses and
that just at the moment when he was going to make a regular proposal to
her, Mrs. Smith's discovery of his liaison with Miss Williams, and his
refusal to right matters by marrying the young lady, dismissed him from his
relative's house and favour, prevented him from declaring his love to
Marianne, and, in the embarrassed state of his finances, seemed to render
marriage with a wealthy woman his only chance of salvation. He repudiated
the charge of having deserted Miss Williams, declaring that he did not know
the straits to which she had been reduced. He also alluded to the violence
of her passion, and the weakness of her understanding, as some excuses for
the apparent heartlessness of his own conduct.
He then went on to explain his treatment of Marianne's letters; how he
had already--previous to the arrival of the Dashwoods in town--become
engaged to Miss Sophia Grey; how, with his head and heart full of Marianne,
he was forced to play the happy lover to Sophia; and how Sophia, in her
jealousy, had opened Marianne's third letter and dictated the reply.
"What do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing? Delicate,
tender, fully feminine, was it not?" said he.
"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby," said Elinor. "You ought not to
speak in this way either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You have made
your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your
politeness--to your respect, at least." She must be attached to you, or she
would not have married you."
"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he, with a heavy sigh. "She does
not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we
married. And now, do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Have I explained away any
part of my guilt?"
"Yes. You have certainly removed something--a little," said Elinor. "You
have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed
you."
When Mrs. Dashwood arrived at Cleveland, Elinor at once gave her the
joyful news of Marianne's material improvement in health and, after an
affectionate but nearly silent interview had taken place between mother and
sick child, the former proceeded to express to Elinor her admiration for
Colonel Brandon's disposition and manners, and her expectation that he and
Marianne would make a match of it. The Colonel, it seemed, had told Mrs.
Dashwood on the way of his affection for her daughter.
Marianne, however, at first seemed to have other plans. When the family
got back to Barton Cottage, she announced that she had determined to enter
on a course of serious study, and to devote six hours a day to improving
herself by reading. But with such a confederacy against her as that formed
by her mother and Elinor--with a knowledge so intimate of Colonel Brandon's
goodness--what could she do?
As for Elinor, her self-control was at last rewarded, thanks to a
strange volte-face on the part of Lucy Steele who, finding that
Robert Ferrars had the money, married him and jilted his brother.
The way was thus cleared to Elinor's union with Edward, whose mother was
induced to give the young couple her consent, and a marriage portion of
£10,000.
This, Jane Austen's best-known novel, was written between
1796 and 1797, and was called "First Impressions." Revised in 1811, it was
published two years later by the same Mr. Egerton, of the Military Library,
Whitehall, who had brought out "Sense and Sensibility." Like its
predecessor, and like "Northanger Abbey," it was written at Steventon
Rectory, and it is generally regarded not only as its author's most popular
but as her most representative achievement. Wickham, the all-conquering
young lady-killer of the story, is a favourite character of the novelist He
figures as Willoughby in "Sense and Sensibility," as Crawford in "Mansfield
Park," as Churchill in "Emma," and--to a certain extent--as Wentworth in
"Persuasion." Another characteristic feature of "Pride and Prejudice" is
Wickham's unprepared attachment to Lydia Bennet, resembling as it does
Robert Ferrars' startling engagement to Lucy Steele in "Sense and
Sensibility," Frank Churchill's secret understanding with Jane Fairfax in
"Emma," and Captain Benwick's sudden and unexpected union with Louisa
Musgrove in "Persuasion."
I.--A Society Ball at Longbourn
All Longbourn was agape with excitement when it became known that
Netherfield Park, the great place of the neighbourhood, was let to a rich
and handsome young bachelor called Bingley, and that Mr. Bingley and his
party were to attend the forthcoming ball at the Assembly Rooms.
Nowhere did the news create more interest and rouse greater hopes than
in the household of the Bennets, the chief inhabitants of Longbourn; for
Mr. Bennet--who was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been
insufficient to make his wife understand his character--was the father of
five unmarried daughters; while Mrs. Bennet--a still handsome woman, of
mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper--made the
business of her life getting her daughters married, and its solace visiting
and news.
The evening fixed for the ball came round at last; and when the
Netherfield party entered the Assembly Rooms it was found to consist of
five persons altogether--Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the
elder, and another young man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentleman-like; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women,
with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely
looked the gentleman; but his friend, Mr. Darcy, soon drew the attention of
the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the
report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after his
entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. He was looked at with great
admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust
which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was found to be proud, to
be above his company, and above being pleased.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal
people in the room. He was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was
angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at
Netherfield. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced
only once with Mrs. Hurst, and once with Miss Bingley, and declined being
introduced to any other lady.
It so happened that Elizabeth, the second eldest of the Bennet girls,
had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances;
and during part of that time Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for
her to overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from
the dance for a few minutes.
"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better
dance."
"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner" At such an assembly as this it
would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another
woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up
with."
"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Bingley, "for a
kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life
as I have this evening, and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly
pretty."
"You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said
Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
"Oh, she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one
of her sisters sitting down just behind you who is very pretty, and I dare
say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."
"Which do you mean?" And turning round, he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till, catching her eye, he withdrew his own, and coldly said:
"She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in
no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted
by other men; You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles,
for you are wasting your time with me."
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
remained, with no very cordial feelings towards him. She told the story,
however, with great spirit among her friends, for she had a lively, playful
disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.
II--The Bennet Girls and their Lovers
Despite its rather unpromising commencement the course of a few days
placed the acquaintance of the Bennets with the Bingleys on a footing
approaching friendship; and soon matters began to stand somewhat as follow.
It was obvious that Charles Bingley and Jane Bennet were mutually
attracted, and this despite the latter's outward composure, which, like her
amiability of manner and charity of view, was apt to mislead the
superficial observer. On the other hand, while the Bingley ladies expressed
themselves as willing to know the two elder Miss Bennets and pronounced
Jane "a sweet girl," they found the other females of the family impossible.
Mrs. Bennet was intolerably stupid and tedious; Mary, who, being the only
plain member of her family, piqued herself on the extent of her reading and
the solidity of her reflections, was a platitudinous moralist; while Lydia
and Kitty were loud, silly, giggling girls, who spent all their time in
running after men. As for Mr. Darcy, the indifference he at first felt to
Elizabeth Bennet was gradually converted into a sort of guarded interest.
Originally he had scarcely allowed her to be pretty, but now he admired the
beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some
others equally mortifying. Though he had detected more than one failure of
perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be
light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not
those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. He
began to wish to know more of her, and, as a step towards conversing with
her himself, attended to her conversation with others, while, since both he
and she were of a satirical turn, they soon began to exchange little
rallying, challenging speeches, so that Caroline Bingley, who was openly
angling for Darcy herself, said to him one night: "How long has Miss
Elizabeth Bennet been such a favourite? And pray when am I to wish you
joy?" To which remarks he merely replied: "That is exactly the question
which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps
from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you
would be wishing me joy."
Meantime, the friendship subsisting between the two families was
advanced by a visit of some days paid by the two Bennet sisters to the
Bingleys, at whose house Jane, thanks to her mother's scheming, was laid up
with a bad cold. On this occasion Jane was coddled and made much of by her
dear friends Caroline and Mrs. Hurst; but Elizabeth was now reckoned too
attractive by one sister, and condemned as too sharp-tongued by both.
"Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is
one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex
by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But
in my opinion it is a very mean art."
"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
"there is meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
despicable."
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
continue the subject.
Nevertheless, Darcy's growing attachment to Eliza was little dreamt of
by that young lady. Indeed, her prejudice against him was strengthened by
her pleasant intercourse with a handsome and agreeable young man called
Wickham, an officer of the militia regiment quartered at Meryton, the
nearest town to Longbourn. He told her how he was the son of a trusted
steward of Darcy's father, and had been left by the old gentleman to his
heir's liberality and care, and how Darcy had absolutely disregarded his
father's wishes, and had treated his protégé in cruel and
unfeeling fashion.
On the top of this disclosure, and just at it seemed certain that
Bingley was on the point of proposing to Jane, the whole Netherfield party
suddenly abandoned Hertfordshire and returned to town, partly, as Elizabeth
could not help thinking, in consequence of the behaviour of her family at a
ball given at Netherfield Park, where it appeared to her that, had they
made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during the
evening, they could not have played their parts with more spirit or finer
success.
III.--Elizabeth Rejects the Rector
About this time the Rev. Mr. Collins, heir-presumptive to Longbourn,
came on a visit to the Bennets. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of
five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very
formal. He was a strange mixture of pomposity, servility, and
self-importance, a creature most abjectly, yet most amusingly, devoid of
anything like tact, taste, or humour.
Being ready to make the Bennet girls every possible amends for the
unwilling injury he must eventually do them, he thought first of all of
offering himself to Jane; but hearing that her affections were pre-engaged,
he had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth. It was soon done--done while
Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. His proposal he made to the younger lady
in a long, set speech, in which he explained, first of all, his general
reasons for marrying, and then his reasons for directing his matrimonial
views to Longbourn, finally assuring her that on the subject of the small
portion she would bring him no ungenerous reproach should ever pass his
lips when they were married.
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him then, so Elizabeth told him
he was too hasty, thanked him for his proposals, and declined them.
"I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
hand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a
third, time. I am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have
said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long."
"Upon my word, sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is rather an
extraordinary one after my declaration! I do assure you that I am not one
of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as
to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am
perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make me happy; and I
am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make
you so. Nay; were your friend, Lady Catherine, to know me, I am
persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
situation."
"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so----" said Mr.
Collins, very gravely. "But I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of
seeing her again, I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty,
economy, and other amiable qualifications."
Twice more was Mr. Collins refused, and even then he would not take "No"
for an answer.
"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin," said he,
"that your refusals of my addresses are merely words, of course. My reasons
for believing it are chiefly these. It does not appear to me that my hand
is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be
any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with
the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances
highly in my favour; and you should take it into further consideration
that, in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that
another offer of marriage may ever be made to you. Your portion is
unhappily so small that it will, in all likelihood, undo the effects of
your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must, therefore, conclude
that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to
attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to
the usual practice of elegant females."
"I do assure you, sir," said Elizabeth, "that I have no pretensions
whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a
respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed
sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in
your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in
every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an
elegant female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking
the truth from her heart."
"You are uniformly charming," said he, with an air of awkward gallantry;
"and I am persuaded that, when sanctioned by the express authority of both
your excellent parents, my proposals will be acceptable."
IV.--Darcy Loves and Loses
Rejected by Elizabeth, to the great satisfaction of her father and to
the great indignation of her mother, the rector of Hunsford lost no time in
betaking himself to Elizabeth's dearest friend, Charlotte Lucas, who, being
a girl with unromantic, not to say prosaic, views of marriage, readily
accepted and married him, thereby moving to further disgust and anger poor
Mrs. Bennet, who was already wondering and repining at Mr. Bingley's
returning no more into Hertfordshire. Jane suffered in silence, and despite
Elizabeth's efforts to point out the duplicity of Caroline Bingley, was
inclined to believe the protestations that the latter made in her letters
from London of Bingley's growing attachment to Darcy's sister
Georgiana.
Mr. Bennet treated the matter in his customary ironical way.
"So, Lizzy," said he, one day, "your sister is crossed in love, I find.
I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in
love a little now and then. It is something to think of, and gives her a
sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You
will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are
officers enough at Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the
country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt
you creditably."
"Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
all expect Jane's good fortune."
"True," said Mr. Bennet; "but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of
that kind may befall you, you have a mother who will always make the most
of it."
As it turned out, Wickham, though he had not arrived at an intimacy
which enabled him to jilt Elizabeth, yet most certainly transferred
his attentions very shortly from her to a Miss King, who, by the death of
her grandfather, had come into £10,000. Elizabeth, however, was quite
heartwhole; and she and her former admirer parted on friendly terms when
she left Longbourn to pay her promised visit to Mr. and Mrs. Collins at
Hunsford.
There she found Charlotte, managing her home and her husband with
considerable discretion: and, as the rectory adjoined Rosings Park, the
seat of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the patroness of the living, she was
introduced to that lady, in whom she could discover nothing but an insolent
aristocratic woman, who dictated to everyone about her, meddled in
everybody's business, aimed at marrying her sickly daughter to Darcy, and
was, needless to say, slavishly adored by Mr. Collins.
In the third week of her visit Mr. Darcy and his cousin, Colonel
Fitzwilliam, came down to see their aunt, and thus--to Elizabeth's
indifference--an acquaintance was renewed which Darcy soon seemed to show a
real desire to take up again. He sought her society at Rosings Park, he
called familiarly at the rectory, he waylaid her in her favourite walk; and
all the time, in all his intercourse with her, he revealed such a mixture
of interest and constraint as demonstrated only too clearly that some
internal struggle was going on within him.
Mrs. Collins began to hope for her friend; but Elizabeth, who had
received from Colonel Fitzwilliam ample confirmation of her suspicion that
it was Darcy who had persuaded Bingley to give up Jane, was now only more
incensed against the man who had broken her sister's peace of mind.
On the very evening of the day on which she had extracted this piece of
information from his cousin, Darcy, knowing her to be alone, called at the
rectory, and, after a silence of several minutes, came towards her in an
agitated manner.
"In vain have I struggled," he said. "It will not do. My feelings will
not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and
love you."
Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,
doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and
the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt, for her immediately
followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart
to be detailed. His sense of her inferiority, of marriage with her being a
degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to
inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the
consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
In truth, it was already lost, for though Elizabeth could not be insensible
to the compliment of such a man's affection, her intentions did not vary
for an instant. Accusing him of having ruined, perhaps for ever, the
happiness of her sister Jane, and of having blighted the career of his
former friend Wickham, she reproached him with the uncivil style of his
declaration, and gave him her answer in the words:
"You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way
that would have tempted me to accept it."
Soon after, Darcy took his leave; but the next day he accosted Elizabeth
in the park, and handed her a letter, which he begged her to read. She read
it, and had the mortification to discover not only that Darcy made some
scathing but perfectly justifiable comments on the objectionable members of
her family, but that he was able to clear himself of both the charges she
had brought against him. He maintained that in separating Bingley from Jane
he had not the slightest notion that he was doing the latter any injury,
since he never credited her with any strong attachment to his friend; and
he assured Elizabeth that, though Wickham had always been an idle and
dissipated person, he had more than fulfilled his father's intentions to
him, and that Wickham had repaid him for his generosity by trying to elope
with his young sister Georgiana, a girl of fifteen.
When Elizabeth returned to Longbourn, she found it a relief to tell Jane
of Darcy's proposal, and of his revelation of Wickham's real character; but
she thought it best to suppress every particular of the letter in which
Jane herself was concerned.
V.--An Elopement
Some two months later Elizabeth went on a tour in Derbyshire with her
maternal uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. The latter had lived for
some years at a town called Lambton, and wished to revisit her old friends
there; and as Pemberley--Mr. Darcy's seat--was only five miles off, and was
a show-place, the Gardiners determined to see it, though their niece was
reluctant to accompany them until she had learned that its owner was not at
home. As they were being shown over the place, Elizabeth could not help
reflecting that she might have been mistress of it, and she listened with
surprise as the old housekeeper told them that she should never meet with a
better master, that she had never had a cross word from him in her life,
that as a child he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted
boy in the world, and that there was not one of his tenants or servants but
would testify to his excellent qualities as a landlord and a master.
As they were walking across the lawn the owner of Pemberley himself
suddenly came forward from the road, and as if to justify the praises of
his housekeeper, and to show that he had taken to heart Elizabeth's former
complaints of his behaviour, proceeded to treat the Gardiner party with the
greatest civility, and even cordiality. He introduced his sister to them,
asked them to dinner, invited Mr. Gardiner to fish at Pemberley as often as
he chose, and, in answer to a spiteful remark of Miss Bingley's to the
effect that he had thought Elizabeth pretty at one time, made the crushing
reply:
"Yes, but that was only when I first knew her; for it is many months
since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my
acquaintance."
But just when Elizabeth's growing esteem and gratitude might have
deepened into affection for Darcy, circumstances were communicated to her
in a letter from Jane which seemed to render it in the highest degree
improbable that so proud and fastidious a man as he would ever make any
further advances. Lydia, who had got herself invited by some friends to
Brighton in order to be near the militia regiment which had been
transferred there from Meryton, had eloped with Wickham, and the pair,
instead of going to Scotland to be married, appeared--though their
whereabouts could not yet be discovered--to be living together in London
unmarried.
Darcy seemed to be staggered when he heard the news, and instantly
acquiesced in the immediate return of the Gardiner party to Longbourn. They
found on their arrival that Mr. Bennet was searching for his daughter in
London, where Mr. Gardiner agreed to go to consult with him.
"Oh, my dear brother," said Mrs. Bennet, on hearing this, "that is
exactly what I could most wish for! And now do, when you get to town, find
them out wherever they may be; and if they are not married already,
make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait
for that; but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy
them after they are married. And, above all things, keep Mr. Bennet from
fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in--that I am frightened out
of my wits, and have such tremblings, such flutterings all over me; such
spasms in my side, and pains in my head, and such beatings at my heart that
I can get no rest by day nor by night. And tell my dear Lydia not to give
any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not
know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know
you will contrive it all."
Mr. Collins improved the occasion by writing a letter of condolence, in
which he assured the distressed father that the death of Lydia would have
been a blessing in comparison with her elopement. But, unfortunately, much
of this instruction was wasted, the distress of the Bennets proving less
irremediable than their cousin had anticipated or their neighbours
feared--for, thanks, as it seemed, to the investigations and to the
generosity of Mr. Gardiner, the eloping couple were discovered, and it was
made worth Wickham's while to marry Lydia. Longbourn society bore the good
news with decent philosophy, though, to be sure, it would have been more
for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the
town.
VI.--Three Bennet Weddings
After arrangements had been made for Wickham's entering the regulars and
joining a regiment at Newcastle, his marriage with Lydia took place, and
the young couple were received at Longbourn. Their assurance was quite
reassuring.
"Well, mamma," said Lydia, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not
he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they
may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place
to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go!"
"Very true. And if I had my will we should. But, my dear Lydia, I don't
at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"
"Oh, Lord, yes! There is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things.
You and papa and my sisters must come down and see us. We shall be at
Newcastle all the winter; and I dare say there will be some balls, and I
will take care to get good partners for them all."
"I should like it beyond anything!" said her mother.
"And then, when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters
behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter
is over."
"I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not
particularly like your way of getting husbands!"
Indeed, from some remark which Lydia let slip about Darcy being at the
wedding, Elizabeth soon began to think that it was only due to outside
efforts that Mrs. Wickham had succeeded in getting her own
husband.
An application for information which she made to her Aunt Gardiner
confirmed this suspicion. Darcy, it seems, had hurried up to London
immediately on hearing of the elopement; and he it was who, thanks to his
knowledge of Wickham's previous history, found out where Lydia and he were
lodging, and by dint of paying his debts to the tune of a thousand pounds,
buying his commission, and settling another thousand pounds on Lydia,
persuaded him to make her an honest woman. That is to say, thought
Elizabeth, Darcy had met, frequently met, reasoned with, persuaded, and
finally bribed the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very
name it was punishment to him to pronounce. Meantime, Bingley, accompanied
by Darcy, made his reappearance at Netherfield Park and at the Bennets';
and Elizabeth had the mortification of seeing her mother welcome the former
with the greatest effusiveness, and treat the latter coldly and almost
resentfully. "Any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to
be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him," said Mrs.
Bennet, as she watched the two men approaching the house to pay their first
visit.
Despite, however, rather than by reason of, this surfeit of amiability
on the part of the mother, the lovers quickly came to an understanding, and
this, strangely enough, in the absence of Darcy, who had gone up to town.
It was in Darcy's absence, also, that Lady Catherine de Bourgh came over to
Longbourn, and helped to bring about what she most ardently wished to
prevent by making an unsuccessful demand on Elizabeth that she should
promise not to accept Darcy for a husband, and by then reporting to him
that Elizabeth had refused to give such a promise. The natural result
followed. Elizabeth mustered up courage one day to thank Darcy for all he
had done for Lydia; and this subject soon led him to affirm that in
that matter he had thought only of Elizabeth, and to renew--and to renew
successfully--his former proposals of marriage. When Mrs. Bennet first
heard the great news she sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable;
and at first even Jane and her father were almost incredulous of the
engagement, because they had seen practically nothing of the courtship. But
in the end they were all convinced, and Mr. Bennet's decisive comment was:
"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly. Wickham, perhaps, is my
favourite; but I think I shall like your husband quite as well as
Jane's. If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am
quite at leisure."
"Northanger Abbey" was written in 1798, revised for the
press in 1803, and sold in the same year for £10 to a Bath bookseller, who
held it in such light esteem that, after allowing it to remain for many
years on his shelves, he was content to sell it back to the novelist's
brother, Henry Austen, for the exact sum which he had paid for it at the
beginning, not knowing that the writer was already the author of four
popular novels. This story--which is, of course, a skit on the "terror"
novel of Mrs. Radcliffe's school--was not published till after its author's
death, when, in 1818, it was bound up with her last book, "Persuasion."
I.--A Heroine in the Making
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy could have
supposed her born to be a heroine. Her situation in life, the character of
her father and mother, her own person and disposition, were all equally
against her. Her father was a clergyman, without being neglected or poor,
and a very respectable man, though his name was Richard, and he had never
been handsome. He had a considerable independence, besides two good
livings, and he was not in the least addicted to locking up his daughters.
Her mother was a woman of useful plain sense, with a good temper, and, what
is more remarkable, with a good constitution. She had three sons before
Catherine was born; and, instead of dying in bringing the latter into the
world, as anybody might expect, she still lived on--lived to have six
children more--to see them growing up around her, and to enjoy excellent
health herself. Catherine, for many years of her life, was as plain as any
member of her family. She had a thin, awkward figure, a sallow skin without
colour, dark, lank hair, and strong features. So much for her person; and
not less propitious for heroism seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys'
sports, and greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the more
heroic enjoyments of infancy--nursing a dormouse, feeding a canary-bird, or
watering a rosebush. Indeed, she had no taste for a garden; and if she
gathered flowers at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief--at
least, so it was conjectured from her habit of always preferring those
which she was strictly forbidden to take.
Such were her propensities; her abilities were quite as extraordinary.
She never could learn or understand anything before she was taught, and
sometimes not even then, for she was often inattentive, and occasionally
stupid. Her mother wished her to learn music; and Catherine was sure she
should like it, for she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old
forlorn spinet; so at eight years old she began. She learnt a year, and
could not bear it; and Mrs. Morland, who did not insist on her daughters
being accomplished in spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave
off. The day which dismissed the music-master was one of the happiest of
Catherine's life. Her taste for drawing was not superior; though, whenever
she could obtain the outside of a letter from her mother, or seize upon any
other odd piece of paper, she did what she could in that way by drawing
houses and trees, hens and chickens, all very much like one another.
Writing and accounts she was taught by her father; French by her mother.
Her proficiency in either was not remarkable, and she shirked her lessons
in both whenever she could.
What a strange, unaccountable character! For with all these symptoms of
profligacy at ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper,
was seldom stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little
ones, with few interruptions of tyranny. She was noisy and wild, hated
confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the world as
rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were mending:
she began to curl her hair and long for balls, her complexion improved, her
features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes gained more
animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to an
inclination for finery; she grew clean and she grew smart; and she had now
the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother remark on her
personal improvement. From fifteen, indeed, to seventeen, she was in
training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines must read to
supply their memories with those quotations which are so serviceable and so
soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful lives.
So far her improvement was sufficient; and in many other points she came
on exceedingly well, for though she could not write sonnets, she brought
herself to read them; and though there seemed no chance of her throwing a
whole party into raptures by a prelude on the pianoforte of her own
composition, she could listen to other people's performances with very
little fatigue.
Her greatest deficiency was in the pencil. She had no notion of drawing,
not enough even to attempt a sketch of her lover's profile, that she might
be detected in the design. There she fell miserably short of the true
heroic height. At present she did not know her own poverty, for she had no
lover to portray. There was not one lord in the neighbourhood; no, not even
a baronet! There was not one family among their acquaintance who had reared
and supported a boy accidentally found at their door; no, not one young man
whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward, and the squire of the
parish no children. But when a young lady is to be a heroine, the
perverseness of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her. Something
must and will happen to throw a hero in her way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the property about Fullerton, the
village in Wiltshire where the Morland family lived, was ordered to Bath
for the benefit of a gouty constitution; and his lady, a good-humoured
woman, fond of Miss Morland, and probably aware that if adventures will not
befall a young lady in her own village she must seek them abroad, invited
her to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Morland were all compliance, and
Catherine all happiness.
II.--In the Gay City of Bath
When the hour for departure drew nigh, the maternal anxiety of Mrs.
Morland will be naturally supposed to have been most severe. But she knew
so little of lords and baronets that she entertained no notion of their
general mischievousness, and was wholly unsuspicious of danger to her
daughter from their machinations. Her cautions were confined to advising
her to wrap up well when she came from the rooms at night, and to try to
keep some account of the money she spent.
Sally, or rather Sarah, must, from situation, be at this time the
intimate friend and confidante of her sister. It is remarkable, however,
that she neither insisted on Catherine's writing by every post, nor exacted
her promise of transmitting the character of every new acquaintance nor a
detail of every interesting conversation that Bath might produce.
Everything, indeed, relative to this important journey was done on the part
of the Morlands with a strange degree of moderation and composure.
Catherine's father, instead of giving her an unlimited order on his banker,
or even putting a hundred pounds bankbill into her hands, gave her only ten
guineas, and promised her more when she wanted it. The journey was
performed with suitable quietness and uneventful safety. They arrived at
Bath, and were soon settled in comfortable lodgings in Pulteney Street.
Mrs. Allen had not beauty, genius, accomplishment, or manner. The air of
a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling
turn of mind, were all that could account for her being the choice of a
sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect she was admirably
fitted to introduce a young lady into public, being as fond of going
everywhere and seeing everything herself as any young lady could be. Dress
was her passion; and our heroine's entrée into life could not take
place till after three or four days had been spent in providing her
chaperon with a dress of the newest fashion. Catherine, too, made some
purchases herself; and when all those matters were arranged, the important
evening came which was to usher her into the upper rooms. But nothing
happened that evening. Mrs. Allen knew nobody there, and so Catherine was
unable to dance.
A day or two later, when they made their appearance in the lower rooms,
fortune was more favourable to our heroine. The master of the ceremonies
introduced to her a very gentleman-like young man as a partner. His name
was Tilney. He was a clergyman, seemed to be about four or five and twenty,
was rather tall, had a pleasing countenance, a very intelligent and lively
eye, and, if not quite handsome, was very near it. His address was good, he
talked with fluency and spirit, and there was an archness and pleasantry in
his manner which interested, though it was hardly understood by, her.
Catherine felt herself in high luck; and they parted, on the lady's side at
least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance.
But when Catherine hastened to the pump-room the next day, there was no
Mr. Tilney to be seen. Instead, Mrs. Allen had the good fortune to meet an
acquaintance at last in the person of a Mrs. Thorpe, a former schoolfellow
whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages. Their joy on
this meeting was very great, as well it might be, since they had been
contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Mrs.
Thorpe had one great advantage as a talker over Mrs. Allen, in a family of
children; and when she had expatiated on the talents of her sons and the
beauty of her daughters, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no
similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her
friend. She was forced to sit and to appear to listen to all these maternal
effusions, and to be introduced, along with Catherine, to the three Miss
Thorpes, who proved to be sisters of a young man who was at the same
college as Catherine's brother James. James, indeed, had actually spent the
last week of the Christmas vacation with the family near London.
The progress of the friendship thus entered into by Catherine and
Isabella, the eldest of the Miss Thorpes, was quick as its beginning was
warm; and they passed so rapidly through every gradation of increasing
tenderness that there was shortly no fresh proof of it to be given to their
friends and themselves. They called each other by their Christian name,
were always arm in arm when they walked, pinned up each other's train for
the dance, and were not to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning
deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in
defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up to read novels together.
One day, after they had been talking of "Udolpho," of other "horrid" books
and of their favourite complexion in a man, they met Catherine's brother
James and Isabella's brother John in a gig. On introduction, the latter
proved to be a smart young man of middle height, who, with a plain face and
ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore the
dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy where
he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be easy.
James, of course, was attached to Isabella. "She has so much good sense,"
he said, "and is so thoroughly unaffected and amiable."
At the dance at the upper rooms which took place on the evening of the
same day, Mr. Tilney made his reappearance, and introduced his sister to
Catherine. Miss Tilney had a good figure, a pretty face, and a very
agreeable countenance. Her air, though it had not all the decided
pretension, the resolute stylishness, of Miss Thorpe's, had more real
elegance; and her manners showed better sense and better breeding. She
seemed capable of being young and attractive at a ball, without wanting to
fix the attention of every man near her.
III.--Catherine Morland Among Her Friends
Unfixed as Catherine's general notions were of a what a man ought to be,
she could not entirely repress a doubt of Mr. John Thorpe's being
altogether completely agreeable. A tattler and a swaggerer, having
elicited, as he thought, from Catherine that she was the destined heiress
of Mr. Allen, he twice endeavoured to detach her, by a glaring lie, from
keeping engagements with the Tilneys; and when he did succeed in persuading
her to go with him in his gig, she found that the whole of his talk ended
with himself and his own concerns. He told her of horses which he had
bought for a trifle and sold for incredible sums; of racing matches in
which his judgment had infallibly foretold the winner; of shooting-parties
in which he had killed more birds (though without having one good shot)
than all his companions together; and described to her some famous days
spent with the foxhounds, in which his foresight and skill in directing the
dogs had repaired the mistakes of the most experienced huntsman, and in
which the boldness of his riding, though it had never endangered his own
life for a single moment, had been constantly leading others into
difficulties which, he calmly concluded, had broken the necks of more than
one person.
All this rather wearied Catherine; and not even his relating to her that
Mr. Tilney's father, General Tilney--whom he was talking to one night at
the theatre--had declared her the finest girl in Bath could reconcile her
to the idea that Mr. John Thorpe had the faculty of giving universal
pleasure. It was a visit which she paid to Miss Tilney to apologise for not
keeping an engagement which Mr. John had caused her to break that first
introduced her to the general. A handsome, stately, well-bred man, with a
temper that made him a martinet to his own children, he received her with a
politeness, and even a deference, that delighted and surprised her. But
whereas Catherine's simplicity of character made her growing attachment to
Mr. Tilney obvious to that gentleman and to his sister, it was not so clear
that he reciprocated her feelings. Generally he amused himself by talking
down to her or making fun of her in a good-natured way. One day they were
speaking of Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and more particularly of the "Mysteries
of Udolpho."
"I have read all of Mrs. Radcliffe's works," said he, "and most of them
with great pleasure."
"I am very glad to hear it, indeed," replied Catherine, "and now I shall
never be ashamed of liking 'Udolpho' myself. But I really thought that
young men despised novels amazingly."
"It is amazingly; it may well suggest amazement if they
do, for they read nearly as many as women," was Mr. Tilney's answer. "I
myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you can cope
with me in a knowledge of Julias and Louisas. Consider how many years I
have had the start of you. I had entered on my studies at Oxford while you
were probably a good little girl working your sampler at home!"
"Not very good, I am afraid. But now, really, do you not think 'Udolpho'
the nicest book in the world?"
"The nicest; by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend
on the binding," said he.
"I am sure," cried Catherine hastily, "I did not mean to say anything
wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should I not call it so?"
"Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day; and we are taking
a very nice walk; and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh, it is a very
nice word indeed--it does for everything! Originally perhaps, it was
applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement;
people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or in their choice.
But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one
word."
Meanwhile, Catherine was required to interest herself in her friend's
love affairs. Isabella surprised her one day with the news that she was
engaged to her brother James; and, obviously under the impression that her
lover was the heir of a wealthy man, seemed to wonder whether his parents
would acquiesce in the engagement. But despite her affection for James, she
danced with Mr. Tilney's elder brother, Captain Tilney, at a ball which was
given while her betrothed was absent on the necessary visit to his parents;
and when letters were received from him, announcing their consent to the
match and the agreement of Mr. Morland to resign a living of four hundred
pounds to his son and to bequeath to him by will an estate of the same
value, Isabella looked grave first at the smallness of the income, and then
at the fact that it would be nearly three years before James would be old
enough to take it.
Meantime, she continued to flirt rather openly with Captain Tilney, much
to James' uneasiness and to his sister's distress. But Catherine was to
some extent reassured as to the captain's conduct by his brother Henry, and
she was so overjoyed by receiving an invitation from General Tilney to pay
a visit to Northanger Abbey, his beautiful country seat, that a parting
interview with Isabella and James, at which he was in excellent spirits and
she most engagingly placid, left her blissfully convinced that the
behaviour of the lovers was a model of judicious affection.
IV.--Romance at Northanger Abbey
The Tilney party set out for the Abbey in great state, the ladies in the
general's chaise and four, with postilions and numerous outriders, and the
general and Henry in the latter's curricle. But at the first stage the
general proposed that Catherine should take his place in the curricle that
she might "see as much of the country as possible;" and, for the rest of
the journey she was tête-à-tête with Henry, who amused himself
by rallying her upon the sliding panels, ghastly tapestry, funereal beds,
vaulted chambers, and kindred uncanny apparatus which, judging from her
favourite kind of fiction, she must be expecting to find at the Abbey.
As a matter of fact, Northanger, though it comprised some parts of the
old Abbey, turned out to be a building thoroughly modernized and improved.
Notwithstanding, Catherine could not restrain her imagination from running
riot just a little. A large cedar chest, curiously inlaid and provided with
silver handles, first attracted her attention. But this was soon found to
contain merely a white cotton counterpane. A high old-fashioned ebony
cabinet, which she noticed in her bedroom just before stepping into bed,
struck her as offering more promise of romantic interest. Even this, after
a most thrilling search, in the midst of which her candle went out, yielded
nothing better than an inventory of linen.
Still, Catherine's passion for romance was not easily to be
disappointed. Hearing from Eleanor Tilney that her mother's fatal illness
had been sudden and short, and had taken place in her absence from home,
Catherine's blood ran cold with the horrid suggestions that naturally
sprang from these words. Could it be possible? Could Henry's father----?
And yet how many were the examples to justify even the blackest suspicions?
And when she saw him in the evening, while she worked with her friend,
slowly pacing the drawing-room for an hour together in silent
thoughtfulness, with downcast eye and contracted brow, she felt secure from
all possibility of wronging him. It was indeed the air and attitude of a
Montoni! What could more plainly speak the gloomy workings of a mind not
wholly dead to every sense of humanity, in its fearful review of past
scenes of guilt?
Full, then, of the idea that the general had ill-treated his wife, ready
even to believe that she might still be living and a prisoner, our heroine
set out one day to explore a certain set of rooms into which the general,
in showing her over the house, had not taken her. But she was caught in the
act by Henry Tilney, who revealed, with customary openness, what had been
in her mind, and received only a very gentle rebuke.
Most grievously was she humbled. Her folly, which now seemed even
criminal, was all exposed to him; and he must surely despise her for ever.
But he did nothing of the kind. His astonishing generosity and nobleness of
conduct were such that the only difference he made in his behaviour to her
was to pay her somewhat more attention than usual.
But the anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Catherine's desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day
greater. For nine successive mornings she wondered over the repetition of
disappointment; and then, on the tenth, she got a letter--not from
Isabella, but from James, announcing the breaking off of the engagement by
mutual consent. At first she was much upset by the news, and burst into
tears. But in the end she saw it in a more philosophic light, so that
before long Henry was able to rally her on her former bosom friendship with
Miss Thorpe without offending her. And when a day or two later a letter
arrived from Isabella containing the amazing sentences, "I am quite uneasy
about your dear brother, not having heard from him since he went to Oxford,
and am fearful of some misunderstanding. Your kind offices will set all
right: he is the only man I ever did or could love, and I trust you will
convince him of it----" Catherine resolved: "No; whatever would happen,
James should never hear Isabella's name mentioned by her again."
Soon afterwards, a bolt fell from the blue. General Tilney, who had paid
Catherine the most embarrassing attentions, suddenly and unexpectedly
returned from town, where he had gone for a day or two on business, and
packed Catherine off home immediately, with hardly an apology, and at
scarcely a moment's notice. He had met young Thorpe in town, it seemed; and
John had this time under-estimated the wealth and consequence of the
Morlands as much as he had over-stated them before when he talked to the
general in the theatre at Bath.
The rudeness of the general, however, proved not so very great a
disaster to Catherine. The interest and liking which Henry had first felt
for her had gradually grown into a warmer feeling, and, roused to a sense
of this by his father's tyrannical behaviour, he presented himself to
Catherine at Fullerton, proposed to her, and was accepted. It was not long
before the general gave his consent. Getting at last to a right
understanding of Mr. Morland's circumstances--which, he found, would allow
Catherine to have three thousand pounds--and delighted by the recent
marriage of his daughter Eleanor to a viscount, he agreed to the union; and
so Henry and Catherine were married within a twelvemonth from the first day
of their meeting.
And then, between 1812 and 1814. "Mansfield Park" was
written at Chawton Cottage, and published in July of the latter year by the
Mr. Egerton who had given to the world its two predecessors. When the novel
reached a second edition, its publication was taken over by John Murray,
who was also responsible for bringing out its successor, "Emma." As bearing
on the introduction of naval officers into the story, in this novel and in
"Persuasion," it must be remembered that Jane Austen's two youngest
brothers, Francis and Charles, both served in the Navy during the French
wars, and both rose to the rank of admiral; Jane herself lived at
Southampton from 1805 to 1809, and was, therefore, in a position to visit
Portsmouth, and to see the sailor's life ashore.
I.--Sir Thomas Bertram's Family Connections
Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the
good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county
of Northampton, and to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet's lady,
with all the comforts and consequences of a handsome house and large
income. She had two sisters to be benefited by her elevation; and such of
their acquaintances as thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances quite as handsome
as Miss Maria did not scruple to predict their marrying with almost equal
advantage. But there certainly are not so many men of large fortune in the
world as there are pretty women to deserve them. Miss Ward, at the end of
half a dozen years, found herself obliged to be attached to the Rev. Mr.
Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law's, with scarcely any private
fortune; and Miss Frances fared yet worse.
Miss Ward's match, indeed, when it came to the point, was not
contemptible, Sir Thomas being happily able to give his friend, in the
living of Mansfield, an income of very little less than a thousand a year.
But Miss Frances married, in the common phrase, to disoblige her family,
and by fixing on a lieutenant of marines, named Price, without education,
fortune, or connections, did it very thoroughly. To escape remonstrance,
she never wrote to her family on the subject till actually married.
Lady Bertram, who was a woman of very tranquil feelings, and a temper
remarkably easy and indolent, would have contented herself with merely
giving up her sister, and thinking no more of the matter; but Mrs. Norris
had a spirit of activity which could not be satisfied till she had written
a long and angry letter to Fanny. Mrs. Price, in her turn, was injured and
angry; and an answer, which comprehended both sisters in its bitterness,
and bestowed such very disrespectful reflections on the pride of Sir
Thomas, as Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself, put an end to
all intercourse between them for a considerable period.
By the end of eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford
to cherish pride or resentment, or to lose one connection that might
possibly assist her. A very small income, a large and still increasing
family, a husband disabled for active service, but not the less equal to
company and good liquor, made her eager to regain the friends she had so
carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Bertram a letter which spoke
so much contrition and despondence as could not but dispose them all to a
reconciliation. The letter re-established peace and kindness. Sir Thomas
sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Bertram dispatched money and
baby-linen for the expected child, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.
Within a twelvemonth a more important advantage to Mrs. Price resulted
from her letter. Mrs. Norris, who was often observing to the others that
she seemed to be wanting to do more for her poor sister, proposed that the
latter should be entirely relieved from the charge and expense of her
eldest daughter, Fanny, a girl of ten; and Sir Thomas, after debating the
question, assented. The division of gratifying sensations in the
consideration of so benevolent a scheme ought not, in strict justice, to
have been equal; for, while Sir Thomas was fully resolved to be the real
and consistent patron of the selected child, Mrs. Norris had not the least
intention of being at any expense whatever in her maintenance. As far as
walking, talking and contriving reached, she was thoroughly benevolent, and
nobody knows better how to dictate liberality to others; but her love of
money was equal to her love of directing, and she knew quite as well how to
save her own as to spend that of her friends.
Fanny Price proved to be small for her age, with no glow of complexion
or any other striking beauty; exceedingly timid and shy, and shrinking from
notice; but her air, though awkward, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet,
and when she spoke her countenance was pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram
received her very kindly; and Sir Thomas, seeing how much she needed
encouragement, tried to be all that was conciliating. But he had to work
against a most untoward gravity of deportment; and Lady Bertram, without
taking half so much trouble, by the mere aid of a good-humoured smile,
became immediately the less awful character of the two.
The young people were all at home, and sustained their share in the
introduction very well, with much good humour and little embarrassment.
They were a remarkably fine family; the sons, Tom and Edmund, boys of
seventeen and sixteen, very well looking; the daughters, Maria, aged
thirteen, and Julia, twelve, decidedly handsome.
But it took a long time to reconcile Fanny to the novelty of Mansfield
Park, and to the separation from everybody she had been used to. Nobody
meant to be unkind, but nobody put himself out of the way to secure her
comfort. She was disheartened by Lady Bertram's silence, awed by Sir
Thomas's grave looks, and quite overcome by Mrs. Norris's admonitions. Her
elder cousins mortified her by reflections on her size, and abashed her by
noticing her shyness; Miss Lee, the governess, wondered at her ignorance;
and the maidservants sneered at her clothes. It was not till Edmund found
her crying one morning on the attic stairs, and comforted her, that things
began to mend for her. He was ever afterwards her true friend, and next to
her dear brother William, first in her affections; and from that day she
grew more comfortable.
II.--Cupid at Mansfield Park
The first event of any importance in the family's affairs was the death
of Mr. Norris, which happened when Fanny was about fifteen, and necessarily
introduced alterations and novelties. Mrs. Norris, on quitting the
parsonage, removed first to the Park, and then arranged to take a small
dwelling in the village belonging to Sir Thomas and called the White House.
The living had been destined for Edmund, and in ordinary circumstances
would have been duly given to some friend to hold till he were old enough
to take orders. But Tom's extravagances had been so great as to render a
different disposal of the next presentation necessary, and so the reversion
was sold to a Dr. Grant, a hearty man of forty-five, fond of good eating,
married to a wife about fifteen years his junior, and unprovided with
children.
The Grants had scarcely been settled in Mansfield a year, when, for the
better settlement of his property in the West Indies, Sir Thomas had found
it expedient to go to Antigua, and he took his elder son with him, in the
hope of detaching him from some bad connections at home. Neither person was
missed.
Lady Bertram did not at all like to have her husband leave her; but she
was not disturbed by any alarm for his safety or solicitude for his
comfort, being one of those persons who think nothing can be dangerous or
difficult or fatiguing to anybody but themselves. Before very long she
found that Edmund could quite sufficiently supply his father's place. On
this occasion the Miss Bertrams, who were now fully established among the
belles of the neighbourhood, were much to be pitied, not for their sorrow,
but for their want of it. Their father was no object of love to them; he
had never seemed the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was
unhappily most welcome.
Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her
cousins'; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were
ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve.
Meantime, taking advantage of her sister's indolence, Mrs. Norris acted
as chaperon to Maria and Julia in their public engagements, and very
thoroughly relished the means this afforded her of mixing in society
without having horses to hire.
Fanny had no share in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed
being avowedly useful as her aunt's companion, and talked to Lady Bertram,
listened to her and read to her with never a thought of envying her cousins
their gaieties. About this time Maria, who was now in her twenty-first
year, got engaged to a rich but heavy country gentleman called Rushworth,
merely because he had an income larger than her father's and could give her
a house in town; while Tom returned safely from the West Indies, bringing
an excellent account of his father's health, but telling the family that
Sir Thomas would be detained in Antigua for several months longer.
Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Fanny had just
reached her eighteenth year when the society of the village received an
addition in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Crawford,
the children of her mother by a second marriage. They were young people of
fortune, the son having a good estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty
thousand pounds. They had been brought up by their father's brother and his
wife, Admiral and Mrs. Crawford; and it was Mrs. Crawford's death, and the
consequent installation of the admiral's mistress in the house, that had
forced them to find another home. Mary Crawford was remarkably pretty;
Henry, though not handsome, had air and countenance; the manners of both
were lively and pleasant; and Mrs. Grant gave them credit for everything
else.
The young people were pleased with each other from the first. Miss
Crawford was most allowably a sweet, pretty girl, while the Miss Bertrams
were the finest young women in the country. Mr. Crawford was the most
agreeable young man Julia and Maria had ever known. Before he had been at
Mansfield a week the former lady was quite ready to be fallen in love with;
while as for the latter she did not want to see or to understand. "There
could be no harm in her liking an agreeable man--everybody knew her
situation--Mr. Crawford must take care of himself."
A young woman, pretty, lively, witty, playing on a harp as elegant as
herself, was enough to catch any man's heart. Without studying the
business, however, or knowing what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at
the end of a week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love with Mary
Crawford; and, to the credit of the lady, it may be added that, without his
being a man of the world or an elder brother, without any of the arts of
flattery or the gaieties of small-talk, he began to be agreeable to her. He
taught her to ride on a horse which he had given to Fanny; he was always
going round to see her at the parsonage; and, although he disapproved of
the flippancy with which she talked of her relations, of religion, and of
his future profession of clergyman, he was never weary of discussing her
and of confessing his admiration of her to Fanny.
Harry Crawford was not so constant as his sister. On an expedition to
Sotherton Court (Mr. Rushworth's place) he flirted with Julia on the way
down, and with Maria when Sotherton was reached, leaving poor Mr. Rushworth
no resource but to declare to Fanny his surprise at anyone calling so
undersized a man as his rival handsome.
Some rehearsals of a play called "Lovers' Vows," in which Harry left
Maria happy and expectant and Julia furious by assigning the parts of the
lovers to the elder sister and to himself, made Mr. Rushworth even jealous.
But this theatrical scheme, to which even Edmund had been forced to lend a
reluctant co-operation--merely with a view of preventing outside actors
being introduced--happily came to nothing, thanks to the unexpected arrival
of Sir Thomas.
III.--Fanny in Society
Maria was now expecting the man she loved to declare himself; but
instead of making such a declaration of attachment, Harry Crawford left the
neighbourhood almost immediately on the plea of having to meet his uncle at
Bath. Maria, wounded and indignant, resolved that, though he had destroyed
her happiness, he should not know that he had done so. So when her father,
having, in an evening spent at Sotherton, discovered what a very inferior
young man Mr. Rushworth was, and having noticed Maria's complete
indifference to him, offered to give up the connection if she felt herself
unhappy in the prospect of it, she merely thanked him, and said she had not
the smallest desire of breaking through her engagement, and was not
sensible of any change of opinion or inclination since her forming it. In a
few weeks' time she was married to Mr. Rushworth; and after a day or two
spent at Sotherton, the wedded pair went off to Brighton, where they were
joined by Julia Bertram.
Meantime, Fanny, as the only young lady left at the Park, became of
importance. Sir Thomas decided that she was pretty; Miss Crawford
cultivated her society; and Mrs. Grant asked her to dinner. This
last-mentioned attention disturbed Lady Bertram.
"So strange!" she said. "For Mrs. Grant never used to ask her."
"But it is very natural," observed Edmund, "that Mrs. Grant should wish
to procure so agreeable a visitor for her sister."
"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas, after a short
deliberation; "nor, were there no sister in the case, could anything, in my
opinion, be more natural. Mrs. Grant's showing civility to Miss Price, to
Lady Bertram's niece, could never want explanation. The only surprise I can
feel is that this should be the first time of its being paid. Fanny was
right in giving only a conditional answer. She appears to feel as she
ought. But, as I conclude that she wishes to go, since all young people
like to be together, I can see no reason why she should be denied this
indulgence."
"Upon my word, Fanny," said Mrs. Norris, "you are in high luck to meet
with such attention and indulgence. You ought to be very much obliged to
Mrs. Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and
you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are
aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this
sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend
upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is
meant as a compliment to you; the compliment is intended to your uncle and
aunt and me. Mrs. Grant thinks it a civility due to us to take a
little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and
you may be certain that if your cousin Julia had been at home you would not
have been asked."
Mrs. Norris fetched breath, and went on.
"I think it right to give you a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into
company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be
putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you
were one of your cousins--as if you were dear Mrs. Rushworth or Julia. That
will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the
lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the
Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at
night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chooses."
"Yes, ma'am. I should not think of anything else."
"And if it should rain--which I think likely, for I never saw it more
threatening for a wet evening in my life--you must manage as well as you
can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you."
"Walk!" said Sir Thomas, in a tone of unanswerable dignity, and, coming
further into the room: "My niece walk to an engagement at this time of the
year! Fanny, will twenty minutes after four suit you?"
A few weeks later Fanny was made happy by a visit from her brother
William, now, through Sir Thomas's influence, a midshipman; and soon the
former intercourse between the families at the Park and at the Parsonage
was revived, Sir Thomas perceiving, in a careless way, that Mr. Crawford,
who was back again at Mansfield, was somewhat distinguishing his niece.
Harry, indeed, was beginning to be rather piqued by Fanny's
indifference.
"I do not quite know what to make of Miss Fanny," he said to his sister.
"Is she solemn? Is she queer? Is she prudish? I can hardly get her to
speak. I never was so long in company with a girl in my life, trying to
entertain her, and succeeded so ill! Never met with a girl who looked so
grave on me."
"Foolish fellow!" said Mary. "And so this is her attraction after all!
This it is--her not caring for you--which gives her such a soft skin and
makes her so much taller, and produces all these charms and graces! I do
desire that you will not be making her really unhappy. A little love,
perhaps, may animate and do her good; but I will not have you plunge her
deep, for she is as good a little creature as ever lived, and has a great
deal of feeling."
"It can be but for a fortnight," said Harry, "and if a fortnight can
kill her she must have a constitution which nothing could save! No, I will
not do her any harm. I only want her to look kindly on me, to give me
smiles as well as blushes, to keep a chair for me by herself wherever we
are, and be all animation when I take it and talk to her; to think as I
think, to be interested in all my possessions and pleasures, try to keep me
longer at Mansfield, and feel when I go away that she shall never be happy
again. I want nothing more."
"Moderation itself!" replied Mary. "I can have no scruples now. Well,
you will have opportunities enough of endeavouring to recommend yourself,
for we are a great deal together."
Harry was unable to make any impression on Fanny; and though he fell
deeply in love with her, got her brother William made lieutenant, and,
after a ball given in her honour by Sir Thomas, proposed to her, he was
unable to win her favour. She was in love with Edmund; and Edmund was torn
between love for Mary, despair of winning her, and disapproval of her
principles.
IV.--Wedding Bells at Mansfield
Mr. William Price, second lieutenant of H.M.S. Thrush, having obtained a
ten days' leave of absence, again went down to see his sister; and Sir
Thomas, as a kind of medicinal project on his niece's understanding, just
to enable her to contrast with her father's shabby dwelling an abode of
wealth and plenty like Mansfield Park, arranged that she should accompany
her brother back to Portsmouth, and spend a little time with her own
family. Within four days from their arrival William had to sail; and Fanny
could not conceal it from herself that the home he had left her in was, in
almost every respect, the very reverse of what she could have wished. It
was the abode of noise, disorder and impropriety. Nobody was in his right
place; nothing was done as it ought to be. She could not respect her
parents as she had hoped. Her father was more negligent of his family,
worse in his habits, coarser in his manners, than she had been prepared
for. He did not want abilities; but he had no curiosity, and no information
beyond his profession. He read only the newspaper and the Navy List. He
talked only of the dockyard, the harbour, Spithead, and the Motherbank. He
swore and he drank; he was dirty and gross.
She had never been able to recall anything approaching to tenderness in
his former treatment of herself. There had remained only a general
impression of roughness, and now he scarcely ever noticed her but to make
her the object of a coarse joke.
Her disappointment in her mother was greater. There she had hoped much,
and found almost nothing. She discovered, indeed, that her mother was a
partial, ill-judging parent, a dawdle, a slattern, who neither taught nor
restrained her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and
discomfort from beginning to end, and who had no talent, no conversation,
no affection towards herself; no curiosity to know her better, no desire of
her friendship, and no inclination for her company that could lessen her
sense of such knowledge.
At the end of the fourth week of her visit Harry Crawford came to see
Fanny, made himself very agreeable to her and her family, and then went
back to town to see his sister, and to meet such friends as Edmund Bertram
and the Rushworths. Fanny heard from Mary of Maria's fine house in Wimpole
Street, of the splendours of the first party, and of the attentions paid to
Julia by that would-be amateur actor, the Honourable John Yates; while from
Edmund she gathered that his hopes of securing Mary were weaker than those
he had cherished when he had left Mansfield, and that he was more satisfied
with all that he saw and heard of Harry Crawford.
"I cannot give her up, Fanny," Edmund wrote of Mary. "She is the only
woman in the world whom I could ever think of as a wife." Mary, on her
part, hearing of a serious illness which had prostrated Tom Bertram, could
not forbear saying to the same correspondent: "Poor young man! If he is to
die, there will be two poor young men less in the world. I put it to your
conscience whether 'Sir' Edmund would not do more good with all the Bertram
property than any other possible 'sir.'" She also told Fanny that Mrs.
Rushworth, in the absence of her husband on a visit to his mother at Bath,
had been spending the Easter with some friends at Twickenham, and that her
brother Harry had also been passing a few days at Richmond.
The interval of a few days afforded a commentary on this last piece of
news. It turned out that Mrs. Rushworth, having succumbed once more to the
protestations of Harry Crawford, had left her house in Wimpole Street to
live with him, and that her sister Julia had eloped to Scotland to be
married to Mr. Yates. On the occurrence of this distressing news, Fanny was
summoned back to Mansfield Park, and was escorted down there by Edmund, who
described to her his final interview with Mary. It seemed that Mary's
distress at her brother's folly was so much more keenly expressed than any
sorrow for his sin that Edmund's conscience left him no alternative but to
make an end of their acquaintance.
Indeed, before many weeks had passed, he ceased to care about Miss
Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could
desire; and before many months had gone, the cousins were united. Nor was
this the only happy event that occurred at Mansfield. Harry Crawford and
Mrs. Rushworth having quarrelled and parted, and Sir Thomas having refused
to allow his elder daughter to come home, Mrs. Norris cast off the dust of
Mansfield from her feet, and went to live with her niece in an
establishment arranged for them in another county. While as for Tom, he
gradually regained his health, without regaining the thoughtlessness and
selfishness of his previous habits, and was, in fact, improved forever by
his illness.
"Emma," one of the author's later novels, had been
finished, when, in the autumn of 1815, Jane Austen came to London to nurse
her brother Henry, who was a clergyman, at his house in Hans Place, in
Chelsea. He was being attended by one of the Prince Regent's physicians,
who seems to have learned in this way the secret of the authorship of
"Mansfield Park" and its predecessors. The result was that the Prince, who
is said to have been a great admirer of these then anonymous novels, was
graciously pleased to notify Miss Austen, through his chaplain, Mr. Clarke,
that if she had any new novel in hand, she was at liberty to dedicate it to
his Royal Highness. "Emma" was accordingly dedicated to the Prince. It was
reviewed, along with its author's other novels, in the "Quarterly," and the
anonymous reviewer, who took no notice of "Mansfield Park," turns out to
have been none other than Sir Walter Scott. In his Diary for March 14,
1826, Sir Walter further praised Miss Austen's exquisite touch and her gift
for true description and sentiment.
I.--The Social Amenities of Highbury
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and
happy disposition, was the younger of the two daughters of a most
affectionate and indulgent father, and had, in consequence of her sister's
marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early period. Her mother
had died too long ago for her to have more than an indistinct remembrance
of her caresses, and her place had been supplied by Miss Taylor, who for
sixteen years had been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as governess than
friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma. For years
the two ladies had been living together, mutely attached, Emma doing just
what she liked, highly esteeming Miss Taylor's judgment, but chiefly
directed by her own.
The real evils, indeed, of Emma's situation were the power of having
rather too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well
of herself. The danger, however, was at present unperceived, and did not by
any means rank as a misfortune with her.
Sorrow came--a gentle sorrow. Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's
loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved
friend, with the wedding over and the bride-people gone, that Emma first
sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The event had every promise of
happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable
character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was
some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous
friendship she had always wished and promoted the match. But it was a black
morning's work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of
every day. She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed:
intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle; knowing all the ways of the
family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in
herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of hers--one to whom she could
speak every thought, and who had such an affection for her as could never
find fault.
How was Emma to bear the change? She was now in great danger of
suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he
was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, rational
or playful. The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (as Mr.
Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and
habits; for, having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of
mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though
everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable
temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.
Emma's sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony,
being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily
reach; and it was quite three months before Christmas, that would bring the
next visit from Isabella, her husband, and children.
Highbury, the large and populous village to which her house, Hartfield,
really belonged, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in
consequence there. All looked up to them; but there was not one of her
acquaintances among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for
even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh
over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke from his
usual after-dinner sleep, and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits
required support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of everybody
he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind.
Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable to him; and he
was not yet reconciled to his own daughter marrying, nor could ever speak
of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of
affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor, too.
He was pitying "poor Miss Taylor," and magnifying the half-mile's
distance that separated Hartfield from Mr. Weston's place, Randalls, when a
visitor walked in. This was Mr. George Knightley, the elder brother of
Isabella's husband, and the owner of Donwell Abbey, the large estate of the
district. He was a sensible man, about seven or eight and thirty, a very
old and intimate friend of the family, and a frequent and always welcome
visitor. He had returned to a late dinner after some days' absence in
London, and had walked up to Hartfield to say that all was well with their
relatives in Brunswick Square. They talked of the wedding. Emma
congratulated herself on having made the match. Mr. Knightley demurred to
this, remarking: "A straightforward, open-hearted man, like Weston, and a
rational, unaffected woman, like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage
their own concerns." And when Emma, in reply to entreaties from her father
to make no more matches, answered, "Only one more, papa; only for Mr.
Elton--you like Mr. Elton, papa; I must look about for a wife for him"--her
old friend gave her the salutary advice: "Invite him to dinner, Emma, and
help him to the best of the fish and the chicken; but leave him to choose
his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of six or seven and twenty can take
care of himself."
II.--Emma as a Matchmaker
Emma lost no time in developing her schemes for the happiness of Mr.
Elton. Through Mrs. Goddard, the mistress of the local boarding-school for
girls, she struck up an acquaintance, which she contrived rapidly to
develop into intimacy, with a Miss Harriet Smith--a plump, fair-haired,
blue-eyed little beauty of seventeen, whose prettiness, docility,
good-temper and simplicity might be allowed to balance her lack of
intelligence and information.
Harriet was the natural daughter of somebody. Somebody had placed her
several years back at Mrs. Goddard's school, and somebody had lately raised
her from the condition of scholar to that of parlour-boarder. This was all
that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends but
what had been acquired at Highbury, and was now just returned from a long
visit in the country to some young ladies--the Misses Martin--who had been
at school there with her.
The first step which Emma took in the education of Harriet was to cool
her interest in the Martins. She pointed out that Mr. Robert Martin, who
held a large farm from Mr. Knightley in Donwell parish, was too young to
marry at twenty-four, that he had, besides, an awkward look, an abrupt
manner, and an uncouth voice; and that, moreover, he was quite
plain-looking and wholly ungenteel; whereas Mr. Elton, who was
good-humoured, cheerful, obliging and gentle, was a pattern of good manners
and good looks, and seemed to be taking quite an interest in Harriet. So
indeed it appeared. Mr. Elton seemed delighted with being in the society of
Emma and Harriet. He praised Harriet as a beautiful girl, congratulated
Emma on the improvement she had wrought in her, contributed a charade to
Harriet's riddle-book, and took a most animated interest in a portrait
which Emma began to paint of her.
But Mr. Knightley was not so complacent. "I think Harriet," he said to
Mrs. Weston, "the very worst sort of a companion that Emma could possibly
have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing everything.
Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has anything to
learn herself while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority?
And as for Harriet, Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the
other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be
uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed
her."
This was in the early stages of the intimacy. Later in the day, when he
learned that Emma had taken so decided a hand in the affairs of Harriet as
to persuade her to decline a formal offer of marriage from Mr. Martin, he
told her plainly:
"I have always thought it a very foolish intimacy, though I have kept my
thoughts to myself; but now I perceive that it will be a very unfortunate
one for Harriet. You will puff her up with such ideas of her own beauty,
and what she has claim to, that, in a little while, nobody within her reach
will be good enough for her. Robert Martin has no great loss if he can but
think so; and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for
Harriet are best known to yourself; but, as you make no secret of your love
of match-making, I shall just hint to you as a friend that, if Elton is the
man, I think it will be all labour in vain."
Emma laughed and disclaimed. "Depend upon it," he continued, "Elton will
not do. Elton is a very good sort of a man, and a very respectable vicar of
Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match. He is as well
acquainted with his own claims as you can be with Harriet's; and I am
convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away."
But despite this warning from Mr. George Knightley, despite a hint
dropped by Mr. John Knightley, when he and his wife and children came to
stop with the Woodhouses for Christmas--a hint to the effect that his
sister-in-law would do well to consider whether Mr. Elton was not in love
with her--Emma continued quite as ardent in her new friendship and
in her hopes.
As to herself, she told Harriet that she was not going to be married at
present, and had very little intention of ever marrying at all; though when
Harriet reminded her of Miss Bates, who was the daughter of a former vicar
of Highbury and lived in a very small way with her mother, a very old lady
almost past everything but tea and quadrille, she confessed that if she
thought she would ever be like Miss Bates, "so silly, so satisfied, so
smiling, so prosing, so undistinguishing, so unfastidious, and so
garrulous," she would marry to-morrow.
But Mr. Elton was unaware of Emma having thought of making such a
self-denying ordinance; and so one night when the Woodhouses and the
Knightleys were returning home from a party at Randalls he took advantage
of his being alone in a carriage with her to propose to her, seeming never
to doubt his being accepted. When he learned, however, for whom his hand
had been destined, he became very indignant and contemptuous.
"Never, madam!" cried he. "Never, I assure you! I think seriously
of Miss Smith! Miss Smith is a very good sort of girl; and I should be
happy to see her respectably settled. I wish her extremely well; and, no
doubt, there are men who might not object to--Everybody has their level;
but as for myself, I am not, I think, quite so much at a loss. I need not
so totally despair of an equal alliance as to be addressing myself to Miss
Smith! No, madam; my visits to Hatfield have been for yourself only."
Needless to say, Emma refused him, and they parted on terms of mutually
deep mortification. Fortunately, the task of enlightening Harriet as to the
state of Mr. Elton's feelings proved less troublesome than Emma had
expected it to be. Harriet's tears fell abundantly, but otherwise she bore
the intelligence very meekly and well.
III.--Emma's Schemes in a Tangle
As if to make up for the absence of Mr. Elton, who went to spend a few
weeks in Bath, in an endeavour to cure his wounded affections. Highbury
society was shortly enlarged by the arrival of two such welcome additions
as Miss Jane Fairfax and Mr. Frank Churchill.
Miss Fairfax, who was the orphan daughter of Lieutenant Fairfax, and
Miss Janes Bates had for many years been living with her father's
brother-officer, Colonel Campbell, and his wife and daughter. A beautiful
girl of nineteen, with only a few hundred pounds of her own, and no
monetary expectations from her adoptive father, she had received such an
education as qualified her to become a governess; and though as long as
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell lived their home might always be hers, she had
all along resolved to start earning her own living at one-and-twenty. Her
friend, Miss Campbell, had recently married a rich and agreeable young man
called Dixon; and though the Dixons had urgently invited her to join
Colonel and Mrs. Campbell in a visit to them in Ireland, Jane preferred to
spend three months' holiday with her aunt and grandmother at Highbury, with
some vague intention of starting her scholastic career at the end of this
period. Emma did not like Jane Fairfax, partly because Jane's aunt was
always boring people by talking of her; partly, perhaps, because--as Mr.
Knightley once told her--she saw in her the really accomplished young woman
which she wanted to be thought herself. At any rate, she still found her as
reserved as ever. Jane had been a little acquainted with Mr. Frank
Churchill at Weymouth, but she either could not, or would not, tell Emma
anything about him.
That gentleman, however, soon presented himself in person. He was the
son of Mr. Weston by his first wife. At the age of three he had been
adopted by his maternal uncle, Mr. Churchill; and so avowedly had he been
brought up as their heir by Mr. and Mrs. Churchill--who had no children of
their own--that on his coming of age he had assumed the name of Churchill.
For some months he had been promising to pay a visit to his father and
stepmother to compliment them on their marriage; but on the pretext of his
not being able to leave Enscombe, his uncle's place, it had been repeatedly
postponed.
Emma was inclined to make allowances for him as a young man dependent on
the caprices of relations. But Mr. Knightley condemned his conduct roundly.
"He cannot want money, he cannot want leisure," he said. "We know, on the
contrary, that he has so much of both that he is glad to get rid of them at
the idlest haunts in the kingdom." Notwithstanding, when he did arrive,
Frank Churchill carried all before him by reason of his good looks,
sprightliness, and amiability. Emma and he soon became great friends. He
favoured an idea of hers, that Jane's refusal to go to the Dixons' in
Ireland was due either to Mr. Dixon's attachment to her, or to her
attachment to Mr. Dixon. When a Broadwood pianoforte arrived for
Jane--which was generally taken to be a gift from Colonel Campbell--he
agreed with her in thinking that this was another occurrence for which Mr.
Dixon's love was responsible; and he was busily engaged in planning out the
details of a projected ball at the Crown Inn when a letter from Mr.
Churchill urging his instant departure compelled him to make a hurried
return to Enscombe.
Meanwhile, while Emma was entertaining no doubt of her being in love
with Frank, and only wondering how deep her feeling was, while she was
content to think that Frank was very much in love with her, and was
concluding every imaginary declaration on his side with a refusal of his
proposals, Mr. Elton returned to Highbury with his bride. Miss Augusta
Hawkins--to give Mrs. Elton her maiden name--was the younger of the two
daughters of a Bristol tradesman, and was credited with having ten thousand
pounds of her own. A self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant, and
ill-bred woman, with a little beauty and a little accomplishment, who was
always expatiating on the charms of Mr. Suckling's--her
brother-in-law's--place, Maple Grove, she soon excited disgust in Emma, who
offended her by the scanty encouragement with which she received her
proposals of intimacy, and was herself offended by the great fancy which
Mrs. Elton took to Jane Fairfax. Long before Emma had forfeited her
confidence, she was not satisfied with expressing a natural and reasonable
admiration of Jane, but, without solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she
must be wanting to assist and befriend her. The ill-feeling thus aroused
found significant expression on the occasion of the long-talked-of ball at
the Crown, which Mr. Weston was able to give one evening in May, thanks to
the settlement of the Churchills at Richmond, and the consequent
reappearance of Frank Churchill at Highbury. Indeed, Emma met with two
annoyances on that famous evening. Mr. Weston had entreated her to come
early, before any other person came, for the purpose of taking her opinion
as to the propriety and comfort of the rooms; and when she got there, she
found that quite half the company had come, by particular desire, to help
Mr. Weston's judgment. She felt that to be the favourite and intimate of a
man who had so many intimates was not the first distinction in the scale of
vanity.
The other vexing circumstance was due to the conduct of Mr. Elton, who,
asked by Mrs. Weston to dance with Harriet Smith, declined on the ground
that he was an old married man, and that his dancing days were over.
Fortunately, Mr. Knightley, who has recently disappointed Mrs. Weston, and
pleased Emma by disclaiming any idea of being attached to Jane Fairfax, was
able in some measure to redeem the situation by leading Harriet to the set
himself. Emma had no opportunity of speaking to him till after supper; and
then he said to her: "They aimed at wounding more than Harriet. Emma, why
is it that they are your enemies?" He looked with smiling penetration, and,
on receiving no answer, added: "She ought not to be angry with you,
I suspect, whatever he may be. To that surmise you say nothing, of course;
but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet." "I did,"
replied Emma, "and they cannot forgive me."
A day or two afterwards, Harriet figured as the heroine of another
little scene. She was rescued by Frank Churchill from an encounter with
some gipsies; and after telling Emma, in a very serious tone, a few days
later, that she should never marry, confessed that she had come to this
resolution because the person she might prefer to marry was one so greatly
her superior in situation.
IV.--Love Finds its Own Way
His own attentions, his father's hints, his stepmother's guarded
silence, all seemed to declare that Emma was Frank Churchill's object. But
while so many were devoting him to Emma, and Emma herself was making him
over to Harriet, Mr. Knightley began to suspect him of some inclination to
trifle with Jane Fairfax. When Mr. Knightley mentioned these suspicions to
Emma, she declared them sheer imagination, and said that she could
answer for there being no attachment on the side of the gentleman;
while he himself, as if to ridicule the whole idea, flirted outrageously
with Emma on an excursion to Box Hill at which Jane was present, and even
asked the former lady to choose a wife for him. The next day Emma, calling
on Miss Bates, learned that Jane, who, was at present too unwell to see
her, had just accepted a post as governess, obtained for her by Mrs. Elton,
and that Frank Churchill had been summoned to return immediately to
Richmond in consequence of Mrs. Churchill's state of health. On the
following day an express arrived at Randalls to announce the death of Mrs.
Churchill.
Emma, seeing in this latter event a circumstance favourable to the union
of Frank and Harriet (for Mr. Churchill, independent of his wife, was
feared by nobody), now only wished for some proof of the former's
attachment to her friend. She could, however, for the moment do nothing for
Harriet, whereas she could show some attention to Jane, whose prospects
were closing, while Harriet's were opening. But here she proved to be
mistaken; all her endeavours were to no purpose. The invalid refused
everything that was offered, no matter what its character; and Emma had to
console herself with the thought that her intentions were good, and would
have satisfied even so strict an investigator of motives as Mr.
Knightley.
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Churchill's death, Emma was
called downstairs to Mr. Weston, who asked her to come to Randalls as Mrs.
Weston wanted to see her alone. Relieved to find that the matter was not
one of illness, either there or at Brunswick Square, Emma resolved to wait
patiently till she could see her old friend. But what was her surprise, on
Mr. Weston leaving them together, when his wife revealed the fact that
Frank and Jane had been secretly engaged since October of the previous
year! It was almost greater than Mrs. Weston's relief when she learned, to
her joy, that Emma now cared nothing at all for Frank, and so had been in
no wise injured by this clandestine understanding, the divulgence of which
was due, it seemed, to the fact that, immediately on hearing of Jane's
agreement to take up the post of governess, Frank had gone to his uncle,
told him of the engagement, and with little difficulty obtained his consent
to it.
It was with a heavy heart that Emma went home to give Harriet the news
that must blast her hopes of happiness once more. But, again, a surprise
was in store for her. Harriet had already been told by Mr. Weston, and
seemed to bear her misfortune quite stoically, the reason being that the
person of "superior situation" whom she despaired of securing was not Mr.
Frank Churchill, but Mr. George Knightley.
Emma was not prepared for this development. It darted through her, with
the speed of an arrow, that Mr. Knightley must marry no one but herself!
Which desirable consummation was brought about at their next interview;
for, after trying to console her for the abominable conduct of Frank
Churchill, under the mistaken impression that that young gentleman had
succeeded in engaging her affections, Mr. Knightley proposed marriage to
her, and was accepted. As for Harriet, she was invited, at Emma's
suggestion, to spend a fortnight with Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley in
Brunswick Square, and there, meeting Mr. Robert Martin, through Mr. George
Knightley's contrivance, was easily persuaded to become his wife.
About this same time, too, Mrs. Weston's husband and friends were all
made happy by knowing her to be the mother of a little girl; while Emma and
Mrs. Weston were enabled to take a more lenient view of Frank Churchill's
conduct, thanks to a long letter which he wrote to the latter lady in which
he apologised for his equivocal conduct to Emma, and expressed his regret
that those attentions should have caused such poignant distress to the lady
whom he was shortly to make his wife. The much discussed pianoforte had
been his gift.
Jane Austen began her last book soon after she had finished
"Emma," and completed it in August, 1816. "Persuasion" is connected with
"Northanger Abbey" not only by the fact that the two books were originally
bound up in one volume and published together two years later, and are
still so issued, but in the circumstance that in both stories the scene is
laid partly in Bath, a health resort with which Jane Austen was well
acquainted, as having been her place of residence from the year 1801 till
1805.
I.--The Vain Baronet of Kellynch Hall
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who,
for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage. There he
found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one;
there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect by
contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any
unwelcome sensations derived from domestic affairs changed naturally into
pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the
last century; and there, if every other leaf was powerless, he could read
his own history with an interest which never failed. This was the page at
which the favourite volume always opened:
"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL."
"Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married July 15, 1784,
Elizabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq., of South Park, in the county
of Gloucester; by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue, Elizabeth, born
June 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5,
1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791."
Precisely thus had the paragraph originally stood from the printer's
hands. But Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of
himself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary's birth:
"Married, December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove,
Esq., of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset," and by inserting most
accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife.
Then followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable family
in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in Cheshire; how
mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of High Sheriff, representing a
borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and dignity
of baronet, in the first year of Charles II., with all the Marys and
Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two handsome duodecimo
pages, and concluding with the arms and motto: "Principal seat, Kellynch
Hall, in the county of Somerset," and Sir Walter's handwriting again in the
finale: "Heir-presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great-grandson of
the second Sir Walter."
Vanity was the beginning and end of Sir Walter Elliot's
character--vanity of person and of situation. He had been remarkably
handsome in his youth, and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man. Few
women could think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could
the valet of any new-made lord be more delighted with the place he held in
society. He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the
blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these gifts,
was the constant object of his warmest respect and devotion.
His good looks and his rank had a fair claim on his attachment, since to
them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to anything
deserved by his own. Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman, sensible and
amiable, whose judgment and conduct, if they might be pardoned the youthful
infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never required indulgence
afterwards. Three girls, however--the two eldest sixteen and fourteen--were
an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an awful charge rather to
confide, to the authority of a conceited, silly father. Fortunately, Lady
Elliot had one very intimate friend, Lady Russell, a sensible, deserving
woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment to herself, to settle
close by her in the village of Kellynch; and on her kindness Lady Elliot
mainly relied for the best help and maintenance of the good principles and
instruction which she had been anxiously giving her daughters.
Elizabeth had succeeded at sixteen to all that was possible of her
mother's rights and consequence; and being very handsome, and very like
himself, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on together
most happily. His two other children were of very inferior value. Mary had
acquired a little artificial importance by becoming Mrs. Charles Musgrove;
but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of character which must
have placed her high with any people of real understanding, was nobody with
either father or sister. To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and
highly valued god-daughter, favourite and friend. Lady Russell loved them
all; but it was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive
again.
It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she
was ten years before; and, generally speaking, it is a time of life at
which scarcely any charm is lost. It was so with Elizabeth, still the same
handsome Miss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago; and Sir
Walter might be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be
deemed only half a fool for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming as
ever, amid the wreck of the good looks of everybody else.
Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment. She
had the consciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and
some apprehensions. Moreover, she had been disappointed by the
heir-presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose rights had
been so generously supported by her father. Soon after Lady Elliot's death,
Sir Walter had sought Mr. Elliot's society, and had introduced him to
Elizabeth, who was quite ready to marry him. But despite the assiduity of
the baronet, the younger man let the acquaintance drop, and married a rich
woman of inferior birth, for whom, at the present time (the summer of
1814), Elizabeth was wearing black ribbons.
Anne, too, had had her disappointment. Eight years ago, before she had
lost her bloom, when, in fact, she had been an extremely pretty girl, with
gentleness, modesty, taste and feeling added, she had fallen in love with
Captain Wentworth, a young naval officer who had distinguished himself in
the action off Domingo; but her father and Lady Russell had frowned upon
the match, and, persuaded chiefly by the arguments of the latter that it
would be prejudicial to the professional interests of her lover, who had
still his fortune to make, she had rather weakly submitted to have the
engagement broken off. But though he had angrily cast her out of his heart,
she still loved him, having in the meantime rejected Charles Musgrove, who
subsequently consoled himself by marrying her sister Mary. So that when her
father's embarrassed affairs compelled him to let Kellynch Hall to Admiral
Croft, an eminent seaman who had fought at Trafalgar, and had happened to
marry a sister of Captain Wentworth, she could not help thinking, with a
gentle sigh, as she walked along her favourite grove: "A few months more,
and he, perhaps, may be walking here."
II.--Anne Elliot and her Old Lover
Sir Walter and Elizabeth went to Bath, and settled themselves in a good
house in Camden Place, while it was arranged that Anne should divide her
time between Uppercross Cottage--where Mr. and Mrs. Charles Musgrove
lived--and Kellynch Lodge, and come on from the latter house to Bath when
Lady Russell was prepared to take her. Sir Walter had included in his party
a Mrs. Clay, a young widow, with whom, despite the fact that she had
freckles and a projecting tooth, and was the daughter of Mr. Shepherd, the
family solicitor, Elizabeth had recently struck up a great friendship. Anne
had tried to warn her sister against this attractive and seemingly
designing young woman, but her advice had not been taken in good part; and
she had to content herself with hoping that, though her suspicion had been
resented, it might yet be remembered.
At Uppercross she found things very little altered. The
Musgroves saw too much of one another. The two families were so
continually meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each
other's houses at all hours, that their various members inevitably found
much to complain of in one another's conduct. These complaints were brought
to Anne, who was treated with such confidence by all parties that if she
had not been a very discreet young lady she might have considerably
increased the difficulties of the situation. Mary she found as selfish, as
querulous, as ready to think herself ailing, as lacking in sense and
understanding, as unable to manage her children as ever.
Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was
undoubtedly superior to his wife, though neither his powers nor his
conversation were remarkable. He did nothing with much zeal but sport; and
his time was otherwise trifled away without benefit from books or anything
else. He had, however, excellent spirits, which never seemed much affected
by his wife's occasional moroseness; and he bore with her unreasonableness
sometimes to Anne's admiration. As for the Miss Musgroves, Henrietta and
Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and twenty, they were living to be
fashionable, happy and merry. Their dress had every advantage, their faces
were pretty, their spirits good, their manners unembarrassed and pleasant;
they were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad.
The Crofts took possession of Kellynch Hall with true naval alertness,
and, naturally enough, intercourse was soon established between them and
the Musgroves. Soon it was known that the admiral's brother-in-law, Captain
Wentworth, had come to stop with them; and one day he made the inevitable
call at the Cottage on his way to shoot with Charles. It was soon over.
Anne's eyes half met his; a bow, a courtesy passed. He talked to Mary, said
all that was right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an
easy footing. Charles showed himself at the window, all was ready, their
visitor had bowed and was gone; the Miss Musgroves were gone, too, suddenly
resolving to walk to the end of the village with the sportsmen.
She had seen him; they had met. They had been once more in the same
room. Now, how were his sentiments to be read? On one question she was soon
spared all suspense; for, after the Miss Musgroves had returned and
finished their visit at the Cottage, she had this spontaneous information
from Mary: "Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he
was so attentive to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you. 'You
were so altered he should not have known you again,' he said."
Doubtless it was so; and she could take no revenge, for he was not
altered, or not for the worse. No; the years which had destroyed her bloom
had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect
lessening his personal advantages.
"Altered beyond his knowledge." Frederick Wentworth had used such words,
or something like them, but without an idea that they would be carried
round to her. He had thought her wretchedly altered, and, in the first
moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt. He had not forgiven Anne Elliot.
She had used him ill--deserted and disappointed him; and worse, in doing so
had shown weakness and timidity. He had been most warmly attached to her,
and had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal. It was now his
object to marry. He was rich, and, being turned on shore, intended to
settle as soon as he could be tempted. "Yes, here I am, Sophia," he said to
his sister, "quite ready to make a foolish match. Anybody between fifteen
and thirty may have me for the asking. A little beauty, and a few smiles,
and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost man."
It looked, indeed, as if he would soon be lost, either to Louisa or to
Henrietta. It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day. The Musgroves
could hardly be more ready to invite than he to come; and as for Henrietta
and Louisa, they both seemed so entirely occupied by him that nothing but
the continued appearance of the most perfect goodwill between themselves
could have made it credible that they were not decided rivals. Indeed, Mr.
Charles Hayter, a young curate with some expectations, who was a cousin of
the Musgroves, began to get uneasy. Previous to Captain Wentworth's
introduction, there had been a considerable appearance of attachment
between Henrietta and himself; but now he seemed to be very much
forgotten.
III.--Love-making at Lyme Regis
At this interesting juncture the scene of action was changed from
Uppercross to Lyme Regis, owing to Captain Wentworth's receipt of a letter
from his old friend Captain Harville, announcing his being settled at this
latter place. Captain Wentworth, after a visit to Lyme Regis, gave so
interesting an account of the adjacent country that the young people were
all wild to see it. Accordingly, it was agreed to stay the night there, and
not to be expected back till the next day's dinner.
They found Captain Harville a tall, dark man, with a sensible,
benevolent countenance: a little lame, but unaffected, warm and obliging.
Mrs. Harville, a degree less polished than her husband, seemed to have the
same good feelings and cordiality; while Captain Benwick, who was the
youngest of the three naval officers and a comparatively little man, had a
pleasing face and a melancholic air, just as he ought to have. He had been
engaged to Captain Harville's sister, and was now mourning her loss. They
had been a year or two waiting for fortune and promotion. Fortune came, his
prize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last; but
Fanny Harville did not live to know it. She had died the preceding summer
while he was at sea; and the friendship between him and the Harvilles
having been augmented by the event which closed all their views of
alliance, he was now living with them entirely. A man of retiring manners
and of sedentary pursuits, with a decided taste for reading, he was drawn a
good deal to Anne Elliot during this excursion, and talked to her of
poetry, of Scott and Byron, of "Marmion" and "The Lady of the Lake," of
"The Giaour" and "The Bride of Abydos." He repeated with such feeling the
various lines of Byron which imaged a broken heart, or a mind destroyed by
wretchedness, and looked so entirely as if he meant to be understood, that
Anne ventured to recommend to him a larger allowance of prose in his daily
study.
Another interesting person whom the Uppercross party met at Lyme was Mr.
Elliot. He did not recognise Anne and her friends, or did they till he had
left the town find out who he was; but he was obviously struck with Anne,
and gazed at her with a degree of earnest admiration which she could not be
insensible of. She was looking remarkably well, her very regular, very
pretty features having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the
fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of
eye which it had also produced.
It was evident that the gentleman admired her exceedingly. Captain
Wentworth looked round at her, in a way which showed his noticing of it. He
gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say:
"That man is struck with you; and even I, at this moment, see something
like Anne Elliot again."
But the folly of Louisa Musgrove, and the consequences that attended it,
soon obliterated from Anne's memory all such recollections as these.
Louisa, who was walking with Captain Wentworth, persuaded him to jump her
down the steps on the Lower Cob. Contrary to his advice, she ran up the
steps to be jumped down again; and, being too precipitate by a second, fell
on the pavement and was taken up senseless. Fortunately, no bones were
broken, the only injury was to the head; and Captain and Mrs. Harville
insisting on her being taken to their house, she recovered health so
steadily that before Anne and Lady Russell left Kellynch Lodge for Bath
there was talk of the possibility of her being able to be removed to
Uppercross.
When the accident occurred, Captain Wentworth's attitude was very much
that of the lover. "Oh, God! that I had not given way at the fatal moment!"
he cried. "Had I but done as I ought! But so eager and so resolute; dear,
sweet Louisa!"
Anne feared there could not be a doubt as to what would follow the
recovery; but she was amused to hear Charles Musgrove tell how much Captain
Benwick admired herself--"elegance, sweetness, beauty!" Oh, there was no
end to Miss Elliot's charms!
Another surprise awaited her at Bath, where she found her father and
sister Elizabeth happy in the submission and society of the
heir-presumptive. He had explained away all the appearance of neglect on
his own side as originating in misapprehension. He had never had an idea of
throwing himself off; he had feared that he was thrown off, and delicacy
had kept him silent. These explanations having been made, Sir Walter took
him by the hand, affirming that "Mr. Elliot was better to look at than most
men, and that he had no objection to being seen with him anywhere."
The gentleman called one evening, soon after Anne's arrival in the town;
and his little start of surprise on being introduced to her showed that he
was not more astonished than delighted at meeting, in the character of Sir
Walter's daughter, the young lady who had so strongly struck his fancy at
Lyme. He stopped an hour, and his tone, his expressions, his choice of
subject, all showed the operation of a sensible, discerning mind.
Still, Anne could not understand what his object was in seeking this
reconciliation. Even the engagement of Louisa Musgrove to Captain Benwick,
which was announced to her by Mary about a month later, seemed more
susceptible of explanation--had not the young couple been thrown together
for weeks?--than this determination of Mr. Elliot to become friends with
relations from whom he could derive no possible advantage.
IV.--Love Triumphant
Following close on the news of Louisa's engagement came the arrival at
Bath of Admiral and Mrs. Croft. He had come for the cure of his gout; and
he was soon followed by Captain Wentworth, who, for the first time since
their second meeting, deliberately sought Anne out at a concert which she
and her people were attending. The most significant part of their
conversation was his comment on Louisa's engagement to Captain Benwick. He
frankly confessed he could not understand it as far as it concerned
Benwick.
"A man like him, in his situation, with a heart pierced, wounded, almost
broken! Fanny Harville was a very superior person, and his attachment to
her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of
the heart to such a woman. He ought not; he does not."
But the captain was prevented from saying much more by the assiduous
attention which Mr. Elliot paid to her at this concert.
"Very long," said he, "has the name of Anne Elliot possessed a charm
over my fancy; and, if I dared, I would breathe my wishes that the name
might never change."
Such language might almost be taken to be a proposal; but Anne was too
much interested in watching Captain Wentworth to pay much attention to
it.
She had still in mind the words which her sometime lover had spoken at
the concert, when a visit she had paid to an invalid friend, an old
schoolfellow of hers called Mrs. Smith, gave her complete enlightenment as
to the character and present objects of Mr. Elliot. Mrs. Smith, who was a
widow, and whose husband had been a bosom friend of Mr. Elliot's, described
him as "a man without heart or conscience, a designing, wary, cold-blooded
being, who thinks only of himself; who for his own interest or ease would
be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery that could be perpetrated
without risk of damaging his general character." She told how he had
encouraged her husband, to whom he was under great obligations, to indulge
in the most ruinous expense, and then, on his death, caused her endless
difficulties and distress by refusing to act as his executor. She also
informed Anne that he had married his first wife, whom he treated badly,
entirely on account of her fortune, and that, though among the present
reasons for continuing the acquaintance with his relations was a genuine
attachment to herself, his original intention in seeking a reconciliation
with Sir Walter had been to secure for himself the reversion of the
baronetcy by preventing the holder of the title from falling into the
snares of Mrs. Clay.
The next day a party of the Musgroves appeared at Camden Place. Mrs.
Musgrove, senior, had some old friends at Bath whom she wanted to see; Mrs.
Charles Musgrove could not bear to be left behind in any excursion which
her husband was taking; Henrietta, who had arrived at an understanding with
Mr. Charles Hayter, had come to buy wedding clothes for herself and Louisa;
and Captain Harville had come on business. It was on a visit to the
Musgroves, who were stopping at the White Hart Hotel, that Anne had a
momentous conversation with the last-named person. The captain had been
reverting to the topic of his friend Benwick's engagement, and Anne had
been saying that women did not forget as readily as men.
"No, no," said Harville, "it is not man's nature to forget. I will not
allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and to
forget those they do love or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe
in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our
bodily frames are stronger than yours, so are our feelings."
"Your feelings may be the stronger," replied Anne, "but the same spirit
of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the more tender. Man
is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly
explains my view of the nature of their attachment."
Captain Wentworth, who was sitting down at a writing-table in another
part of the room, engaged in correspondence, seemed very much interested in
this conversation; and a few minutes later he placed before Anne, with eyes
of glowing entreaty, a letter addressed to "Miss A. E."
"I offer myself to you again," he wrote, "with a heart even more your
own than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago. Dare not say
that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death; I
have loved none but you."
To such a declaration there could be but one answer; and soon Frederick
Wentworth and Anne Elliot were exchanging again those feelings and those
promises which once before had seemed to secure everything, but which had
been followed by so many years of division and estrangement.
This time there was no opposition to the engagement. Captain Wentworth's
wealth, personal appearance, and well-sounding name enabled Sir Walter to
prepare his pen, with a very good grace, for the insertion of the marriage
in the volume of honour.
As for Mr. Elliot, the news of his cousin Anne's engagement burst on him
with unexpected suddenness. He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs. Clay's
leaving it shortly afterwards and being next heard of as established under
his protection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been
playing, and how determined he was to save himself at all events from being
cut out by one artful woman at least.
Honoré de Balzac was born May 20, 1799, at Tours, in
France, and died at Paris, Aug. 18, 1850. His early life was filled with
hard work and oppressed by poverty. He attained success by the publication
of "Les Derniers Chouans" in 1829, and he soon established his fame as the
leader of realistic fiction. In spite of frequent coarseness, he stands for
all time as a great writer by reason of his powers of character analysis.
"Eugénie Grandet" is, justly, one of the most famous of Balzac's
novels. As a study of avarice, in the character of old Grandet, it is
superb, and the picture of manners in the country town of Saumur is painted
as only a supreme artist like Balzac could paint it. The pathos of
Eugénie's wasted life, the long suffering of Mme. Grandet, the craft
and cunning of the Des Grassins and the Cruchots, the fidelity of Nanon,
and the frank egotism of Charles Grandet--all these things combine to make
the book a masterpiece of French fiction. "Eugénie Grandet" was
written in the full vigour of Balzac's genius in 1833, and was published in
the first volume of "Scenes of Provincial Life" in 1834, and finally
included in the "Human Comedy" in 1843.
I.--The Rich Miser of Saumur
The town of Saumur is old-fashioned and in every way "provincial." Its
houses are dark within, its shops, undecorated, recall the workshops of the
Middle Ages. Its inhabitants gossip freely, according to the fashion of
country towns, and the arrival of a stranger in the town is an important
item of news. The trade of Saumur depends upon the vineyards of the
district. The prosperity of landowners, vinegrowers, coopers, and
innkeepers rises or falls according to whether the season is good or bad
for the grapes.
A certain house in Saumur, larger and more sombre than most, and once
the residence of nobility, belonged to M. Grandet.
This M. Grandet was a master cooper in 1789, a good man of business with
a remarkable head for accounts. He prospered in the Revolution, bought the
confiscated Church lands at a low price, married the daughter of a wealthy
timber merchant, was made mayor under the consulate, became Monsieur
Grandet when the empire was established, and every year grew wealthier and
more miserly.
In 1817 M. Grandet was 68, his wife 47, and their only child,
Eugénie, was 21.
A careful, cunning, silent man was M. Grandet, who loved his gold and to
get the better in a bargain beyond all else. He cultivated 100 acres of
vineyard, had thirteen little farms, an old abbey, and 127 acres of grazing
land, and owned the house he lived in. The town estimated old Grandet's
income to be five or six million francs, but only two people were in a
position to guess with any chance of probability, and these were M. Cruchot
the notary, and M. des Grassins the banker, and they disclosed no
secrets.
Both M. Cruchot and M. des Grassins were men of considerable importance
in Saumur, and enjoyed the right of entry to M. Grandet's house--a
privilege extended to only a very few of their neighbours.
There was rivalry between these two families of the Cruchots and Des
Grassins, rivalry for the hand of Grandet's daughter, Eugénie.
Cruchot's nephew was a rising lawyer, already, at the age of thirty-three,
a president of the court of first instance, and Cruchot's brother was an
abbé of Tours. The hopes of the Cruchots were centred on the
successful marriage of the nephew (who called himself Cruchot de Bonfons,
after an estate he had bought) with Grandet's heiress.
Mme. des Grassins was equally hopeful and indefatigable on behalf of her
son Adolphe.
The whole town knew of the struggle between these two families, and
watched it with interest. Would Mlle. Grandet marry M. Adolphe des Grassins
or M. le Président? There were others who declared the old cooper
was rich enough to marry his daughter to a peer in France.
With all his wealth and the fortune his wife brought him, M. Grandet
lived as meanly and cheaply as he could. His house was cold and dreary, and
his table was supplied with poultry, eggs, butter and corn by his tenants.
M. Grandet never paid visits or invited people to dinner.
One servant, Nanon, a big, strong woman of five feet eight inches, did
all the work of the house, the cooking and washing, the baking and
cleaning, and watched over her master's interests with an absolute
fidelity. The strength of Nanon appealed to M. Grandet when he was on the
lookout for a housekeeper before his marriage, and the girl, out of work
and wretched, had never lost her gratitude for having been taken into his
service. For twenty-eight years Nanon had worked early and late for the
Grandets, and on a yearly wage of seventy livres had accumulated more money
than any other servant in Saumur. She was one of the family, spending her
evenings in the sitting-room of her employers, where a single candle was
all that was allowed for illumination. M. Grandet also decided that no fire
must be lit in the sitting-room from April 1 to October 31, and every
morning he went into the kitchen and doled out the bread, sugar, and other
provisions for the day to Nanon, and candles to his daughter.
As for Mme. Grandet, her gentleness and meekness could not stand up
against her husband's force of character. She had brought more than 300,000
francs to her husband, and yet had no money save an occasional six francs
for pocket-money, and the only certain source of income was four or five
louis which Grandet made the Belgian merchants, who bought his wine, pay
over and above the stipulated price. Often enough he would borrow some of
this money even. Mme. Grandet was too gentle to revolt, but her pride
forbade her ever asking a sou from her husband. With her daughter she
attended to the household linen, and found compensation for the unhappiness
of her lot in the consolations of religion, and also in the company of
Eugénie. It never occurred to M. Grandet that his wife suffered, or
had reason to suffer. He was making money; every year his riches increased.
He paid for sittings in church, and gave his daughter five francs a month
for a dress allowance. That his wife hardly ever left the house except
occasionally to go to church, that her dress was invariably the same, and
that she never asked him for anything, never troubled M. Grandet. Avarice
was his consuming passion, and it was satisfactory to him that no one
attempted to cross him.
Twice a year, on her birthday, and on the day of her patron saint,
Eugénie received some rare gold coin from her father, and then he
would take pleasure in looking at her store--for these coins were not to be
spent. Old M. Grandet liked to think that his daughter was learning to
appreciate gold, and that in giving her these precious coins he was not
parting with his money, but only putting it in another box.
II.--Eugénie's Springtime of Love
On Eugénie's twenty-third birthday, November, 1819, the three
Cruchots--the notary, the abbé, and the magistrate--and the three
Des Grassins--M. des Grassins, Mme. des Grassins, and their son
Adolphe--hastened to pay their respects to the heiress as soon as dinner
was over. Mr. Grandet, in honour of the occasion, lit a second candle in
the sitting-room. "It is Eugénie's birthday, and we must have an
illumination," he remarked. The Cruchots all brought handsome bouquets of
flowers for Eugénie, but their gifts were eclipsed by a showy
workbox fitted with trumpery gilded silver fittings, which Mme. des
Grassins presented, and which filled Eugénie with delight. "Adolphe
brought it from Paris," whispered Mme. des Grassins in the girl's ear. Old
Grandet quite understood that both families were in pursuit of his daughter
for the sake of her fortune, and made up his mind that neither of them
should have her.
They all sat down to play lotto at half-past eight, except old Grandet,
who never played any game. Just as Mme. Grandet had won a pool of sixteen
sous, a heavy knock at the front door startled everybody in the room. Nanon
took up one of the candles and went to the door, followed by Grandet.
Presently they returned with a young man, good-looking, and fashionably
dressed. This was Charles Grandet, the son of the old cooper's brother, a
merchant in Paris. The young man brought a good many trunks, and while
Nanon saw to the bestowal of his luggage, all the lotto players looked at
the visitor. Old Grandet took the only remaining candle from the table to
read a long letter which his nephew had brought. Charles had set off from
Paris at his father's bidding to pay a visit to his uncle at Saumur. He was
a dandy, and his appearance was in striking contrast to the attire of the
Cruchots and the Des Grassins. Moreover, he already had had a love affair
with a great lady whom he called Annette, and he was a good shot.
Altogether, Charles Grandet was a vain and selfish youth, conscious of his
superiority over the unfashionable provincials of Saumur, but determined at
all costs to enjoy himself as best he could.
As for Eugénie, it seemed to her that she had never seen such a
perfect gentleman as this cousin from Paris, and, at the risk of incurring
her father's wrath, succeeded in persuading Nanon to do what she could to
make things comfortable for their guest in the cold and dreary house.
Nanon was milking the cow when Eugénie preferred her kindly and
considerate request, and the faithful serving-maid at once obligingly
promised to save a little cream from her master's supply of milk. The
Cruchots and Des Grassins retired discomfited before the presence of
Charles Grandet. The young Parisian, brought up in luxury by his father,
could not understand why he should have been sent to this outlandish place,
and he was the more mystified by his uncle telling him they would talk over
"important business" on the morrow. Then, indeed, in plain and brutal words
he learnt the contents of the fatal letter he had brought from his father.
It was twenty-three years since old Grandet had seen his brother in Paris,
but this brother had become a rich man, too; of that old Grandet was aware.
And now Victor-Ange-Guillaume Grandet wrote to him from Paris, saying: "By
the time that this letter is in your hands, I shall cease to exist. The
failure of my stockbroker and my notary has ruined me, and while I owe
nearly four million francs, my assets are only a quarter of my debts. I
cannot survive the disgrace of bankruptcy. I know you cannot satisfy my
creditors, but you can be a father to my unhappy child, Charles, who is now
alone in the world. Lay everything before him, and tell him that in my work
he can restore the fortune he has lost. My failure is due neither to
dishonesty nor to carelessness, but to causes beyond my control."
Old Grandet told his nephew plainly that his father was dead, and even
showed him a paragraph already in the papers referring to the ruin and
suicide of the unhappy man--so quickly is such news spread abroad.
For the moment, his penniless state was nothing to the young man; the
loss of his father was the only grief.
Old Grandet let him alone, and in a day or two Charles gathered up
strength to face the situation.
Mme. Grandet and Eugénie were full of tender sympathy for the
unhappy young man, and this sympathy in Eugénie's case ripened into
love. One day, when Eugénie passed her cousin's chamber, the door
stood ajar; she thrust it open, and saw that Charles had fallen asleep in
his chair. She entered and found out from a letter her cousin had written
to Annette, which she read as it lay on the table, that he was in want of
money--for old Grandet was resolved to do nothing for his nephew beyond
paying his passage to Nantes. The next night she brought him all her store
of gold coins, worth six thousand francs. Her confidence and devoted
affection touched Charles deeply. He accepted the money, and in return gave
into her keeping a small leather box containing portraits of his father and
mother, richly set in gold. Eugénie promised to guard this box until
he returned.
For it was decided that Charles Grandet must go to the Indies to seek
his fortune. He sold his jewels and finery, and paid his personal debts in
Paris, and waited on at Saumur till the ship should be ready to sail for
Nantes.
And in those few weeks came the springtime of love for
Eugénie.
Old Grandet was too busy to trouble about his nephew, who was so shortly
to be got rid of, and both Nanon and Mme. Grandet liked and pities the
young man.
Charles Grandet, on his side, was conscious that his Parisian friends
would not have shown him a like kindness, and the purity and truth of
Eugénie's love were something he had not hitherto experienced.
The cousins would snatch a few moments together in the early morning,
and once, only a few days before his departure, they met in the long, dark
passage at the foot of the staircase. "Dear cousin, I cannot expect to
return for many years," Charles said sadly. "We must not consider ourselves
bound in any way."
"You love me?" was all Eugénie asked. And on his reply, she
added: "Then I will wait for you, Charles."
Presently his arms were round her waist. Eugénie made no
resistance, and, pressed to his heart, received her lover's kiss.
"Dear Eugénie, a cousin is better than a brother; he can marry
you," said Charles.
Thus the lovers vowed themselves to each other. Then came the terrible
hour of parting, and Charles Grandet sailed from Nantes for the Indies; and
the old house at Saumur suddenly seemed to Eugénie to have become
very empty and bare indeed.
III.--M. Grandet's Discovery
Grandet, on the advice of M. Cruchot, the notary, saved the honour of
his dead brother. There was no act of bankruptcy. M. Cruchot, to gain
favour with old Grandet, proposed to go to Paris to look after the dead
man's affairs, but suggested the payment of expenses. It was M. des
Grassins, however, who went to Paris, for he undertook to make no charge;
and the banker not only attended to Guillaume Grandet's creditors, but
stayed on in Paris--having been made a deputy--and fell in love with an
actress. Adolphe joined his father, and achieved an equally unpleasant
reputation.
The property of Guillaume Grandet realised enough money to pay the
creditors a dividend of 47 per cent. They agreed that they would deposit,
upon certain conditions, their bills with an accredited notary, and each
one said to himself that Grandet of Saumur would pay.
Grandet of Saumur, however, did not pay. Endless delays were
forthcoming, and Des Grassins was always holding out promises that were not
fulfilled.
As years went by some of the creditors gave up all hope of payment,
others died; till at the end of five years the deficit stood at 1,200,000
francs.
In the meantime, a terrible blow had fallen on Mine. Grandet. On January
1, 1820, old Grandet, according to his wont, presented his daughter with a
gold coin, and asked to see her store of gold pieces.
All Eugénie would tell him was that her money was gone. In vain
the old man stormed. Eugénie kept on saying: "I am of age; the money
was mine."
Grandet raved at his wife, who, weary and ill, gave him no satisfaction.
In fact, Mine. Grandet's character had become stronger through her
daughter's trouble, and she refused to support her husband's angry
demands.
Then old Grandet ordered Eugénie to retire to her own apartment.
"Do you hear what I say? Go!" he shouted.
Soon all the town knew that Eugénie was a prisoner in her own
room, seeing no one but her mother and old Nanon; and public opinion,
knowing nothing of the cause of the quarrel, blamed the old cooper. For six
months this state of things lasted, and Mine. Grandet's illness became
steadily worse. M. Cruchot, the notary, warned old Grandet that, in the
event of his wife's death, he would have to give an account to
Eugénie of her mother's share in the joint estate; and that
Eugénie could then, if she chose, demand her mother's fortune, to
which she would be entitled.
This seriously alarmed the avaricious old cooper, and he made up his
mind to a reconciliation, for his wife assured him she would never get
better while Eugénie was treated so badly. Eugénie and her
mother were talking of Charles, from whom no letter had come, and getting
what pleasure they could from looking at the portraits of his parents, when
old Grandet burst into the room. Catching sight of the gold fittings, he
snatched up the dressing-case, and would have wrenched off the precious
metal. "Father, father," Eugénie called out, "this case is not
yours; it is not mine, it is a sacred trust! It belongs to my unhappy
cousin. Do not pull it to pieces!"
Old Grandet took no notice.
"Oh, have pity; you are killing me!" said the mother.
Eugénie caught up a knife, and her cry brought Nanon on the
scene.
"Father, if you cut away a single piece of gold, I shall stab myself.
You are killing my mother, and you will kill me, too."
Old Grandet for once was frightened. He tried to make it up with his
wife, he kissed Eugénie, and even promised that Eugénie
should marry her cousin if she wanted to.
Mme. Grandet lingered till October, and then died. "There is no
happiness to be had except in heaven; some day you will understand that,"
she said to her daughter just before she passed away.
M. Cruchot was called in after Mine. Grandet's death, and in his
presence Eugénie agreed to sign a deed renouncing her claim to her
mother's fortune while her father lived. She signed it without making any
objection, to old Grandet's great relief, and he promised to allow her 100
francs a month. But the old man himself was failing. Bit by bit he
relinquished his many activities, but lived on till seven years had passed.
Then he died, his eyes kindling at the end at the sight of the priest's
sacred vessels of silver. His brother's creditors were still unpaid.
Eugdénie was informed by M. Cruchot that her property amounted to 17,000,000
francs. "Where can my cousin be?" she asked herself. "If only we knew where
the young gentleman was, I would set off myself and find him," Nanon said
to her. The poor heiress was very lonely. The faithful Nanon, now
fifty-nine, married Antoine Cornoiller, the bailiff of the estates, and
these two, who had known one another for years, lived in the house.
The Cruchots still hoped to marry M. le Président to
Eugénie, and every birthday the magistrate brought a handsome
bouquet. But the heart of Eugénie remained steadfast to her
cousin.
"Ah, Nanon," she would say, "why has he never written to me once all
these years?"
Mme. des Grassins, unwilling to see the triumph of her old rivals, the
Cruchots, went about saying that the heiress of the Grandet millions would
marry a peer of France rather than a magistrate. Eugénie, however,
thought neither of the peer nor of the magistrate. She gave away enormous
sums in charity, and lived on quietly in the dreary old house. Her wealth
brought her no comfort, her only treasures were the two portraits left in
her charge. Yet she went on loving, and believed herself loved in
return.
IV.--The Honour of the Grandets
Charles Grandet, in the course of eight years, met with considerable
success in his trading ventures. He saw very quickly that the way to make
money in the tropics, as in Europe, was to go in for buying and selling
men, and so he plunged into the slave trade of Africa, and under the name
of Carl Shepherd was known in the East Indies, in the United States, and on
the African coasts. His plan was to get rich as speedily as possible, and
then return to Paris and live respected. For a time--that is, on his first
voyage--the thought of Eugénie gave him infinite pleasure; but soon
all recollection of Saumur was blotted out, and his cousin became merely a
person to whom he owed 6,000 francs.
In 1827, Charles returned to Bordeaux with 1,900,000 francs in gold
dust. On board the ship he became very intimate with the d'Aubrions, an old
aristocratic but impoverished family. Mme. d'Aubrion was anxious to secure
Charles Grandet for her only daughter, and they all travelled to Paris
together. Mme. d'Aubrion pointed out to Grandet that her influence would
get him a court appointment, with title of Comte d'Aubrion; and Annette,
with whom Grandet took counsel, approved the alliance.
Des Grassins, hearing of the wanderer's return, called, and, anxious to
get some remuneration for all the trouble he had taken, explained that
300,000 francs were still owing to his father's creditors. But Charles
Grandet answered coolly that he had nothing to do with his father's
debts.
Des Grassins, however, wrote to his wife that he would yet make the dead
Guillaume Grandet a bankrupt, and that would stop the marriage, and Mme.
des Grassins showed the letter to Eugénie.
Eugénie had already heard from her cousin. Charles Grandet sent a
cheque for 8,000 francs, asked for the return of his dressing-case, and
casually mentioned that he was going to make a brilliant marriage with
Mlle. d'Aubrion, for whom he admitted he had not the slightest
affection.
This was the shipwreck of all Eugénie's hopes--the utter and
complete ruin.
"My mother was right," she said, weeping. "To suffer, and then die--that
is our lot!"
That same evening when M. Cruchot de Bonfons, the magistrate, called on
Eugénie, she promised to marry him on condition that he claimed none
of the rights of marriage over her, and that he would immediately go and
settle all her uncle's creditors in full.
M. de Bonfons, only too thankful to win the heiress of the Grandet
millions on any terms, agreed, and set off at once for Paris with a cheque
for 1,500,000 francs. He carried a letter from Eugénie to Charles
Grandet, a letter that contained no word of reproach, but announced the
full discharge of his father's debts.
Charles was astonished to hear from M. de Bonfons of his forthcoming
marriage with Eugénie, and he was dumfounded when the president told
him that Mlle. Grandet possessed 17,000,000 francs.
Mme. d'Aubrion interrupted the interview; her husband's objection to
Grandet's marriage with his daughter was removed with the payment of the
long-standing creditors and the restoration of the family honour of the
Grandets.
M. de Bonfons, who now dropped the name of Cruchot, married
Eugénie, and shortly afterwards was made Councillor to the Court
Royal at Angers. His loyalty to the government was rewarded with further
office. M. de Bonfons became deputy of Saumur; and then, dreaming of higher
honours, perhaps a peerage, he died.
M. de Bonfons always respected his wife's request that they should live
apart; with remarkable cunning he had drafted the marriage contract, in
which, "In case there was no issue of the marriage, husband and wife
bequeathed to each other all their property, without exception or
reservation." Death disappointed his schemes. Mme. de Bonfons was left a
widow three years after marriage, with an income of 800,000 livres.
She is a beautiful woman still, but pale and sorrowful. In spite of her
income she lives on in the old house, and cold and sunless it bears a
likeness to her own life. Spending little on herself, Mme. de Bonfons gives
away large sums in succouring the unfortunate; but she is very
lonely--without husband, children, or kindred. She dwells in the world, but
is not of it.
"Old Goriot," or, to give it its French title, "Le
Père Goriot," is one of the series of novels to which Balzac gave
the title of "The Comedy of Human Life." It is a comedy, mingled with lurid
tragic touches, of society in the French capital in the early decades of
the nineteenth century. The leading character in this story is, of course,
Old Goriot, and the passion which dominates him is that of paternity. In
the picture which Balzac draws of Parisian life, from the sordid
boarding-house to the luxurious mansions of the gilded aristocracy in the
days of the Bourbon Restoration, the author exhibits that tendency to
over-description for which he was criticised by his contemporaries, and to
dwell too much on petty details. It may be urged, however, that it is the
cumulative effect of these minute touches that is necessary for the true
realisation of character.
I.--In a Paris Boarding-House
Madame Vauquer, née Conflans, is an elderly lady who for forty
years past has kept a Parisian middle-class boarding-house, situated in the
Rue Neuve Sainte-Geneviève, between the Latin Quarter and the
Faubourg Saint Marcel. This pension, known under the name of the Maison
Vauquer, receives men as well as women--young men and old; but hitherto
scandal has never attacked the moral principles on which the respectable
establishment has been conducted. Moreover, for more than thirty years, no
young woman has been seen in the house; and if any young man ever lived
there, it was because his family were able to make him only a very slender
allowance. Nevertheless, in 1819, the date at which this drama begins, a
poor young girl was found there.
The Maison Vauquer is of three stories, with attic chambers, and a tiny
garden at the back. The ground floor consists of a parlour lighted by two
windows looking upon the street. Nothing could be more depressing than this
chamber, which is used as the sitting-room. It is furnished with chairs,
the seats of which are covered with strips of alternate dull and shining
horsehair stuff, while in the centre is a round table with a marble top.
The room exhales a smell for which there is no name, in any language,
except that of odour de pension. And yet, if you compare it with the
dining-room which adjoins, you will find the sitting-room as elegant and as
perfumed as a lady's boudoir. There misery reigns without a redeeming touch
of poesie--poverty, penetrating, concentrated, rasping. This room appears
at its best when at seven in the morning Madame Vauquer, preceded by her
cat, enters it from her sleeping chamber. She wears a tulle cap, under
which hangs awry a front of false hair; her gaping slippers flop as she
walks across the room. Her features are oldish and flabby; from their midst
springs a nose like the beak of a parrot. Her small fat hands, her person
plump as a church rat, her bust too full and tremulous, are all in harmony
with the room. About fifty years of age, Madame Vauquer looks as most women
do who say that they have had misfortunes.
At the date when this story opens there were seven boarders in the
house. The first floor contained the two best suites of rooms. Madame
Vauquer occupied the small, and the other was let to Madame Couture, the
widow of a paymaster in the army of the French Republic. She had with her a
very young girl, named Victorine Taillefer. On the second floor, one
apartment was tenanted by an old gentleman named Poiret; the other by a man
of about forty years of age, who wore a black wig, dyed his whiskers, gave
out that he was a retired merchant, and called himself Monsieur Vautrin.
The third story was divided into four single rooms, of which one was
occupied by an old maid named Mademoiselle Michonneau, and another by an
aged manufacturer of vermicelli, who allowed himself to be called "Old
Goriot." The two remaining rooms were allotted to a medical student known
as Bianchon, and to a law student named Eugène de Rastignac. Above
the third story were a loft where linen was dried, and two attic rooms, in
one of which slept the man of all work, Christophe, and in the other the
fat cook, Sylvie.
The desolate aspect of the interior of the establishment repeated itself
in the shabby attire of the boarders. Mademoiselle Michonneau protected her
weak eyes with a shabby green silk shade mounted on brass wire, which would
have scared the Angel of Pity. Although the play of passions had ravished
her features, she retained certain traces of a fine complexion, which
suggested that the figure conserved some fragments of beauty. Poiret was a
human automaton, who had earned a pension by mechanical labour as a
government functionary.
Mademoiselle Victorine Taillefer was of a sickly paleness, like a girl
in feeble health; but her grey-black eyes expressed the sweetness and
resignation of a Christian. Her dress, simple and cheap, betrayed her
youthful form. Happy, she might have been beautiful, for happiness imparts
a poetic charm to women, as dress is the artifice of it. If love had ever
given sparkle to her eyes, Victorine would have been able to hold her own
with the fairest of her compeers. Her father believed he had reason to
doubt his paternity, though she loved him with passionate tenderness; and
after making her a yearly allowance of six hundred francs, he disinherited
her in favour of his only son, who was to be the sole successor to his
millions. Madame Couture was a distant relation of Victorine's mother, who
had died in her arms, and she had brought up the orphan as her own daughter
in a strictly pious fashion, taking her with rigid regularity to mass and
confession.
Eugène de Rastignac, the eldest son of a poor baron of Angoulême,
was a characteristic son of the South. His complexion was clear, hair
black, eyes blue. His figure, manner, and habitual poses proved that he was
a scion of a noble family, and that his early education had been based on
aristocratic traditions. The connecting link between these two individuals
and the other boarders was Vautrin--the man of forty, with the dyed
whiskers. He was one of that sort of men who are familiarly described as
"jolly good fellows." His face, furrowed with premature wrinkles, showed
signs of hardness which belied his insinuating address. He was invariably
obliging, with a breezy cheerfulness, though at times there was a steely
expression in the eyes which inspired his fellow-boarders with a sense of
fear. He knew or guessed the affairs of everybody in the house, but no one
could divine his real business or his most inmost thoughts.
II.--The Beginnings of the Tragedy
Such a household ought to offer, and did present in miniature, the
elements of a complete society. Among the inmates there was, as in the
world at large, one poor discouraged creature--a butt on whom mocking
pleasantries were rained. This patient sufferer was the old vermicelli
maker, Goriot. Six years before, he had come to live at the Maison Vauquer,
having, so he said, retired from business. He dressed handsomely, wore a
gold watch, with thick gold chain and seals, flourished a gold snuff-box,
and, when Madame Vauquer insinuated that he was a gallant, he smiled with
the complacency of vanity tickled. Among the china and silver articles with
which he decorated his sitting-room were a dish and porringer, on the cover
of which were figures representing two doves billing and cooing.
"That," said Goriot, "is the present which my wife made to me on the
first anniversary of our wedding-day. Poor dear, she bought it with the
little savings she hoarded before our marriage. Look you, madame, I would
rather scratch the ground with my nails for a living than part with that
porringer. God be praised, however, I shall be able to drink my coffee out
of this dish every morning during the rest of my days. I cannot complain. I
have on the shelf, as the saying is, plenty of baked bread for a long time
to come."
At the close of his first year Goriot began to practise little
economies; at the end of the second he removed his rooms to the second
floor, and did without a fire all the winter. This although, as Madame
Vauquer's prying eyes had seen, Goriot's name appeared in the list of state
funds for a sum representing an income of from eight to ten thousand
francs. Henceforth she denounced him to the other paying-guests as an
unprincipled old libertine, who lavished his enormous income from the funds
on unknown youthful charmers. The boarders agreed; and when two young
ladies in the most fashionable and costly attire visited him in succession
in a semi-stealthy manner, their suspicions, as they believed, were
confirmed. On one occasion, Sylvie followed Old Goriot and his beautiful
visitor to a side street, and saw that there was a splendid carriage
waiting and that she got into it. When challenged upon the point, the old
man meekly declared that they were his daughters, though he never disclosed
that their occasional visits were paid only to wheedle money from him.
The years passed, and with the gentleness of a broken spirit, beaten
down to the docility of misery, Goriot curtailed his personal expenses, and
again removed his lodgings; this time to the third floor. His dress turned
shabbier; with each ascending grade his diamonds, gold snuff-box, and
jewels disappeared. He grew thinner in person; his face, which had once the
beaming roundness of a well-to-do middle-class gentleman, became furrowed
with wrinkles. Lines appeared in his forehead, his jaws grew gaunt and
sharp; and at the end of the fourth year he bore no longer the likeness of
his former self. He was now a wan, worn-out septuagenarian--stupid,
vacillating.
Eugène de Rastignac had ambitions, not only to win distinction as
a lawyer, but also to play a part in the aristocratic society of Paris. He
observed the influence which women exert upon society; and at his
suggestion his aunt, Madame de Marcillac, who lived with his father in the
old family château near Angoulême, and who had been at court in the
days before the French Revolution, wrote to one of her great relatives, the
Viscomtesse de Beauséant, one of the queens of Parisian society,
asking her to give kindly recognition to her nephew. On the strength of
that letter Eugène was invited to a ball at the mansion of the
viscomtesse in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The viscomtesse became
interested in him, especially as she was suffering from the desertion of
the Marquis d'Ajuda-Pinto, a Portuguese nobleman who had been long her
lover, and stood sponsor for him in society. At the Faubourg, Eugène
met the Duchesse de Langeais, from whom he learned the history of Old
Goriot.
"During the Revolution," said the duchesse, "Goriot was a flour and
vermicelli merchant, and, being president of his section, was behind the
scenes. When a great scarcity of food was at hand he made his fortune by
selling his goods for ten times what they cost him. He had but one passion;
he loved his daughters, and by endowing each of them with a dot of eight
hundred thousand francs, he married the eldest, Anastasie, to the Count de
Restaud, and the youngest, Delphine, to the Baron de Nucingen, a rich
German financier. During the Empire, his daughters sometimes asked their
father to visit them; but after the Restoration the old man became an
annoyance to his sons-in-law. He saw that his daughters were ashamed of
him; he made the sacrifice which only a father can, and banished himself
from their homes. There is," continued the duchesse, "something in these
Goriot sisters even more shocking than their neglect of their father, for
whose death they wish. I mean their rivalry to each other. Restaud is of
ancient family; his wife has been adopted by his relatives and presented at
court. But the rich sister, the beautiful Madame Delphine de Nucingen, is
dying with envy, the victim of jealousy. She is a hundred leagues lower in
society than her sister. They renounce each other as they both renounced
their father. Madame de Nucingen would lap up all the mud between the Rue
Saint-Lazare and the Rue de Crenelle to gain admission to my salon." What
the duchesse did not reveal was that Anastasie had a lover, Count Maxime de
Trailles, a gambler and a duellist. To pay the gambling losses of this
unscrupulous lover, to the extent of two hundred thousand francs, the
Countess de Restaud induced Old Goriot to sell out of the funds nearly all
that remained of his great fortune, and give the proceeds to her.
Returning to his lodgings from a ball in the Faubourg Saint-Germain,
Eugène saw a light in Goriot's room; and, without being noticed,
watched the old man laboriously twisting two pieces of silver plate--his
precious dish and porringer--into one lump.
"He must be mad," thought the student.
"The poor child!" groaned Goriot.
The next morning Goriot visited a silversmith, and the Countess de
Restaud received the money to redeem a note of hand which she had given to
a moneylender on behalf of her lover.
"Old Goriot is sublime," muttered Eugène when he heard of the
transaction.
Delphine de Nucingen also had an admirer, Count de Marsay, through whose
influence she expected to be introduced into the exclusive aristocratic
society to which even the great wealth of her husband and his German patent
of nobility could not secure an entry. Apart from her social aspirations,
Delphine was personally extravagant; and as the baron was miserly and only
gave her a very scanty allowance, she visited the gambling dens of the
Palais Royale to try and raise the money which she could no longer coax
from her old father.
III.--A Temptation and a Murder
To be young, to thirst after a position in the world of fashion, to
hunger for the smiles of beautiful women, to obtain an entry into the
salons of the Faubourg, meant to Rastignac large expenditure. He wrote home
asking for a loan of twelve hundred francs, which, he said, he must have at
all costs. The Viscomtesse de Beauséant had taken him under her
protection, and he was in a situation to make an immediate fortune. He must
go into society, but had not a penny even to buy gloves. The loan would be
returned tenfold.
The mother sold her jewels, the aunt her old laces, his sisters
sacrificed their economies, and the twelve hundred francs were sent to
Eugène. With this sum he launched into the gay life of a man of
fashion, dressed extravagantly, and gambled recklessly. One day Vautrin
arrived in high spirits, surprising Eugène conversing with
Victorine. This was Vautrin's opportunity, for which he had been preparing.
When Victorine retired, Vautrin pointed out how impossible it was to
maintain a position in society as a law student, and if Eugène
wished to get on quickly he must either be rich, or make believe to be
so.
"In view of all the circumstances, therefore, I make a proposition to
you," said Vautrin to Eugène, "which I think no man in your position
should refuse. I wish to become a great planter in the Southern States of
America, and need two hundred thousand francs. If I get you a dot of a
million, will you give me two hundred thousand francs? Is twenty per cent,
commission on such a transaction too much? You will secure the affection of
a little wife. A few weeks after marriage you will seem distracted. Some
night, between kisses, you can own a debt of two hundred thousand francs,
and ask your darling to pay it. The farce is acted every day by young men
of good family, and no amorous young wife will refuse the money to the man
she adores. Moreover, you will not lose the money; you will easily get it
back by judicious speculation!"
"But where can I find such a girl?" said Eugène.
"She is here, close at hand."
"Mademoiselle Victorine?"
"Precisely!"
"But how can that be?"
"She loves you; already she thinks herself the little Baroness de
Rastignac."
"She has not a penny!" cried Eugène in amazement.
"Ah, now we are coming to the point," said Vautrin.
Thereupon, Vautrin insinuated that if papa Taillefer lost his son
through the interposition of a wise Providence, he would take back his
pretty and amiable daughter, who would inherit his millions. To this end
he, Vautrin, frankly volunteered to play the part of destiny. He had a
friend, a colonel in the army of the Loire, who would pick a quarrel with
Frederic, the young blackguard son who had never sent a five-franc piece to
his poor sister, and then "to the shades"--making a pass as if with a
sword.
"Silence, monsieur! I will hear no more."
"As you please, my beautiful boy! I thought you were stronger."
A few days after this scene, Mademoiselle Michonneau and Poiret were
sitting on a bench in the Jardin des Plantes, when they were accosted by
the chief of the detective force. He told them that the minister of police
believed that a man calling himself Vautrin, who lived with them in the
Maison Vauquer, was an escaped convict from Toulon galleys, Jacques Collin,
but known by the nickname of Trompe-la-Mort, and one of the most dangerous
criminals in all France. In order to obtain certainty as to the identity of
Vautrin with Collin he offered a bribe of three thousand francs if
mademoiselle would administer a potion in his coffee or wine, which would
affect him as if he were stricken with apoplexy. During his insensibility
they could easily discover whether Vautrin had the convict's brand on his
shoulder. The pair accepted the bribe, and the plot succeeded. Vautrin was
identified as Collin and arrested, just as a messenger came to announce
that Frederic Taillefer had been killed in a duel, and Victorine was
carried off with Madame Couture to her father's home, the sole heir to his
millions. When he was being pinioned to be conveyed back to the galleys,
Collin looked upon his late fellow boarders with fierce scorn. "Are you any
better than we convicts are?" said he. "We have less infamy branded on our
shoulders than you have in your hearts--you flabby members of a gangrened
society. There is some virtue here," exclaimed he, striking his breast. "I
have never betrayed anyone. As for you, you old female Judas," turning to
Mademoiselle Michonneau, "look at these people. They regard me with terror,
but their hearts turn with disgust even to glance at you. Pick up your
ill-gotten gains and begone." As Jacques Collin disappeared from the Maison
Vauquer, and from our story, Sylvie, the fat cook, exclaimed: "Well, he was
a man all the same!"
Although the way was now clear for Rastignac to marry the enormously
wealthy Victorine, he paid court instead to Delphine, the Baroness de
Nucingen, and dined with her every night. Old Goriot was informed of the
intrigue by the baroness's maid. He did not resent but rather encouraged
the liaison, and spent his last ten thousand francs in furnishing a suite
of apartments for the young couple, on condition that he was to be allowed
to occupy an adjoining room, and see his daughter every day.
IV.--Old Goriot's Death-Bed
The Viscomtesse de Beauséant was broken-hearted when the marriage
of her lover was accomplished, but to maintain a brave spirit in the face
of society she gave a farewell ball before retiring to her country estate.
Among those invited was the Countess de Restaud, who ordered a rich costume
for the occasion, which, however, she was unable to pay for. Her husband,
the count, insisted on her appearing at the ball and wearing the family
diamonds, which she had pawned to discharge her lover's gambling debts, and
which had been redeemed to save the family honour. Anastasie sent her maid
to Old Goriot, who rose from a sick-bed, sold his last forks and spoons for
six hundred francs, pledged his annuity for four hundred francs, and so
raised a thousand, which enabled Anastasie to obtain the gown and shine at
the ball. Through Rastignac's influence, Delphine, Baroness de Nucingen,
received from the viscomtesse a ticket for the dance, and insisted on
going, as Rastignac declared "even over the dead body of her father," to
challenge her sister's social precedence at the supreme society function.
The ball was the most brilliant of the Parisian season. Both Goriot's
daughters satisfied their selfish ambitions and gave never a thought to
their old parent in the wretched Maison Vauquer.
For Old Goriot was sick unto death. His garret was bare; the walls
dripped with moisture; the floor was damp; the bed was comfortless, and the
few faggots which made the handful of fire had been bought only by the
money got from pawning Eugène's watch. Christophe, the man servant,
was sent by Rastignac to tell the daughters of their father's
condition.
"Tell them that I am not very well," said Old Goriot; "that I should
like to see them, to kiss them before I die."
By and by, when the messenger had gone, the old man said: "I don't want
to die. To die, my good Eugène, is--not to see them there, where I
am going. How lonely I shall be! Hell, to a father, is to be without his
children. Tell me, if I go to heaven, can I come back in spirit and hover
near them? You saw them at the ball; they did not know that I was ill, did
they?"
On the return of the messenger, Old Goriot was told that both his
daughters refused to come and see him. Delphine was too tired and sleepy;
Anastasie was discussing with her husband the future disposition of her
marriage portion. Then alternately Goriot blamed his daughters and pardoned
their unfilial and selfish behaviour.
"My daughters were my vice--my mistresses. Oh, they will come! Come, my
darlings! A kiss, a last kiss, the viaticum of your father! I am justly
punished; my children were good, and I have spoiled them; on my head be
their sins. I alone am guilty; but guilty through love." Eugène
tried to soothe the old man by saying that he would go himself to fetch his
daughters; but Goriot kept muttering in his semi-delirium. "Here, Nasie!
here Delphine, come to your father who has been so good to you, and who is
dying! Are they coming? No? Am I to die like a dog? This is my reward;
forsaken, abandoned! They are wicked; they are criminal. I hate them. I
will rise from my coffin to curse them. Oh, this is horrible! Ah, it is my
sons-in-law who keep them away from me!"
"My good Old Goriot," said Eugène, "be calm."
"Not to see them--it is the agony of death!"
"You shall see them."
"Ah! my angels!"
And with these feeble words, Old Goriot sank back on the pillow and
breathed his last.
Anastasie did come to the death-chamber, but too late. "I could not
escape soon enough," she said to Rastignac. The student smiled sadly, and
Madame de Restaud took her father's hand and kissed it, saying, "Forgive
me, my father."
Goriot had a pauper's funeral. The aristocratic sons-in-law refused to
pay the expenses of the burial. These were scraped together with difficulty
by Eugène de Rastignac, the law student, and Bianchon, the medical
student, who had nursed him with loving tenderness to the last. At the
graveside in Père Lachaise, Eugène and Christophe were the
only mourners; Bianchon's duties detained him at the hospital. When the
body of Old Goriot was lowered into the earth, the clergy recited a short
prayer--all that could be given for the student's money. The pall of night
was falling; the mist struck a chill on Eugène's nerves, and when he
took a last glance at the shell containing all that was mortal of his old
friend, he buried the last tear of his young manhood--a tear drawn by a
sacred emotion from a pure heart.
Eugène wandered to the most elevated part of the cemetery, whence
he surveyed that portion of the city between the Place Vendome and the dome
of the Invalides, where lives that world of fashion which he had hungered
to penetrate. With bitterness he muttered: "Now there is relentless war
between us." And as the first act of defiance which he had sworn against
society, Rastignac went to dine with Madame Nucingen!
In no other work is the special quality of Balzac's genius
displayed so completely as in "La Peau de Chagrin," which we render as "The
Magic Skin." Published in 1831, it is the earliest in date of his veritable
masterpieces, and the finest in conception. There is no novel more soberly
true to life than this strange fairy tale. His hero, the Marquis de
Valentin, is a young aristocrat of the Byronic type. He rejects the simple
joys and stern realities of human existence; he wants more than life can
give. He gets what he wants. He obtains a magic skin which enables him to
fulfil his every wish. But in so doing he uses up his vital powers. Such is
the idea which makes this fantastic story a profound philosophical study.
I.--The Seal of Solomon
On a dull morning towards the end of October, 1830, a tall, pale, and
rather handsome young man came to the Pont Royal, and leaned over the
bridge, and gazed with wild and yet resolute eyes at the swirling waters
below. Just as he was preparing to leap down, a ragged old woman passed
by.
"Wretched weather for drowning oneself, isn't it?" she said, with a
grin. "How cold and dirty the Seine looks!"
The young man turned and smiled at her in the delirium of his courage.
Then, suddenly he shuddered. On a shed by the Tuileries he saw, written in
large letters: "Help for the drowned." He foresaw the whole thing. A boat
would put off to the rescue. If the rowers did not smash his skull in with
their oars as he came to the surface, he would be taken to the shed and
revived. If he were dead, a crowd would collect, newspaper men would come;
his body would be recognised; and the Press would publish the news of the
suicide of Raphael de Valentin. No! He would wait till nightfall, and then
in a decent, private manner bequeath an unrecognizable corpse to a world
that had disregarded his genius.
With the air of a wealthy man of leisure sauntering about the streets to
kill time, the young marquis strolled down the Quai Voltaire, and followed
the line of shops, looking listlessly at every window. But as he thought of
the fate awaiting him at nightfall, men and houses swam in a mist before
his eyes. To recover himself he entered a curiosity shop. "If you care to
go through our galleries," said the red-haired shop-boy, "you will find
something worth looking at."
Raphael climbed up a dark staircase lined with mummies, Indian idols,
stuffed crocodiles, and goggle-eyed monsters. They all seemed to grin at
him as he passed. Haunted by these strange shapes belonging to the
borderland between life and death, he walked in a kind of dream through a
series of long, dimly lighted galleries, in which was piled, in mad
confusion, the work of every age and every clime. Here was a lovely statue
by Michael Angelo, from which dangled the scalp of a Red Indian. There,
cold and impassive, was the lord of the ancient world, the Emperor
Augustus, with a modern air-pump sticking in his eye. The walls were hung
with priceless pictures, which were half-hidden by grimacing skeletons,
rude wooden idols with horrible features, tall suits of gleaming armour,
and figures of Egyptian deities, with the bodies of men and heads of
animals. The place was a kitchen of all the arts and religions and
interests of mankind.
This extraordinary confusion was rendered still more bizarre by the dim
cross-lights that played upon everything. Raphael's eyes grew weary with
gazing, and his mind was oppressed by the spectacle of the ruined
splendours of thousands of years of human life. A fever born of hunger and
exhaustion possessed him. The pictures appeared to light up, the statues
seemed to move. Everything danced and swayed around him. Then a horrible
Chinese monster advanced upon him with menacing eyes from the other side of
the room, and he swooned away in terror.
When he came to, his eyes were dazzled by a flood or radiance streaming
from a circle of crimson light. Before him, holding a bright red lamp, was
a frail, white-haired, extraordinary man, clad in a long robe of black
velvet. His body was wasted by extreme old age. His skin was like wrinkled
parchment, and his lips were so thin and colourless that it was hardly
possible to discern on his ivory-white face the line made by his mouth. But
his eyes were marvellous. They were calm, clear and searching, and they
glowed with the light and freshness of youth.
"So you have been looking over my collection," the old man said. "Do you
wish to buy anything?"
"Buy?" said Raphael, with a strange smile. "I am utterly penniless. I
have been examining your treasures just to while away the time till I could
drown myself quietly and secretly at night. You will not grudge this last
pleasure to a poet and man of learning, will you?"
"Penniless?" said the old man. "But you do not want to die because you
are penniless! A young, handsome, intellectual lad like you could pick up a
living somehow. What is it? Some woman, eh? Now let me help----"
"I want no help or advice or consolation," said Raphael furiously.
"And I will give you none," said the old man. "But as you are resolved
to die, will you do something for me. I want to get rid of this."
He held the lamp up the wall, and showed Raphael a piece of very old
shagreen, about the size of a fox's skin.
"Ah!" said Raphael. "A wild ass's skin engraved with Sanscrit
characters. Why, here's the mark that some of the Eastern races call the
Seal of Solomon!"
"You are truly a man of learning," said the strange old merchant, his
breath coming in quick pants through his nostrils. "No doubt you can read
the inscription."
"I should translate it thus," said Raphael, fixing his eyes upon the
skin.
POSSESSING ME THOU POSSESSEST EVERYTHING. YET I
POSSESS THEE. SO GOD HAS WILLED IT. WISH, AND
THY WISHES SHALL BE ACCOMPLISHED. BUT MEASURE
THE WISHES ACCORDING TO THY LIFE. HERE
IT IS. I SHALL SHRINK WITH EACH WISH, AND
SO SHALL THY LIFE, WILT THOU TAKE ME?
TAKE ME! GOD WILL HEAR THEE. AMEN.
"Is it a joke or a mystery?"
"I do not know," said the old man. "I have offered the magic skin to
many men. They laughed at it; but none would take it. I am like them. I
doubt its power, but will not put it to the test."
"What!" said Raphael. "You have never formed a wish all the time you had
it?"
"No!" said the old man. "I have discovered the great secret of human
life. Look! I am a hundred and two years old. Do you know why men die?
Because they use up the energy of life by wishing to do things and doing
them. I am content to know things. My days have been spent wandering
quietly over all the earth in the calm acquisition of knowledge. All
desire, all lust after power are dead within me. So this skin, which I
picked up in India, has never shrunk an inch since it came into my
possession."
"You have never lived!" cried Raphael, turning from the old man, and
seizing the skin. "Yes, I will take you. Now for a test. I am starving. Set
before me a splendid banquet. Let me have as guests all the wildest,
gayest, wittiest minds of young France. And women? Oh, the prettiest,
wickedest women of the town! Wine, wit and women!"
A roar of laughter came from the old man. It resounded in the ears of
Raphael like the laughter of a fiend from hell.
"Do you think my floors are going to open, and tables, waiters, and
guests pop up before your eyes?" he said. "No! Your first wish is mean and
vulgar; but it will be fulfilled in a natural manner. You wanted to die,
eh? Your suicide is only postponed."
Raphael put the skin in his pocket, and abruptly left, saying, "You have
never lived. I wish you knew what love was."
He heard the old man groan strangely, but without listening to his
reproaches he rushed out of the shop, and in the street ran full tilt up
against three young men.
"Brute! Ass! Idiot! Why, it's Raphael!" they cried. "You must come. Talk
about a Roman orgy I We've been all over Paris looking, for you. A gorgeous
feed. And all the girls from the Opera! The ancient Romans aren't in
it."
"One at a time," said Raphael. "Now, Emile, just tell me what are you
all shouting about?"
"Do you know Taillefer, the wealthy banker?" said Emile. "He is founding
a newspaper. All the talent of young France is to be enlisted. You're
invited to the inaugural festival to-night at the Rue Joubert. The ballot
girls of the Opera are coming. Oh, Taillefer's doing the thing in
style!"
Arm linked in arm, the four friends made their way to Taillefer's
mansion, and there, in a large room brilliantly set out, they were welcomed
by all the younger men of note in Paris. For some time Raphael felt ill at
ease. He was surprised by the natural manner in which his wish had suddenly
been accomplished. He took the magic skin out of his pocket, and looked at
it. Magic? What man could believe nowadays in magic? But, nevertheless, he
marvelled at the accidents of human life.
II--A Fight Against Fate
Although the banquet which he had desired was now set before him,
Raphael was still very moody. Deaf to the loud, wild merriment of his
companions, he thought sadly of the misfortune which had driven him that
morning to the brink of the grave. Many noblemen find it difficult to exist
in Paris on an income of several thousand pounds. The young Marquis de
Valentin had lived there very happily on £12 a year. In 1826, his father,
who had lost his wealth and lands in the Revolution, had died, leaving him
£40. Taking a garret in the Rue des Cordiers, he had set about earning his
living with his pen, and for three years he had laboured at a great work on
"The Theory of the Will." He never went into society, but found a pleasant
distraction from his studies in educating the daughter of his landlady.
Pauline Gaudin was a charming and beautiful child; her father, a baron
of the empire, and an officer in the Grand Army, had been taken prisoner by
the Russians in 1812, and never heard of since. Raphael was moved by the
grace and innocence of the lovely human flower, that grew from a bud into
an opening blossom under his care. But as he was too poor to marry her, he
never made love to her.
Then, in January, 1830, he met the Countess Foedora, a brilliant,
wealthy woman of society, widowed at the age of thirty, and eager to shine
and astonish and captivate. For her sake, Raphael had put aside his
scholarly studies and engaged in money-making hack-work. But after keeping
him dangling about her for some months, she had cast him off, and in his
misery he had resolved to end his life. Now he had got the magic skin. What
if it were true what the strange old man had said? Should he wish to win
the heart of Foedora? No! She was a woman without a heart. He would have
nothing to do with women. Still, this skin!
"Measure it! Measure it!" he cried, flinging it down on the table.
"Measure what?" said Emile. "Has Taillefer's wine got into your head
already?"
Raphael told them of the curiosity shop.
"That can be easily tested," said Emile, taking the skin and drawing its
outline on a napkin. "Now wish, and see if it shrinks."
"I wish for six million pounds!" said Raphael.
"Hurrah!" said Emile. "And while you're about it make us all
millionaires."
Taillefer's notary, Cardot, who had been gazing at Raphael during the
dinner, walked across the room to him.
"My dear marquis," he said, "I've been looking for you all the evening.
Wasn't your mother a Miss O'Flaharty?"
"Yes, she was," said Raphael--"Barbara O'Flaharty."
"Well, you are the sole heir of Major O'Flaharty, who died last August
at Calcutta, leaving a fortune of six millions."
"An incalculable fortune," said Emile. Raphael spread out the skin upon
the napkin. He shuddered violently on seeing a slight margin between the
pencil-line on the napkin and the edge of the skin.
"What's the matter?" said the notary. "He has got a fortune very
cheaply."
"Hold him up," said some one. "The joy will kill him."
A ghostly whiteness spread over the face of the happy heir. He had seen
Death! He stared at the shrunken skin and the merciless outline on the
napkin, and a feeling of horror came over him. The whole world was his; he
could have all things. But at what a cost!
"Do you wish for some asparagus, sir?" said, a waiter.
"I wish for nothing!" shrieked Raphael. And he fled from the
banquet.
"So," he said, when he was at last alone, "in this enlightened age, when
science has stripped the very stars of their secrets, here am I frightened
out of my senses by an old piece of wild ass's skin. To-morrow I will have
it examined by Planchette, and put an end to this mad fancy."
Planchette, the celebrated professor of mechanics, treated the thing as
a joke.
"Come with me to Spieghalter," he said. "He has just built a new kind of
hydraulic press which I designed."
Arrived there, Planchette asked Spieghalter to stretch the magic skin.
"Our friend," he said, "doubts if we can do it."
"You see this crank?" said Spieghalter to Raphael, pointing to the new
press. "Seven turns to it, and a solid steel bar would break into thousands
of pieces."
"The very thing I want," said Raphael.
Planchette put the skin between the metal plates, and, proud of his new
invention, he energetically twisted the crank.
"Lie flat all of you!" shouted Spieghalter. "We're dead men."
There was an explosion, and a jet of water spurted out with terrific
force. Falling on a furnace it twisted up the mass of iron as if it had
been paper. The hydraulic chamber of the press had given way.
"The skin is untouched," said Planchette. "There was a flaw in the
press."
"No, no!" said Spieghalter. "My press was as sound as a bell. The
devil's in your skin, sir. Take it away!"
Spieghalter seized the talisman, and flung it on an anvil, and furiously
belaboured it with a heavy sledgehammer. He then pitched it in a furnace,
and ordered his workmen to blow the coal into a fierce white heat. At the
end of ten minutes he drew it out with a pair of tongs uninjured. With a
cry of horror the workmen fled from the foundry.
"I now believe in the devil," said Spieghalter.
"And I believe in God," said Planchette.
Raphael departed in a hard, bitter rage. He was resolved to fight like a
man against his strange fate. He would follow the example of the former
owner of the magic skin, and give himself up to study and meditation, and
live his life in the tranquil acquisition of knowledge, undisturbed by
passion and desire, and lust for power, and dominion and glory. On
receiving his vast inheritance, he bought a mansion in the Rue de Varenne,
and engaged a crowd of intelligent, quiet servants to wait upon him.
But his first care had been to seek out his foster-father, Jonathan, the
old and devoted servitor of his family. To him he confided his dreadful
secret.
"You must stand between the world and me, Jonathan," he said. "Treat me
as a baby. Never ask me for orders. See that the servants feed me, and tend
me, and care for me in absolute silence. Above all things, never let anyone
pester me. Never let me form a wish of any kind."
For some months, the eccentric Marquis de Valentin was the talk of
Paris. He lived in monastic silence and seclusion, and Jonathan never
permitted any of his friends to enter the mansion. But one morning his old
tutor, Porriquet, called, and Jonathan thought he might cheer his young
master. He could not ask Raphael: "Do you wish to see M. Porriquet?" But
after some thought he found a way of putting the question: "M. Porriquet is
here, my lord. Do you think he ought to enter?"
Raphael nodded. Porriquet was alarmed at the appearance of his pupil. He
looked like a plant bleached by darkness. The fact was, Raphael had
surrendered every right in life in order to live. He had despoiled his soul
of all the romance that lies in a wish. The better to struggle with the
cruel power that he had challenged, he had stifled his imagination. He did
not allow himself even the pleasures of fancy, lest they should awaken some
desire. He had become an automaton.
Porriquet, unfortunately, was now an irritating old proser. He had
failed in life and wanted to air all his grievances. At the end of five
minutes' talk Raphael was about to wish that he would depart, when he
caught sight of the magic skin hanging in a frame, with a red line drawn
around it. Suppressing, with a shudder, his secret desire, he patiently
bore with the old man's prolixity. Porriquet wanted very much to ask him
for money, but did not like to do so, and after complaining for quite an
hour or more about things in general, he rose to depart.
"Perhaps," he said, as he turned to leave the room, "I shall hear of a
headmastership of a good school."
"The very thing for you!" said Raphael. "I wish you could get
it."
Then, with a sudden cry, he looked at the frame. There was a thin white
edge between the skin and the red line.
"Go, you fool!" he shouted. "I have made you a headmaster. Why didn't
you ask me for an annuity of a thousand pounds instead of using up ten
years of my life on a silly wish? I could have won Foedora at the price!
Conquered a kingdom!"
His lips were covered with froth, and there was a savage light in his
eyes. Porriquet fled in terror. Then Raphael fell back in a chair, and
wept.
"Oh, my precious life!" he sobbed. "No more kindly thoughts! No more
friendship!"
III.--The Agony of Death
Raphael's condition had by now become so critical that a trip to Savoy
was advised, and a few weeks later he was at Aix. One day, moving among the
crowd of pleasure-seekers and invalids, a number of young men deliberately
picked a quarrel with him, with the result that from one of them he
received a challenge to fight a duel. Raphael did his utmost to persuade
the other to apologise, even going to the extent of informing him of the
terrible powers he possessed. Failing in his object, the fatal morning came
round, and the unfortunate individual was shot through the heart. Not
heeding the fallen man, Raphael hurriedly glanced at the skin to see what
another man's life had cost him. The talisman had shrunk to the size of a
small oak-leaf.
Seeing that his master was given over to a gloomy despair that verged
upon madness, Jonathan resolved to distract his mind at all costs, and
knowing that he was passionately fond of music, he engaged a box for him at
the Opera. But Raphael was afraid above all things, of falling in love.
Under the illimitable desire of passion the magic skin would shrivel up in
an hour. So he used a strange, distorting opera-glass which made the
loveliest face seem hideous.
With this he sat in his box, he surveyed the scene around him. Who was
that old man over there, sitting beside a dancing-girl that Raphael had
seen at Taillefer's? The owner of the curiosity shop! He had at last fallen
in love, as Raphael had jestingly desired. No doubt the magic skin had
shrunk under that wish before Raphael had measured it. A beautiful woman
entered the theatre with a peer of France at her side. A murmur of
admiration arose as she took her seat. She smiled at Raphael. In spite of
the distorted image on his opera-glass, Raphael knew her. It was the
Countess Foedora! In a single glance of intolerable scorn the man she had
played false avenged himself. He did not waste an ill-wish on her. He
merely took the glasses from his eyes, and answered her smile with a look
of cold contempt. Everybody observed the sudden pallor of the countess; it
was a public rejection.
"Raphael!"
The marquis turned at the sound of a beloved voice. Pauline was sitting
in the box next to his. How beautiful she had grown! How maidenly she was
still! Putting down his opera-glasses, Raphael talked to her of old
times.
"You must come and see me to-morrow," said Pauline. "I have your great
work on 'The Theory of the Will.' Don't you remember leaving it in the
garret?"
"I was mad and blind then," said Raphael. "But I am cured at last."
"I wish Pauline to love me!" he kept repeating to himself all the way
home. "I wish Pauline to love me!"
With a strange mixture of wild anguish and fierce joy, he looked at the
magic skin to see what this vehement wish had cost him. Nothing! Not a sign
of shrinkage could be discerned. The fact was that even the greatest
talisman could not realise a desire which had long since been fulfilled.
Pauline had loved Raphael from the time when they first met; while he had
been priding himself on living on twelve pounds a year, she had been
painting screens up to two or three o'clock every night, in order to buy
him food and firing.
"Oh, my simple-minded darling," she said to him the next day, sitting on
his lap and twining her arms about his neck, "you will never know what a
pleasure it was for me to pay my handsome tutor for all his kindness. And
wasn't I cunning? You never found me out."
"But I've found out now," said Raphael, "and I am going to punish you
severely. Instead of marrying you in three months' time, as you suggest, I
shall marry you at the end of this week."
Raphael was now the happiest man in Paris. Seeing that the magic skin
had not shrunk with his last wish, he thought that the spell over his life
was removed. And that morning he had thrown the talisman down a disused
well in the garden.
At the end of the week, Pauline was sitting at breakfast with Raphael in
the conservatory overlooking the garden. She was wearing a light
dressing-gown; her long hair was all dishevelled, and her little, white,
blue-veined feet peeped out of their velvet slippers. She gave a little cry
of dismay, when the gardener appeared.
"I've just found this strange thing at the bottom of one of the wells,"
he said.
He gave Raphael the magic skin. It was now scarcely as large as a rose
leaf.
"Leave me, Pauline! Leave me at once!" cried Raphael. "If you remain I
shall die before your eyes."
"Die?" she said. "Die? You cannot. I love you--I love you!"
"Yes, die!" he exclaimed, showing her the little bit of skin. "Look,
dearest. This is a talisman which represents the length of my life, and
accomplishes my wishes. You see how little is left."
Pauline thought he had suddenly grown mad. She bent over him, and took
up the magic skin. As Raphael saw her, beautiful with love and terror, he
lost all control over his desires. To possess her again, and die on her
breast!
"Come to me Pauline!" he said.
She felt the skin tickling her hand as it rapidly shrivelled up. She
rushed into the bedroom, and closed the door.
"Pauline! Pauline!" cried the dying man, stumbling after her. "I love
you! I want you! I wish to die for you!"
With extraordinary strength--the last outburst of life--he tore the door
off the hinges, and saw Pauline in agony on a sofa. She had stabbed
herself.
"If I die, he will live!" she was crying.
Raphael staggered across the room, and fell into the arms of beautiful
Pauline, dead.
"La Recherche de l'Absolu" was published in 1834, with a
touching dedication to Madame Josephine Delannoy: "Madame, may it please
God that this, my book, may live when I am dead, that the gratitude which
is due from me to you, and which equals, I trust, your motherlike
generosity to me, may hope to endure beyond the limits set to human love."
The novel became a part of the "Human Comedy" in 1845. The struggle of
Balthazar Claes in his quest for the Absolute, his disregard of all else
save his work, and the heroic devotion of Josephine and Marguerite, are
characteristic features of Balzac's art; the sordidness of life and the mad
passion for the unattainable are admirably relieved, as in "Eugénie
Grandet" and "Old Goriot," by a certain nobility and purity of motive. The
novel is generally acknowledged one of Balzac's masterpieces, both in
vigour of portraiture and minuteness of detail. Perhaps no one was ever
better fitted to depict the ruin wrought by a fixed idea than Balzac
himself, who wasted much of his laborious life in struggling to discover a
short cut to wealth.
I.--Claes, the Alchemist
In Douai, situated in the Rue de Paris, there is a house which stands
out from all the rest in the city by reason of its purely Flemish
character. In all its details, this tall and handsome house expresses the
manners of the domesticated people of the Low Countries. The name of the
house for some two centuries has been Maison Claes, after the great family
of craftsmen who occupied it. These Van Claes had amassed fortunes, played
a part in politics, and had suffered many vicissitudes in the course of
history without losing their place in the mighty bourgeois world of
commerce. They were substantial people, princes of trade.
At the end of the eighteenth century the representative of this ancient
and affluent family was Balthazar Claes, a tall and handsome young man, who
after some years' residence in Paris, where he saw the fashionable world
and made acquaintance with many of the great savants, including Lavoisier
the chemist, returned to his home in Douai, and set himself to find a
wife.
It was on a visit to a relation in Ghent that he heard gossip concerning
a young lady living in Brussels, which made him curious to see so
interesting a person. Rumour had two tales to tell of this Mlle. Josephine
Temninck. She was beautiful, but she was deformed. Could deformity be
triumphed over by beauty of face? A relative of Claes thought that it
could, and maintained this opinion against the opposite camp. This relative
spoke of Mlle. Temninck's character, telling how the sweet girl had
surrendered her share of the family estate that her younger brother might
make a great marriage, and how she had quite resigned herself, even on the
threshold of her life, to the idea of spinsterhood and narrow means.
Claes sought out this noble soul. He found her inexpressibly beautiful,
and the malformation of one of her shoulders appeared as nothing in his
eyes. He lost his heart to Josephine, and made passionate love to her.
Distracted by such adoration, the beautiful cripple was now lifted to dizzy
heights of joy and now plunged into abysmal depths of despair. She had
deemed herself irreparably plain; in the eyes of a charming young man, she
found herself beautiful. But, could such love endure through life? To be
loved was delicious, but to be deceived after so surprising a release from
solitude would be terrible.
Conscious of her deformity, intimidated by the future, she became in the
purity of her soul a coquette. She dissimulated her feelings, became
exacting, and hid from her lover the passion of joy which was consuming
her; indeed, she only revealed her true self after marriage had shown her
the steadfast nobility of her husband's character, when she could no longer
doubt of his affection. He loved her with fidelity and ardour. She realised
all his ideals, and no consideration of duty entered into their passionate
affection. She was Spanish, and had the secret of charm in her variety of
attraction; ill-educated though she was, like most daughters of Spanish
noblemen, she was engaging and bewildering in the force of her own nature
and the religion of her absorbing love. In society she was dull; for her
husband alone she was enchanting. No couple could have been happier.
They had four children, two boys and two girls; the eldest a girl named
Marguerite.
Fourteen years after their marriage, in the year 1809, a change appeared
in Balthazar, but so gradually that Mme. Claes did not at first question
it. He became thoughtful, reflective, silent, preoccupied. When Josephine
Claes noticed this change, it was too late for her to ask questions; she
waited for Balthazar to speak. She began to fear. Balthazar, whose whole
heaven had lain in the happiness of the family life, who had loved to play
with his children, to attend to his tulips, to sun himself in the dark eyes
of Josephine, seemed now to forget the existence of them all. He was
indifferent to everything.
People who questioned her were put off with the brave story that
Balthazar had a great work in hand, which would bring fame one day to his
native town. Josephine's hazard was founded on truth. Workmen had been
engaged for some time in the garret of the house, and there Claes spent the
greater part of his time. But the poor lady was to learn the full truth
from the neighbours she had attempted to hoodwink. They asked her if she
meant to see herself and her children ruined, adding that her husband was
spending a fortune on scientific instruments, machinery, books, and
materials in a search for the Philosopher's Stone.
Humiliated that the neighbours should know more than she did, and
terrified by the prospect in front of her, Josephine at last spoke to her
husband.
"My dear," he said, "you would not understand what I am about. I am
studying chemistry, and I am perfectly happy."
Things went from bad to worse. Claes became more taciturn and more
invisible to his family. He was slovenly in dress and untidy in his habits.
Only his servant Lemulquinier, or Mulquinier, as he was often called, was
allowed to enter the attic and share his master's secrets. Mme. Claes had a
rival. It was science.
One day she went to the garret, but Claes repulsed her with wrath and
roughness.
"My experiment is absolutely spoilt," he cried vehemently. "In another
minute I might have resolved nitrogen."
II.--The Riddle of Existence
Josephine consulted Claes's notary, M. Pierquin, a young man and a
relative of the family. He looked into matters, and found that Claes owed a
hundred thousand francs to a firm of chemists in Paris. He warned Josephine
that ruin was certain if this state of things continued. Hitherto she had
loved husband more than children; now the mother was roused in her, and for
her children's sakes she determined to act. She had sold her diamonds to
provide for the housekeeping, since for six months Claes had given her
nothing; she had sent away the governess; she had economised in a hundred
directions. Now she must act against her husband. But her children came
between her and her true life, since her true life was Balthazar's. She
loved him with a sublime passion which could sacrifice everything except
her children.
One Sunday, after vespers, in 1812, she sent for her husband, and
awaited him at a window of one of the lower rooms, which looked on the
garden. Tears were in her eyes. As she sat there, suddenly over her head
sounded the footsteps of Claes, making her start. No one could have heard
that slow and dragging step unmoved. One wondered if it were a living
thing.
He entered the apartment, thin, round-shouldered, with disordered long
hair, his cravat awry, his clothes stained and torn.
"Are you so absorbed in your work, Balthazar?" said Josephine. "It is
thirty-three Sundays since you have been either to vespers or mass."
"Vespers?" he questioned, vaguely. Then added: "Ah, the children have
been to church," and walked to the window and looked at the tulips. As he
stood there, he said to himself: "But yes, why shouldn't they combine in a
given time?"
His poor wife asked herself in despair, "Is he going mad?" Then, rousing
herself, she called him by his name. Without paying heed to her he coughed
and went to one of the spittoons beside the wainscot.
"Monsieur, I speak to you!"
"What of that?" he demanded, turning swiftly. She became deadly
white.
"Forgive me, dear," she whispered, and cried: "Ah, this is killing
me!"
Tears in her eyes roused Claes out of his reverie. He took her into his
arms, pushed open a door, and sprang lightly up the staircase. Finding the
door of her apartment locked, he laid her gently in an armchair.
"Thank you, dear," she murmured. "I have not been so near your heart for
a long time."
Her loveliness postponed disaster. Enamoured by her beauty, rescued to
humanity, Claes returned for a brief interval to the family life, and was
adorable to his wife, charming to his children. When they were alone
together, Josephine questioned him as to his secret work, telling him that
she had begun to study chemistry in order that she might share his life.
Touched by this devotion, Claes declared his secret. A Polish officer had
come to their house in 1809, and had discussed chemistry with Claes. The
result of the conversations had set Claes to search for the single element
out of which all things are perhaps composed. The Polish officer had
confided certain secrets to him, saying: "You are a disciple of Lavoisier;
you are wealthy, you are free; I will give you my idea. The Primitive
Element must be common to oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and carbon. Force
must be the common principle of positive and negative electricity.
Demonstrate these two hypotheses, and you will hold in your hands the First
Cause, the solution of the great riddle of existence."
As Claes rattled away, Josephine suddenly exclaimed, against her will:
"So it was this man, who spent but one night with us, that stole your love
from me and your children! Did he make the Sign of the Cross? Did you
observe him closely? He was Satan! Only the devil could have stolen you
from me. Ever since his visit you have ceased to be father and
husband."
"Do you rebuke me," Balthazar asked, "for being superior to common
men?"
And he poured out a tale of his achievements. In the height of his
passion for her Josephine had never seen his face so shining with
enthusiasm as it was now. Tears came into her eyes.
"I have combined chlorine and nitrogen," he rhapsodised; "I have
analysed endless substances. I have analysed tears! Tears are nothing more
than phosphate of lime, chloride of sodium, mucus, and water."
He ran on till she cried upon him to stop.
"You horrify me," she said, "with your blasphemies. What my love
is----"
"Spiritualised matter, given off," replied Claes; "the secret, no doubt,
of the Absolute. If I am the first to find it out! Think of it! I will make
metals and diamonds. What Nature does I will do."
"You trespass on God!" Josephine exclaimed impatiently. "You deny God!
Ah, God has a force which you will never exercise!"
"What is that?" he demanded.
"Motion. Analysis is one thing, creation is another," she said. Her
pleadings were successful. Balthazar abandoned his researches, and the
family removed to the country. He was awakened by his wife's love to the
knowledge that he had brought his fortune to the verge of ruin. He promised
to abandon his experiments. As some amends, he threw himself into
preparations for a great ball at the Maison Claes in honour of his wedding
day. The festivity was saddened by the news of disaster to the Grand Army
at Beresina. One of the letters that arrived that day was from the Polish
officer, dying of his wounds, who sent Claes, as a legacy, some of his
ideas for discovering the Absolute. No one danced; the fête was
gloomy; only Marguerite shone like a lovely flower on the anxious company.
When the guests departed, Balthazar showed Josephine the letter from the
Pole. She did everything a woman could do to distract his thoughts. She
made the home life enchanting. She entertained. She introduced the movement
of the world into the great house. In vain. Her husband's ennui was
terrible to behold. "I release you from your promise," she said to him one
day.
Balthazar returned with Lemulquinier to the attic, and the experiments
began anew. He was quite happy again.
A year passed; the Absolute was undiscovered. Once more ruin haunted the
state room of the Maison Claes. Josephine's confessor, the Abbé de
Solis, who had sold her jewels, now suggested selling some of the Flemish
pictures. Josephine explained the situation to her husband.
"What do you think?" he cried. "I am within an ace of finding the
Absolute. I have only to discover--"
Josephine broke down. She left her husband, and retired downstairs to
her children. The servants were summoned. Madame Claes looked like death.
Everybody was alarmed. Lemulquinier was told to go for the priest. He said
he had monsieur's orders to see to in the laboratory.
III.--The Passing of Josephine
It was the beginning of the end for Josephine. As she lay dying, she saw
judgment in the eyes of Marguerite--judgment on Balthazar. Her last days
were sorrowed by the thought that the children would condemn their father.
Balthazar came sometimes to sit with her, but he appeared to be unaware of
her situation. He was charming to the younger children, but he was dead to
the true condition of his wife.
One thing gave her peace. The Abbé de Solis brought his nephew to
the house, and this young man, Emmanuel, who was good and noble, evidently
created a favourable impression on Marguerite. The dying mother watched the
progress of this love story with affectionate satisfaction. It was all she
had to light her way to the grave. Pierquin told her that Balthazar had
ordered him to raise three hundred thousand francs on his estate. She saw
that ruin could not be averted; she lay at death's door, deserted by the
husband she still worshipped, thinking of the children she had sacrificed.
The noble character of Marguerite cheered her last hours. In that child,
she would live on and be a providence to the family.
One day she wrote a letter, addressed and sealed it, and showed it to
Marguerite. It was addressed: "To my daughter, Marguerite." She placed it
under her pillow, said she would rest, and presently fell into a deep
slumber. When she awoke, all her children were kneeling round her in
prayer, and with them was Emmanuel.
"The hour has come, dear children," she said gently, "when we must say
farewell. You are all here"--she looked about her--"and he..." Marguerite
sent Emmanuel for her father, and Balthazar's answer to the summons was, "I
am coming."
When Emmanuel returned, Madame Claes sent him for his uncle the priest,
bidding him take the two boys with him; then she turned to her daughters.
"God is taking me," she said. "What will become of you? When I am gone,
Marguerite, if you are ever in need of food, read this letter which I have
addressed to you. Love your father, but shield your sister and your
brothers. It may be your duty to withstand him. He will want money; he will
ask you for it. Do not forget your duty to your father, but remember your
duty to your sister and brothers. Your father would not injure his children
of set purpose. He is noble, he is good. He is full of love for you. He is
a great man working at a great task. Fill my place. Do not cause him grief
by reproaches; never judge him; be, between him and those in your charge, a
gentle mediator."
One of the servants had to go and bang on the laboratory door for Claes.
"Madame is dying!" cried the indignant old body. "They are waiting for you
to administer the last sacrament."
"I'll be there in a minute," answered Claes. When he entered the room,
the Abbé de Solis and the children were kneeling round the mother's
bed. His wife's face flushed at his entrance. With a loving smile, she
asked: "Were you on the point of resolving nitrogen?"
"I have done it!" he answered, with triumph; "nitrogen is made up of
oxygen and------" He stopped, checked by a murmur, which roused him from
his dream. "What did they say?" he asked. "Are you really worse? What has
happened?"
"This has happened," said the Abbé; "your wife is dying, and you
have killed her."
Priest and children withdrew.
"What does he mean?" asked Claes.
"Dearest," she answered, "your love was my life; I could not live
without it."
He took her hand, and kissed it.
"When have I not loved you?" he asked.
She refused to utter a reproach. For her children's sake she told the
narrative of his six years' search for the Absolute, which had destroyed
her life and swallowed up two million francs, making him see the horror of
their desolation. "Have pity, have pity," she cried, "on our children!"
Claes shouted for Lemulquinier, and bade him go instantly to the
laboratory and smash everything. "I abandon science for ever!" he
cried.
"Too late!" sighed the dying woman; then she cried, "Marguerite!"
The child came from the doorway, horrified by the stricken face of her
mother. Once again the loved name was repeated, "Marguerite!" loudly, as
though to fix in her mind the charge laid upon her soul. It was the last
word uttered by Josephine. As the soul passed, Balthazar, from the foot of
the bed, looked up to the pillows where Marguerite was sitting, and their
eyes met. The father trembled.
In the sorrow of bereavement Marguerite discovered that she possessed
two friends--Pierquin the notary, and Emmanuel de Solis. Pierquin thought
it would be a suitable thing to save the wreckage of the estate and marry
the beautiful Marguerite, whose family was doubly noble. Emmanuel offered
to prepare Marguerite's brothers for college, with a tact and a charm which
declared a fine nature. Pierquin was a man of business turned lover.
Emmanuel was a lover turned by misfortune into a man of action.
IV.--The Hour of Darkness
For some considerable time Balthazar avoided experimental chemistry, and
confined himself to theoretical speculations. He took long walks on the
ramparts; was gloomy, restless, and preoccupied at home. Marguerite
endeavoured to distract his thoughts. One day the old servant, Martha, said
to her: "All is over with us; master is on the road to hell again!" And she
pointed to clouds of smoke issuing from the laboratory chimney. Marguerite
lived as carefully as a nun; all expenses were cut down. She denied herself
ordinary comforts to prepare for the crash. Thanks to Emmanuel, the boys
were now advancing in their studies, and their future was at least
unclouded. But Balthazar had developed the gambler's recklessness. He sold
a forest; he mortgaged his house and silver; he had no more food than a
nigger who sells his wife for a glass of brandy in the morning, and weeps
over his loss at night. Once Marguerite spoke to her father. She
acknowledged that he was master, that his children would obey him at all
costs; but he must know that they scarcely had bread in the house.
"Bread!" he cried; "no bread in the house of a Claes! Where is all our
property, then?"
She told him how he had sold everything.
"Then, how do we live?"
She held up her needle.
Time went on, and fresh debts hammered at the door of the Maison Claes.
At last Marguerite was obliged to face her father, and charge him with
madness.
"Madness!" he cried, firing up and springing to his feet. There was
something so majestic and commanding in his attitude that made Marguerite
tremble at his feet. "Your mother would never have used that word; she
always attached due importance to my scientific researches."
She could not bear his reproaches, and fled from him. She felt that the
time had come, for they were now on the verge of beggary, to break the seal
of her mother's letter. That letter expressed the most divine love, praying
that God would permit her spirit to be with Marguerite while she read the
words of this last message; and it told her that the Abbé Solis, if
living, or his nephew, held for her a sum of a hundred and seventy thousand
francs, and on this sum she must live, and leave her father if he refused
to abandon his researches. "I could never have said these words," Josephine
had written; "not even on the brink of the grave." And she entreated her
child to be reverent in withstanding her father, and if resistance was
inevitable to resist him on her knees. The abbé was dead, but
Emmanuel held the money. In their discussions about the management of this
sum, the two young people drew closer together. The poor father, brought to
ruin, confessed his madness, and uttered the terrible despair of a beaten
scientist. To comfort him, Marguerite said that his debts would be paid
with her money. His face lit up. "You have money! Give it to me; I will
make you rich." Once more the madness returned.
Emmanuel came with three thousand ducats in his pockets. They were
hiding them in the hollow column of a pedestal, when, looking up,
Marguerite saw her father observing them. "I heard gold," he said,
advancing. To save her, Emmanuel lied. He sinned against his conscience for
her sake. The money, he said belonged to him, and he had lent it to
Marguerite. When he was gone, Claes said: "I must have that money."
"If you take it," answered Marguerite, "you will be a thief."
He knelt to her; she would not relent. He caressed her; she called God
to look down upon them if he stole the money. He rose, bade her a sorrowful
farewell, and left the room. Something warned her; she hurried after him,
to find him with a pistol at his head. "Take all I possess," she cried.
Embracing her, he promised that if he failed this time he would deliver
himself into her hands.
Time passed and the Absolute was not discovered. A wealthy cousin of
Claes, M. Conyncks, came to Douai in his travelling carriage, and soon
after he and Marguerite journeyed to Paris. When she returned, it was to
announce that, through M. Conynck's influence, Balthazar had been appointed
receiver of taxes in Brittany, and must set out at once to take up the
appointment.
"You drive me out of my own house!" he exclaimed, with anger. At first
he refused to go, furious and indignant; but she persisted, and he had to
surrender. He went with Lemulquinier to his laboratory for the last time.
The two old men were very sad as they released the gases and evaporated
acids.
"Ah, look," said Claes, pausing before a capsule connected with the
wires of a battery; "if only we could watch out the end of this experiment!
Carbon and sulphur. Crystallisation should take place; the carbon might
certainly result in a crystal ..."
While Claes was in exile, fortune came to the family. The son Gabriel,
assisted by M. Conyncks, had made a large sum of money as the engineer of a
canal. Emmanuel de Solis had given Marguerite the fortune he inherited from
ancestors in Spain. Pierquin, who had turned his attention to Marguerite's
younger sister, had proved himself kind to the family. Once again the
Maison Claes was in prosperity, with pictures on its walls, and with
handsome furniture in its state apartments.
When Conyncks and Marguerite went to fetch the father, they found him
old and broken. The child was greatly touched by his appearance, and
questioned him alone. She discovered that instead of saving money, he was
heavily in debt, and that he had been seeking the Absolute as industriously
in Brittany as in the attic of the Maison Claes.
On his return, the old man brightened and became glad. The ancient home
gave him joy. He embraced his children, looked around the happy house of
his fathers, and exclaimed: "Ah, Josephine, if only you were here to admire
our Marguerite!" The marriages of Marguerite and Felicie, the younger
sister, were hurried forward. During the reading of the contracts
Lemulquinier suddenly burst into the room, crying: "Monsieur!
Monsieur!"
Claes whispered to his daughter that the servant had lent him all his
savings--20,000 francs--and had doubtless come to claim them on learning
that the master was once more a rich man. But Lemulquinier cried:
"Monsieur! Monsieur!"
"Well?" demanded Claes.
In the trembling hand of the old servant lay a diamond. Claes rushed
towards him.
"I went to the laboratory," began the servant--Claes looked up at him
quickly, as though to say: "You were the first to go there!"--"and I found
in the capsule we left behind us this diamond! The battery has done it
without our help!"
"Forgive me!" cried Claes, turning to his children and his guests. "This
will drive me mad! Cursed exile! God has worked in my laboratory, and I was
not there to see! A miracle has taken place! I might have seen it--I have
missed it for ever!" Suddenly he checked, and advancing to Marguerite,
presented her with the diamond. "My angel," he said gently, "this belongs
to you." Then, to the notary: "Let us proceed."
V.--Discovery of the Absolute
Happiness reigned in the Maison Claes, Balthazar conducted a few but
inexpensive experiments, and surrendered himself more and more to the
happiness of home life. It was as if the devil had been exorcised. The
death of relatives presently carried Emmanuel and Marguerite to Spain, and
their return was delayed by the birth of a child. When they did arrive in
Flanders, one morning towards the end of September, they found the house in
the Rue de Paris shut up, and a ring at the bell brought no one to open the
door. A shopkeeper near at hand said that M. Claes had left the house with
Lemulquinier about an hour ago. Emmanuel went in search of them, while a
locksmith opened the door of the Maison Claes. The house was as if the
Absolute in the form of fire had passed through all its rooms. Pictures,
furniture, carpets, hangings, carvings--all were swept clean away.
Marguerite wept as she looked about her, and forgave her father. She went
downstairs to await his coming. How he must have suffered in this bare
house! Fear filled her heart. Had his reason failed him? Should she see him
enter--a tottering and enfeebled old man, broken by the sufferings which he
had borne so proudly for science? As she waited, the past rose before her
eyes--the long past of struggle against their enemy, the Absolute; the long
past, when she was a child, and her mother had been now so joyous and now
so sorrowful.
But she did not realise the calamity of her father's tragedy--a tragedy
at once sublime and miserable. To the people of Douai he was not a
scientific genius wrestling with Nature for her hidden mysteries, but a
wicked old spendthrift, greedy like a miser for the Philosopher's Stone.
Everybody in Douai, from the aristocracy to the bourgeoisie to the people,
knew all about old Claes, "the alchemist." His home was called the "Devil's
House." People pointed at him, shouted after him in the street.
Lemulquinier said that these were murmurs of applause for genius.
It happened that on this morning of Marguerite's return, Balthazar and
Lemulquinier sat down on a bench in the Place Saint-Jacques to rest in the
sun. Some children passing to school saw the two old men, talked about
them, laughed together, and presently approached. One of them, who carried
a basket, and was eating a piece of bread and butter, said to Lemulquinier:
"Is it true you make diamonds and pearls?"
Lemulquinier patted the urchin's cheek.
"Yes, little fellow, it is true," he said. "Stick to your books, get
knowledge, and perhaps we will give you some."
They began to crowd round, and became more daring.
"You should show respect to a great man," said Lemulquinier. At this the
children laughed aloud, and began to shout: "Sorcerers! Old sorcerers!"
Lemulquinier sprang up with his stick raised, and the children, beating a
retreat, gathered up mud and stones. A workman, seeing Lemulquinier making
for the children with a stick, came to their rescue with the dangerous cry:
"Down with sorcerers!"
Thus emboldened, the children made a savage attack upon the two old men
with a shower of stones. At this moment Emmanuel came upon the scene. He
was too late. Claes had been suddenly jerked from the ideal world in which
he theorised and toiled into the real world of men. The shock was too much
for him; he sank into the arms of Lemulquinier, paralysed.
He lived in this condition for some time, expressing all his affection
and gratitude to Marguerite by pressing her hand with his cold fingers. She
refurnished the house, and surrounded him with comforts. His children were
affectionate to him. They came and sat by his bedside, and took their meals
in his room. His great happiness was listening to Emmanuel's reading of the
newspapers.
One night he became very much worse, and the doctor was summoned in
haste. The stricken man made violent efforts to speak. His lips trembled,
but no sound issued. His eyes were on fire with the thoughts he could not
utter. His face was haggard with agony. Drops of perspiration oozed out of
his forehead. His hands twitched convulsively in the despair of his
mind.
On the following morning his children saluted him with deepest and most
lingering love, knowing that the last hour was at hand. His face did not
light; he made none of his usual responses to their tender affection.
Pierquin signalled to Emmanuel, and he broke the wrapper of the newspaper,
and was about to read aloud in order to distract Claes, when his eyes were
arrested by the heading:
DISCOVERY OF THE ABSOLUTE
In a low voice he read the intelligence to his wife. It narrated that a
famous mathematician in Poland had made terms for selling the secret of the
Absolute, which he had discovered. As Emmanuel ceased to read, Marguerite
asked for the paper; but Claes had heard the almost whispered words.
Of a sudden the dying man lifted himself up on his elbows. To his
frightened family his glance was like the flash of lightning. The fringe of
hair above his forehead stood up; every line in his countenance quivered
with excitement, a thrill of passion moved across his face and made it
sublime.
He lifted a hand, which was clenched with excitement, and uttering the
cry of Archimedes--"Eureka!"--fell back with the heaviness of a dead body,
and expired with an agonised groan. His eyes, till the doctor closed them,
expressed a frenzied despair. It was his agony that he could not bequeath
to science the solution of the great riddle which was only revealed to him
as the veil was rent asunder by the hand of Death.
William Beckford, son of the famous Lord Mayor, was born at
Fonthill, Wiltshire, England, Sept. 29, 1759, and received his education at
first from a private tutor, and then at Geneva. On coming of age, he
inherited a million sterling and an annual income of £100,000, and three
years later he married the fourth Earl of Aboyne's daughter, Lady Margaret
Gordon, who died in May, 1786. In 1787 Beckford's romance, the "History of
the Caliph Vathek," appeared in its original French, an English translation
of the work having been published "anonymously and surreptitiously" in
1784. "Vathek" was written by Beckford in 1781 or 1782 at a single sitting
of three days and two nights. Beckford was a great traveller and a great
connoisseur and collector both of pictures and of books; and, apart from
"Vathek" and some volumes of travels, he is best known for having secluded
himself for twenty years in the magnificent residence which he built in
Fonthill. He died on May 2, 1844.
I.--Vathek and the Magic Sabres
Vathek, ninth caliph of the race of the Abassides, was the son of
Motassem, and the grandson of Haroun al Raschid. From an early accession to
the throne, and the talents he possessed to adorn it, his subjects were
induced to expect that his reign would be long and happy. His figure was
pleasing and majestic; but when he was angry one of his eyes became so
terrible that no person could bear it, and the wretch upon whom it was
fixed instantly fell backward, and sometimes expired. For fear, however, of
depopulating his dominions and making his palace desolate, he but rarely
gave way to his anger.
Being much addicted to the pleasures of the table, he sought by his
affability to procure agreeable companions; and he succeeded the better as
his generosity was unbounded, and his indulgences were unrestrained; for he
was by no means scrupulous, nor did he think, with the caliph Omar Ben
Abdalaziz, that it was necessary to make a hell of this world to enjoy
paradise in the next. He surpassed in magnificence all his predecessors.
The palace of Alkoremmi, which his father, Motassem, had erected on the
hill of Pied Horses, and which commanded the whole city of Samarah was, in
his idea, far too scanty. He added, therefore, five wings, or rather other
palaces, which he destined for the particular gratification of each of his
senses.
But the unquiet and impetuous disposition of the caliph would not allow
him to rest there; he had studied so much for amusement in the lifetime of
his father as to acquire a great deal of knowledge, though not a
sufficiency to satisfy himself--for he wished to know everything, even
sciences that did not exist. He was fond of engaging in disputes with the
learned and with the orthodox, but liked them not to push their opposition
with warmth; he stopped with presents the mouths of those whose mouths
could be stopped, while others, whom his liberality was unable to subdue,
he sent to prison to cool their blood, a remedy that often succeeded.
The great prophet Mohammed, whose vicars the caliphs are, beheld with
indignation from his abode in the seventh heaven the irreligious conduct of
such a vice-regent.
"Let us leave him to himself," said he to the genii, who are always
ready to receive his commands. "Let us see to what lengths his folly and
impiety will carry him. If he run into excess we shall know how to chastise
him. Assist him, therefore, to complete the tower which, in imitation of
Nimrod, he hath begun, not, like that great warrior, to escape being
drowned, but from the insolent curiosity of penetrating the secrets of
heaven; he will not divine the fate that awaits him."
The genii obeyed, and when the workmen had raised their structures a
cubit in the daytime, two cubits more were added in the night. Vathek
fancied that even invisible matter showed a forwardness to subserve his
designs, and his pride arrived at its height when, having ascended for the
first time the eleven thousand stairs of his tower, he cast his eyes below
and beheld men not larger than pismires, mountains than shells, and cities
than beehives. He now passed most of his nights on the summit of his tower,
till he became an adept in the mysteries of astrology, and imagined that
the planets had disclosed to him the most marvellous adventures which were
to be accomplished by an extraordinary personage from a country altogether
unknown.
Prompted by motives of curiosity, he had always been courteous to
strangers, but from this instant he redoubled his attention, and ordered it
to be announced by sound of trumpet through all the streets of Samarah that
no one of his subjects, on pain of displeasure, should either lodge or
detain a traveller, but forthwith bring him to the palace.
Not long after this there arrived in the city a hideous man who to
Vathek's view displayed slippers which enabled the feet to walk, knives
that cut without a motion of the hand, and sabres which dealt the blow at
the person they were wished to strike, the whole enriched with gems that
were hitherto unknown. The sabres, whose blades emitted a dazzling
radiance, fixed more than all the caliph's attention, who promised himself
to decipher at his leisure the uncouth characters engraven on their sides.
Without, therefore, demanding their price, he ordered all the coined gold
to be brought from his treasury, and commanded the merchant to take what he
pleased. The stranger complied with modesty and silence; but, having
maintained an obstinate silence on all the points on which the caliph
questioned him, he was committed to prison, from which he was found the
next day to have vanished, leaving his keepers dead.
Vathek was at first enraged, but having been comforted by his mother,
the Princess Carathis, who was a Greek and an adept in all the sciences and
systems of her country, he issued, at her suggestion, a proclamation
promising the liberality for which he was renowned to whoever should
decipher the characters on the sabres, and eventually had the gratification
of meeting with an old man, who read them as follows: "We were made where
everything good is made; we are the least of the wonders of a place where
all is wonderful, and deserving the sight of the first potentate on earth."
Unfortunately, however, when the old man was ordered the next morning to
re-read the inscription, he was then found to interpret it as denouncing:
"Woe to the rash mortal who seeks to know that of which he should remain
ignorant." "And woe to thee!" cried the caliph, in a burst of indignation,
and telling him to take his reward and begone.
II.--The Caliph's Strange Adventures
It was not long before Vathek discovered abundant reason for regretting
his precipitation. He plainly perceived that the characters on the sabres
changed every day; and the anxiety caused by his failure to decipher them,
or to read anything from the stars, brought on a fever, which deprived him
of his appetite, and tormented him with an absolutely insatiable thirst.
From this distress he was at length delivered by a meeting with the
stranger, who cured him by giving him to drink of a phial of red and yellow
mixture. But when this insolent person, at a banquet given in his honour,
burst into shouts of laughter on being asked to declare of what drugs the
salutary liquor had been compounded, and from what place the sabres had
come, Vathek kicked him from the steps, and, repeating the blow, persisted
with such assiduity as incited all present to follow his example. The
stranger collected into a ball, rolled out of the palace, followed by
Vathek, the court, and the whole city, and, after passing through all the
public places, rolled onwards to the Plain of Catoul, traversed the valley
at the foot of the mountain of the Four Fountains, and bounded into the
chasm formed there by the continual fall of the waters.
Vathek would have followed the perfidious giaour had not an invisible
agency arrested his progress and that of the multitude; and he was so much
struck by the whole circumstance that he ordered his tents to be pitched on
the very edge of the precipice. After keeping several vigils there, he was
accosted one night by the voice of the giaour, who amid the darkness caused
by a total eclipse of the moon and the stars, offered to bring him to the
palace of subterranean fire, where he should behold the treasures which the
stars had promised him, and the talismans that control the world, if he
would abjure Mohammed, adore the terrestrial influences, and satiate the
stranger's thirst with the blood of fifty of the most beautiful Samarahite
boys.
The unhappy caliph lavished his promises in the utmost profusion, and by
arranging for the celebration near the chasm of some juvenile sports, which
were not concluded till twilight, was able to make the direful libation. As
the boys came up one by one to receive their prizes, he pushed them into
the gulf, the dreadful device being executed with so much dexterity that
the boy who was approaching him remained unconscious of the fate of his
forerunner.
The popular tumult roused by this atrocity having been appeased by the
princess, who possessed the most consummate skill in the art of persuasion,
there was offered on the tower a burnt sacrifice to the infernal deities,
the main ingredients of which were mummies, rhinoceros' horns, oil of the
most venomous serpents, various aromatic woods, and one hundred and forty
of the caliph's most faithful subjects. These preliminaries having been
settled, a parchment was discovered, in which Vathek was thanked for his
burnt offering, and told to set forth with a magnificent retinue for
Istakar, where he would receive the diadem of Gian Ben Gian, the talismans
of Soliman, and the treasures of the pre-Adamite sultans. But he was warned
not to enter any dwelling on his route.
Vathek and the cavalcade set out, and for three days all went well. But
on the fourth a storm burst upon them, the frightful roar of wild beasts
resounded at a distance, and they soon perceived in the forest glaring eyes
that could only belong to devils or tigers. Fire destroyed their
provisions, and they would have starved had not two dwarfs, who dwelt as
hermits on the top of some rocks, received divine intimation of their
plight and revealed it to their emir, Fakreddin. The dwarfs were
entertained, caressed, and seated with great ceremony on little cushions of
state. But they clambered up the sides of the caliph's seat, and, placing
themselves each on one of his shoulders, began to whisper prayers in his
ears; and his patience was almost exhausted when the acclamations of the
troops announced the approach of Fakreddin. He hastened to their
assistance, but being punctiliously religious and likewise a great dealer
in compliments, he made an harangue five times more prolix and insipid than
his harbingers had already delivered.
At length, however, all got in motion, and they descended from the
heights to the valley by the large steps which the emir had cut in the
rocks, and reached a building of hewn stone overspread by palm-trees and
crowned with nine domes. Beneath one of these domes the caliph was
entertained with excellent sherbet, with sweetbreads stewed in milk of
almonds, and other delicacies of which he was amazingly fond.
But, unfortunately, the sight of the emir's young daughter tempted the
prophet's vice-regent to violate the rites of hospitality. Vathek fell
violently in love with Nouronihar, who was sprightly as an antelope and
full of wanton gaiety; and though she was contracted to her cousin and
dearly beloved companion Gulchenrouz, he demanded her hand from Fakreddin,
who, rather than force his daughter to break her affiances, presented his
sabre to Vathek. "Strike your unhappy host," he said. "He has lived long
enough if he sees the prophet's vice-regent violate the rites of
hospitality." Nouronihar fell down in a swoon, and of this swoon the emir
took advantage to carry out a scheme which should deliver him from his
difficulties. He gave out that both the children had died from the effect
of the caliph's glances, and, having administered to them a narcotic powder
that would give them the appearance of death for three days, had them
conveyed away to the shores of a desolate lake, where, attended by the
dwarfs, they were put upon a meagre diet and told that they were in the
other world, expiating the little faults of which their love was the
cause.
But Nouronihar, remembering a dream in which she was told that she was
destined to be the caliph's wife, and thereby to possess the carbuncle of
Giamsched, and the treasures of the pre-Adamite sultans, indulged doubts on
the mode of her being, and scarcely could believe that she was dead. She
rose one morning while all were asleep, and having wandered some distance
from the lake, discovered that she knew the district.
This fact, and a meeting with Vathek, convinced her that she was alive,
and, submitting to the caliph's embraces, she consented to become his
bride, and to go with him to the subterranean palace.
III.--The Palace of Subterranean Fire
When Princess Carathis heard of the dissolute conduct of her son she
sent for Morakanabad.
"Let me expire in flames," she cried.
Having said this, she whirled herself round in a magical way, striking
poor Morakanabad in such a way as caused him to recoil. Then she ordered
her great camel, Aboufaki, to be brought, and, attended by her two hideous
and one-eyed negresses, Nerkes and Cafour, set out to surprise the lovers.
She burst in upon them, foaming with indignation, and said to Vathek: "Free
thyself from the arms of this paltry doxy; drown her in the water before
me, and instantly follow my guidance." But Vathek replied civilly, but
decisively, that he was taking Nouronihar with him; and the princess,
having heard her declare that she would follow him beyond the Kaf in the
land of the Afrits, was appeased, and pronounced Nouronihar a girl of both
courage and science.
With a view, however, of preventing any further trouble arising from
Gulchenrouz, of whose affection for his cousin Vathek had informed her, she
sought to capture the boy, intending to sacrifice him to the giaour. But as
he was fleeing from her he fell into the arms of a genius, the same good
old genius who, happening on the cruel giaour at the instant of his
growling in the horrible chasm, had rescued the fifty little victims which
the impiety of Vathek had devoted to his maw. The genius placed Gulchenrouz
in a nest higher than the clouds, and there kept him ever young.
Nor was this the only hope of the princess's that was doomed to be
frustrated. She learnt from her astrolabes and instruments of magic that
Motavakel, availing himself of the disgust which was now inveterate against
his brother, had incited commotions among the populace, made himself master
of the palace, and actually invested the great tower. So she reluctantly
abandoned the idea of accompanying Vathek to Istakar, and returned to
Samarah; while he, attended by Nouronihar, resumed his march and quickly
reached the valley of Rocnabad. Here the poor Santons, filled with holy
energy, having bustled to light up wax torches in their oratories and to
expand the Koran on their ebony desks, went forth to meet the caliph with
baskets of honeycomb, dates, and melons. Vathek gave them but a surly
reception. "Fancy not," said he, "that you can detain me; your presents I
condescend to accept, but beg you will let me be quiet, for I am not
overfond of resisting temptation. Yet, as it is not decent for personages
so reverend to return on foot, and as you have not the appearance of expert
riders, my eunuchs shall tie you on your asses, with the precaution that
your backs be not turned towards me, for they understand etiquette."
Even this outrage could not persuade Vathek's good genius to desert him,
and he made one final effort to save the caliph from the fate awaiting him.
Disguised as a shepherd, and pouring forth from his flute such melodies as
softened even the heart of Vathek, he confronted him in his path, and
warned him so solemnly against pursuing his journey that when night fell
almost every one of his attendants had deserted him. But Vathek, in his
obduracy, went on, and at length arrived at the mountain which contains the
vast ruins of Istakar and the entrance to the realm of Eblis.
Nouronihar and he, having ascended the steps of a vast staircase of
black marble, reached the terrace, which was flagged with squares of marble
and resembled a smooth expanse of water. There, by the moonlight, they read
an inscription which proclaimed that, despite the fact that Vathek had
violated the conditions of the parchment, he and Nouronihar would be
allowed to enter the palace of subterranean fire.
Scarcely had these words been read when the mountain trembled, and the
rock yawned and disclosed within it a staircase of polished marble, down
which they descended. At the bottom they found their way impeded by a huge
portal of ebony, which, opening at the giaour's command, revealed to them a
place which, though roofed with a vaulted ceiling, was so spacious and
lofty that at first they took it for an immeasurable plain. In the midst of
this immense hall a vast multitude was incessantly passing, who severally
kept their right hands on their hearts, without once regarding anything
about them. They had all the livid paleness of death; their eyes, deep-sunk
in their sockets, resembled those phosphoric meteors that glimmer by night
in places of interment. Some stalked slowly along, absorbed in profound
reverie; some, shrieking with agony, ran furiously about like tigers
wounded with poisonous arrows; whilst others, grinding their teeth in rage,
foamed along, more frantic than the wildest maniacs. They all avoided each
other, and, though surrounded by a multitude that no one could number, each
wandered at random, unheedful of the rest, as if alone on a desert no foot
had trodden.
Vathek and Nouronihar, frozen with terror at a sight so baleful,
demanded of the giaour what these appearances might mean, and why these
ambulating spectres never withdrew their hands from their hearts.
"Perplex not yourselves," replied he, bluntly, "with so much at once;
you will soon be acquainted with all. Let us haste and present you to
Eblis."
They continued their way through the multitude, and after some time
entered a vast tabernacle carpeted with the skins of leopards and filled
with an infinity of elders with streaming beards and Afrits in complete
armour, all of whom had prostrated themselves before the ascent of a lofty
eminence, on the top of which, upon a globe of fire, sat the formidable
Eblis. He received Vathek's and Nouronihar's homage, and invited them to
enjoy whatever the palace afforded--the treasures of the pre-Adamite
sultans and their bickering sabres and those talismans which compel the
Dives to open the subterranean expanses of the mountain of Kaf.
The giaour then conducted them to a hall of great extent, covered with a
lofty dome, round which appeared fifty portals of bronze, secured with as
many fastenings of iron. A funereal gloom prevailed over the whole scene.
Here, upon two beds of incorruptible cedar, lay recumbent the fleshless
forms of pre-Adamite kings, who had been monarchs of the whole earth; they
still possessed enough of life to be conscious of their deplorable
condition; their eyes retained a melancholy motion; they regarded each
other with looks of the deepest dejection, each holding his right hand
motionless on his heart. Soliman Ben Daoud, the most eminent of them, told
Vathek the story of his great state, of his worship of fire and the hosts
of the sky, and of heaven's vengeance upon him. "I am in torments,
ineffable torments!" said he. "An unrelenting fire preys upon my heart."
Having uttered this exclamation, Soliman raised his hands towards heaven in
token of supplication, and the caliph discerned through his bosom, which
was as transparent as crystal, his heart enveloped in flames. At a sight so
full of horror, Nouronihar fell back like one petrified into the arms of
Vathek, who cried out with a convulsive sob: "O Mohammed! remains there no
more mercy?"
"None, none!" replied the malicious Dive. "Know, miserable prince, thou
art now in the abode of vengeance and despair! A few days are allotted thee
as respite, and then thy heart also shall be kindled like those of the
other worshippers of Eblis."
This, indeed, was the dreadful fate of Vathek and Nouronihar, a fate
indeed to which the Princess Carathis was also most righteously condemned;
for Vathek, knowing that the principles by which his mother had perverted
his youth had been the cause of his perdition, summoned her to the palace
of subterranean fire and enrolled her among the votaries of Eblis. Carathis
entered the dome of Soliman, and she too marched in triumph through the
vapour of perfumes.
In her introduction to "Oroonoko," Mrs. Aphra Behn states
that her strange and romantic tale is founded on facts, of many of which
she was an eye-witness. This is true. She was born at Wye, England, July
10, 1640, the daughter, it is said, of a barber. As a child, she went out
to Dutch Guiana, then an English colony named after the Surinam River,
returning to England about 1658. After the death of her husband, in 1666,
she was dispatched as a spy to Antwerp by Charles II., and it was she who
first warned that monarch of the Dutch Government's intention to send a
fleet up the Thames. She died on April 16, 1689, and was buried in
Westminster Abbey. It was while in Dutch Guiana that she met Oroonoko, in
the circumstances described in the story. No doubt she has idealised her
hero somewhat, but she does not seem to have exaggerated the extraordinary
adventures of the young African chief. In the licentious age of the
Restoration, when she had become famous--or, rather, notorious--as a writer
of unseemly plays, she astonished the town, and achieved real fame by
relating the story of Oroonoko's life. There are few plots of either plays
or novels so striking as that of "Oroonoko." It is the first of those
romances of the outlands, which, from the days of Defoe to the days of Mr.
Rudyard Kipling, have been one of the glories of English literature.
I.--The Stolen Bride
I do not pretend to entertain the reader with a feigned hero, whose
adventures I can manage according to my fancy. Of many of the events here
set down, I was an eye-witness, and what I did not see myself, I learnt
from the mouth of Oroonoko. When I made his acquaintance I was living in
that part of our South American colony called Surinam, which we lately
ceded to the Dutch--a great mistake, I think, for the land was fertile, and
the natives were friendly, and many Englishmen had set up sugar
plantations, which they worked by means of negroes. Most of these slaves
came from that part of Africa known as Coromantien. The Coromantiens, being
very warlike, were continually fighting other nations, and they always had
many captives ready to be sold as slaves to our planters.
The king of Coromantien was a hundred years of age. All his sons had
fallen in battle, and only one of them had left behind him an heir.
Oroonoko, as the young prince was called, was a very intelligent and
handsome negro, and as his grandfather engaged a Frenchman of wit and
learning to teach him, he received an education better than that of many
European princes. This I can speak of from my own knowledge, as I have
often conversed with him. He had a great admiration for the ancient Romans;
and in everything but the colour of his skin he reminded me of those heroes
of antiquity.
His nose was finely curved, and his lips, too, were well shaped, instead
of being thick as those of most Africans are. As the king of Coromantien,
by reason of his great age, was unable to bear arms, he entrusted his chief
headman with the duty of training Oroonoko in the arts of war. For two
years, the young prince was away fighting with a powerful inland nation;
the chief headman was killed in a fierce battle, and Oroonoko succeeded him
in the command of the army. He was then only seventeen years of age, but he
quickly brought the long war to a successful conclusion, and returned home
with a multitude of captives. The greater part of these he gave to his
grandfather, and the rest he took to Imoinda, the daughter and only child
of the chief headman, as trophies of her father's victories.
Imoinda was a marvellously beautiful girl; her features, like those of
Oroonoko, were regular and noble, and more European than African. It was a
case of love at first sight on both sides, and the young prince presented
the lovely maiden with a hundred and fifty slaves, and returned home in a
fever of passion. It was necessary for him to obtain his grandfather's
consent to his marriage, but for some days he was so perplexed by the flood
of strange, new feelings surging in his young heart that he remained silent
and moody.
His followers, however, were loud in their praises of Imoinda. They
extolled her ravishing charms even in the presence of the old king, so that
nothing else was talked of but Imoinda. Oroonoko's love rapidly became too
strong for him to control, and one night he went secretly to the house of
his beloved, and wooed her with such fervency of soul that even she was
astonished by it. It was the savage custom of his country for a king to
have a hundred wives, as his grandfather had; but Oroonoko was an
enlightened and chivalrous man.
"Never, Imoinda," he cried, "shall you have a rival. You are the only
woman I shall love, the only woman I shall marry. Come, my darling, and let
us try and raise our people up by our example."
Imoinda was naturally overjoyed to become the wife of so noble and
cultivated a prince, and she waited the next morning in a state of
delicious excitement for Oroonoko to return and claim her as his bride.
But, to her dismay and horror, four headmen with their servants came at
daybreak to her house with a royal veil. This is a rudely embroidered cloth
which the king of Coromantien sends to any lady whom he has a mind to make
his wife. After she is covered with it, the maid is secured for the king's
otan, or harem, and it is death to disobey the royal summons.
Trembling and almost fainting, Imoinda was compelled to suffer herself
to be covered and led away to the old king. His imagination had been
excited by the wild way in which the followers of his grandson had praised
the beauty of the maiden, and, carried away by unnatural jealousy, he had
resolved, in a fit of madness, to possess her at all costs. In spite of all
he had heard, he was amazed by her loveliness. Rising up from his throne,
he came towards her with outstretched arms.
"I am already married," she cried, bursting into tears and throwing
herself at his feet. "Do not dishonour me! Let me return to my own
house."
"Who has dared to marry the daughter of my chief headman without my
consent?" said the old king, his eyes rolling in anger. "Whoever he is, he
shall die at once."
Imoinda began to fear for Oroonoko, and tried to undo the effect of her
words.
"He--he is not exactly my husband yet," she stammered. "But, oh, I love
him! I love him! And I have promised to marry him."
"That's nothing," said the king, his eyes now lighting up with pleasure.
"You must be my wife."
In the afternoon, Oroonoko, who had gone in search of Imoinda, returned.
Having heard that she had received the royal veil, he came in so violent a
rage that his men had great trouble to save him from killing himself.
"What can I do?" he cried desperately. "Even if I slew my grandfather, I
could not now make Imoinda my wife."
II.--A White Man's Treachery
By the custom of the country, it would have been so great a crime to
marry a woman whom Us grandfather had taken that Oroonoko's people would
probably have risen up against him. But one of his men pointed out that, as
Imoinda was his lawful wife by solemn contract, he was really the injured
man, and might, if he would, take her back--the breach of the law being on
his grandfather's side. Thereupon, the young prince resolved to recover
her, and in the night he entered the otan, or royal harem, by a secret
passage, and made his way to the apartment of Imoinda. Had he found the old
king there, he no doubt would have killed him; but, happily, the lovely
maid was alone, and quietly sleeping in her bed. He softly awakened her,
and she trembled with joy and fear at his boldness. But they had not been
long together when a sudden noise was heard and a band of armed men with
spears burst into the room.
"Back!" shouted the young prince, lifting up his battle-axe. "Back, all
of you! Do you not know Oroonoko?"
"Yes," said one of the men. "The king has sent us to take you, dead or
alive."
But when Oroonoko attacked them, they allowed him to fight his way out
of the otan, but tore the maid from his arms and took her to the king. The
old man was blind with rage, and, seizing a spear, he staggered to his
feet, determined to kill her by his own hand. But Imoinda was in no mood to
die. She knew that her lover had fled to his camp, and intended to return
at the head of a large army and rescue her by main force. If she could only
calm the anger of the old king for a few days, all would be well. So, with
the guile of a woman, she flung herself at the king's feet, protesting in a
flood of tears, that Oroonoko had broken into her room and taken her by
force.
"Very well," said the old king, with a cruel look in his eyes, "I will
forgive you. Having received the royal veil, you cannot marry my grandson.
On the other hand, since he has entered your room, you cannot remain any
longer in the otan. You must be sent out of the country."
And early the next morning some of his servants were commanded to dress
her so that she could not be recognised, and then she was carried down to
the shore and sold to the captain of a slave ship.
The king did not dare to tell his grandson that he had sold Imoinda as a
slave, for the Coromantiens justly reckon slavery as something worse than
death; so he sent a messenger to say that she was dead. At first, Oroonoko
was minded to attack his grandfather, but better feelings prevailed; and he
led his army against a hostile nation, resolved to perish on the
battlefield. So desperate was his courage that he defeated his far more
numerous foes, and took a great multitude of them captives. Many of these
he sold to the captain of a slave-ship, then lying off Coromantien. When
the bargain was concluded, the captain invited the prince and all his
attendants to a banquet on board his ship, and so plied them with wine
that, being unaccustomed to drink of this sort, they were overcome by
it.
When Oroonoko recovered his senses, he found himself chained up in a
dark room, and all his men were groaning in fetters around him. The cunning
slave-dealer had got out of paying for his cargo of slaves, and increased
their number by carrying off the young prince and his companions. This was
how I came to meet Oroonoko. The unscrupulous slave-dealer brought him to
Surinam, and sold him and seventeen of his followers to our overseer, a
young Cornishman named Trefry.
Trefry, a man of great wit and fine learning, was attracted by the noble
bearing of Oroonoko, and treated him more as a friend than as a servant.
And when, to his great astonishment, he found that the young prince was his
equal in scholarship, and could converse with him in English, French, and
Spanish, he asked him how it was he had become a slave. Oroonoko then
related the story of the slave-dealer's treachery, and Trefry was so moved
by it that he promised to find the means to free him from slavery and
enable him to return to Coromantien.
When Oroonoko arrived at our plantation, all our negroes left off work
and came to see him. When they saw that he was really the great prince of
Coromantien, who had conquered them in battle and sold them into slavery,
they cast themselves at his feet, crying out in their own language: "Live,
O king! Long live, O king!" They kissed his feet and paid him divine
homage--for such is the nature of this people, that instead of bearing him
any grudge for selling them into captivity, they were filled with awe and
veneration for him.
Mr. Trefry was glad to find Oroonoko's statement of his royal rank
confirmed by the adoration of all the slaves.
"There's one girl," he said, "who did not come to greet you. I am sure
you will be delighted to find you have so beautiful a subject. If it is
possible for anyone to console you for the loss of Imoinda, she will do so.
To tell the truth, I've been in love with her myself, but I found that I
could not win her."
"I do not want to see her," said Oroonoko. "If I go back to Coromantien,
I will not take any woman with me. I vowed to Imoinda that I would never
have any wife but her, and, though she is dead, I shall keep my vow."
The next morning Trefry took Oroonoko for a walk, and by design brought
him to the house of the beautiful slave.
"Clemene," he said, "did you not hear that one of the princes of your
people arrived in Surinam yesterday? However you may fly from all white
men, you surely ought to pay some respect to him."
Oroonoko started when a girl came out, with her head bowed down as if
she had resolved never to raise her eyes again to the face of a man.
"Imoinda! Imoinda!" Oroonoko cried after a moment's silence.
"Imoinda!"
It was she. She looked up at the sound of his voice, and then tottered
and fell down in a swoon, and Oroonoko caught her in his arms. By degrees
she came to herself; and it is needless to tell with what transport, what
ecstasies of joy, the lovers beheld each other. Mr. Trefry was infinitely
pleased by this happy conclusion of the prince's misadventures; and,
leaving the lovers to themselves, he came to Parham House, and gave me an
account of all that had happened. In the afternoon, to the great joy of all
the negroes, Oroonoko and Imoinda were married. I was invited to the
wedding, and I assured Oroonoko that he and his wife would be set free as
soon as the lord-governor of the colony returned to Surinam.
III.--The Taint of Slavery
Unhappily, the lord-governor was delayed for some months in the islands,
and Oroonoko became impatient. After the trick played upon him by the
captain of the slave-ship, he had become exceedingly suspicious of the
honesty and good faith of white men. He was afraid that the overseer would
keep him and his wife until their child was born, and make a slave of it.
At last, he grew so moody and sullen that many persons feared that he would
incite the negroes to a mutiny. In order to soothe the prince, I invited
him and Imoinda to stay at my house, where I entertained them to the best
of my ability.
"Surely," I said to him, "you do not suspect that we will break our word
with you? Only wait patiently, my friend, till the lord-governor arrives,
and you will be permitted to return to your own kingdom."
"You do not understand," Oroonoko replied. "I am angry with myself for
remaining so long a slave. What! Do you white people think that I, the king
of Coromantien, can be treated like the captives that I have taken in war
and sold to you? Had it not been for Imoinda, I would long since have been
free or dead."
Unfortunately, both for me and Oroonoko, my father, who had been
appointed lieutenant-general of the West Indies and Guiana, died at sea on
his way to Surinam, and the new lord-governor was long in arriving. In the
meantime, a child was born to Imoinda, and all the negroes, to the number
of 300, came together to celebrate the event. Oroonoko, beside himself with
anger, because his child had been born into slavery, made a harangue to the
assembled multitude.
"Why should we be slaves to these white men?" he cried. "Have they
conquered us nobly in battle? Are we become their captives by the chance of
war? No! We have been bought and sold, like monkeys or cattle, to a set of
cowards and rogues who have been driven out of their own country by reason
of their villainy! Shall we let vile creatures such as these flog us and
bruise us as they please?"
"No, no!" shouted the negroes. "Be our king, Oroonoko, and make us a
free nation!"
Thereupon he commanded them to seize what arms they could, and tie up
everything they wanted in their hammocks, and sling these over their
shoulders, and march out, with their wives and children. The next morning,
when the overseers went to call their slaves up to work, they found they
had fled. By noon, 600 militiamen set out in search of the fugitives. The
negroes were forced to travel slowly by reason of their women and children;
and at the end of two days the militiamen, led by the new lord-governor,
caught them up and surrounded them. In the battle that ensued, several
Englishmen were killed and a great many wounded; but as they outnumbered
the negroes, and were much better armed, they defeated them. Even then
Oroonoko would not surrender. But the lord-governor parleyed with him, and
promised that he would give him and his wife and child a free passage to
Coromantien in the first ship that touched on the coast.
On this, Oroonoko surrendered. But, to his horror and surprise, he was
taken back to Surinam, and tied to a stake at the whipping-place, and
lashed until the very flesh was torn from his bones. His captors then bound
him in chains, and cast him into a prison. From this, however, he was at
last rescued by Mr. Trefry. But the shame and the torture had unhinged his
fine mind. He led Imoinda and his child into a forest, and asked his wife
whether she would prefer to remain the slave of the white devils, or die at
once by his hand. Imoinda begged him rather to kill her, and Oroonoko did
so. But, instead of putting an end to himself, the prince determined to die
fighting. He turned back from the forest, fiercely resolved to search out
the lord-governor, and slay him; but, falling into the hands of the
militiamen, he was killed in a very horrible manner.
I can only say that this negro was the noblest and gentlest man I ever
met. It needs more genius than I possess to praise him as he deserves; yet
I hope the reputation of my pen is considerable enough to make his name
survive to all ages, with that of the beautiful, brave, and constant
Imoinda.
Savinien Cyrano de Bergerac has recently acquired a new
lease of fame as the hero of Edmond Rostand's romantic comedy. Probably he
is better known in France as a fighter than as a wit and a poet. Born about
1620, he entered the Regiment of the Guards in his nineteenth year, and
quickly became renowned for his bravery. He was an indefatigable duellist;
when he was about twenty years old, he found a hundred men assembled to
insult one of his friends, and he attacked them, killed two, mortally
wounded seven, and dispersed all the rest. He died at Paris in 1655, struck
by a huge beam falling into the street. As an author he was strangely
underrated by his fellow-countrymen. Molière was the only man who
really appreciated him. For some centuries his works have been more
esteemed in England than in France. Many English writers, from Dean Swift
to Samuel Butler, the author of "Erewhon," have been inspired by his
"Voyage to the Moon," the English equivalent of the original title being,
"Comic History of the States and Empires of the Moon and the Sun." This
entertaining satire is as fresh as it was on the day it was written: flying
machines and gramophones, for instance, are curiously modern. His
inimitable inventiveness makes him the most delightful of French writers
between Montaigne and Molière.
I.--Arrival on the Moon
After many experiments I constructed a flying machine, and, sitting on
top of it, I boldly launched myself in the air from the crest of a
mountain. I had scarcely risen more than half a mile when something went
wrong with my machine, and it shot back to the earth. But, to my
astonishment and joy, instead of descending with it, I continued to rise
through the calm, moonlight air. For three-quarters of an hour I mounted
higher and higher. Then suddenly all the weight of my body seemed to fall
upon my head. I was no longer rising quietly from the Earth, but tumbling
headlong on to the Moon. At last I crashed through a tree, and, breaking my
fall among its leafy, yielding boughs, I landed gently on the grass
below.
I found myself in the midst of a wild and beautiful forest, so full of
the sweet music of singing-birds that it seemed as if every leaf on every
tree had the tongue and figure of a nightingale. The ground was covered
with unknown, lovely flowers, with a magical scent. As soon as I smelt it I
became twenty years younger. My thin grey hairs changed into thick, brown,
wavy tresses; my wrinkled face grew fresh and rosy; and my blood flowed
through my veins with the speed and vigour of youth.
I was surprised to find no trace of human habitation in the forest. But
in wandering about I came upon two strong, great animals, about twelve
cubits long. One of them came towards me, and the other fled into the
forest. But it quickly returned with seven hundred other beasts. As they
approached me, I perceived that they were creatures with a human shape,
who, however, went on all-fours like some gigantic kind of monkey. They
shouted with admiration when they saw me; and one of them took me up by the
neck and flung me on his back, and galloped with me into a great town.
When I saw the splendid buildings of the city I recognised my mistake.
The four-footed creatures were really enormous men. Seeing that I went on
two legs, they would not believe that I was a man like themselves. They
thought I was an animal without any reasoning power, and they resolved to
send me to their queen, who was fond of collecting strange and curious
monsters.
All this, of course, I did not understand at the time. It took me some
months to learn their language. These men of the Moon have two dialects;
one for the nobility, the other for the common people. The language of the
nobility is a kind of music; it is certainly a very pleasant means of
expression. They are able to communicate their thoughts by lutes and other
musical instruments quite as well as by the voice.
When twenty or thirty of them meet together to discuss some matter, they
carry on the debate by the most harmonious concert it is possible to
imagine.
The common people, however, talk by agitating different parts of their
bodies. Certain movements constitute an entire speech. By shaking a finger,
a hand, or an arm, for instance, they can say more than we can in a
thousand words. Other motions, such as a wrinkle on the forehead, a shiver
along a muscle, serve to design words. As they use all their body in
speaking in this fashion, they have to go naked in order to make themselves
clearly understood. When they are engaged in an exciting conversation they
seem to be creatures shaken by some wild fever.
Instead of sending me at once to the Queen of the Moon, the man who had
captured me earned a considerable amount of money by taking me every
afternoon to the houses of the rich people. There I was compelled to jump
and make grimaces, and stand in ridiculous attitudes in order to amuse the
crowds of guests who had been invited to see the antics of the new
animal.
But one day, as my master was pulling the rope around my neck to make me
rise up and divert the company, a man came and asked me in Greek who I was.
Full of joy at meeting someone with whom I could talk, I related to him the
story of my voyage from the Earth.
"I cannot understand," I said, "how it was I rose up to the Moon when my
machine broke down and fell to the Earth."
"That is easily explained," he said. "You had got within the circle of
lunar influence, in which the Moon exerts a sort of sucking action on the
fat of the body. The same thing often happens to me. Like you, I am a
stranger on the Moon. I was born on the Sun, but, being of a roving
disposition, I like to explore one planet after another. I have travelled a
good deal in Europe, and conversed with several persons whose names you no
doubt know. I remember that I was once famous in ancient Greece as the
Demon of Socrates."
"Then you are a spirit?" I exclaimed.
"A kind of spirit," he replied. "I was one of the large company of the
Men of the Sun who used to inhabit the Earth under the names of oracles,
nymphs, woodland elves, and fairies. But we abandoned our world in the
reign of the Emperor Augustus; your people then became so gross and stupid
that we could no longer delight in their society. Since then I have stayed
on the Moon. I find its inhabitants more enlightened than the inhabitants
of the Earth."
"I don't!" I exclaimed. "Look how they treat me, as if I were a wild
beast! I am sure that if one of their men of science voyaged to the Earth,
he would be better received than I am here."
"I doubt it," said the Man of the Sun. "Your men of science would have
him killed, stuffed, and put in a glass case in a museum."
II.--The Garb of Shame
At this point our conversation was broken off by my keeper. He saw that
the company was tired of my talk, which seemed to them mere grunting. So he
pulled my rope, and made me dance and caper until the spectators ached with
laughter.
Happily, the next morning the Man of the Sun opened my cage and put me
on his back and carried me away.
"I have spoken to the King of the Moon," he said; "and he has commanded
that you should be taken to his court and examined by his learned
doctors."
As my companion went on four feet, he was able to travel as fast as a
racehorse, and we soon arrived at another town, where we put up at an inn
for dinner. I followed him into a magnificently furnished hall, and a
servant asked me what I would begin with.
"Some soup," I replied.
I had scarcely pronounced the words when I smelt a very succulent broth.
I rose up to look for the source of this agreeable smell; but my companion
stopped me.
"What do you want to walk away for?" said he. "Stay and finish your
soup."
"But where is the soup?" I said.
"Ah," he replied. "This is the first meal you have had on the Moon. You
see, the people here only live on the smell of food. The fine, lunar art of
cookery consists in collecting the exhalations that come from cooked meat,
and bottling them up. Then, at meal-time, the various jars are uncorked,
one after the other, until the appetites of the diners are satisfied."
"It is, no doubt, an exquisite way of eating," I said; "but I am afraid
I shall starve on it."
"Oh, no, you will not," said he. "You will soon find that a man can
nourish himself as well by his nose as by his mouth."
And so it was. After smelling for a quarter of an hour a variety of
rich, appetising vapours, I rose up quite satisfied.
In the afternoon I was taken to the palace of the king, and examined by
the greatest men of science on the Moon. In spite of all that my friend had
said on my behalf, I was adjudged to be a mere animal, and again shut up in
a cage. The king, queen, and courtiers spent a considerable time every day
watching me, and with the help of the Man of the Sun I soon learned to
speak a little of their, music-language. This caused a great deal of
surprise. Several persons began to think that I was really a man who had
been dwarfed and weakened from want of nourishment.
But the learned doctors again examined me, and decided that, as I did
not walk on four legs, I must be a new kind of featherless parrot.
Thereupon I was given a pole to perch on, instead of a nice warm bed to lie
in; and every day the queen's fowler used to come and whistle tunes for me
to learn. In the meantime, however, I improved my knowledge of the
language, and at last I spoke so well and intelligibly that all the
courtiers said that the learned doctors had been mistaken. One of the
queen's maids of honour not only thought that I was a man, but fell in love
with me. She often used to steal to my cage, and listen to my stories of
the customs and amusements of our world. She was so interested that she
begged me to take her with me if ever I found a way of returning to the
Earth.
In my examination by the learned doctors I had stated that their world
was but a Moon, and that the Moon from which I had come was really a world.
It was this which had made them angry against me. But my friend, the Man of
the Sun, at last prevailed upon the king to let me out of the cage on my
retracting my wicked heresy. I was clad in splendid robes, and placed on a
magnificent chariot to which four great noblemen were harnessed, and led to
the centre of the city, where I had to make the following statement:
"People, I declare to you that this Moon is not a Moon but a world; and
that the world I come from is not a world but a Moon. For this is what the
Royal Council believe that you ought to believe."
The Man of the Sun then helped me to descend from the chariot, and took
me quickly into a house, and stripped me of my gorgeous robes. "Why do you
do that?" I asked. "This is the most splendid dress I have ever seen on the
Moon."
"It is a garb of shame," said my companion. "You have this day undergone
the lowest degradation that can be imposed on a man. You committed an awful
crime in saying that the Moon was not a Moon. It is a great wonder you were
not condemned to die of old age."
"Die of old age?" I said.
"Yes," replied my companion. "Usually, when a Man of the Moon comes to
that time of life in which he feels that he is losing his strength of mind
and body, he invites all his friends to a banquet. After explaining what
little hope he has of adding anything to the fine actions of his life, he
asks for permission to depart. If he has led a bad life, he is ordered to
live; but if he has been a good man, his dearest friend kisses him, and
plunges a dagger in his heart."
As he was talking, the son of the man in whose house we were staying
entered the room. My companion quickly rose on his four feet, and made the
young man a profound bow. I asked him why he did this. He told me that on
the Moon parents obey their children, and old men are compelled to show to
young men the greatest respect.
"They are of opinion," said my companion, "that a strong and active
young man is more capable of governing a family than a dull, infirm
sexagenarian. I know that on your Earth old men are supposed to be wise and
prudent. But, as a matter of fact, their wisdom and prudence consists
merely of a timid frame of mind and a disinclination to take any
risks."
The father then entered the room, and his son said to him in an angry
voice:
"Why have you not got our house ready to sail away? You know the walls
of the city have gone some hours ago. Bring me at once your image!"
The man brought a great wooden image of himself, and his son whipped it
furiously for a quarter of an hour.
"And now," said the young man at last, "go and hoist the sails at
once!"
III.--Marvels of the Moon
There are two kinds of towns on the Moon: travelling towns and sedentary
towns. In the travelling towns, each house is built of very light wood, and
placed on a platform, beneath the four corners of which great wheels are
fixed. When the time arrives for a voyage to the seaside or the forest, for
a change of air, the townspeople hoist vast sails on the roofs of their
dwellings, and sail away altogether towards the new site.
In the sedentary towns, on the other hand, the houses are made with
great strong screws running from the cellars to the roofs, which enable
them to be raised or lowered at discretion. The depth of the cellar is
equal to the height of every house; in winter, the whole structure is
lowered below the surface of the ground; in spring, it is lifted up again
by means of the screw.
As, owing to the father's neglect, the house in which we were staying
could not set sail until the next day, my companion and I accepted an
invitation to stay the night there. Our host then sent for a doctor, who
prescribed what foods I should smell, and what kind of bed I should lie
in.
"But I am not sick!" I said to the Man of the Sun.
"If you were," he replied, "the doctor would not have been sent for. On
the Moon, doctors are not paid to cure men, but to keep them in good
health. They are officers of the state, and, once a day, they call at every
house, and instruct the inmates how to preserve their natural vigour."
"I wish," I. said, "you could get him to order me a dozen roasted larks
instead of the mere smell of them. I should like to taste some solid food
just for a change."
He spoke to the doctor, and at a sign from him, our host took a gun and
led me into his garden.
"Are those the kind of birds you mean?" he said, pointing to a great
swarm of larks singing high up in the sky.
I replied that they were, and he shot at them, and thirty larks tumbled
over at our feet, not merely dead, but plucked, seasoned, and roasted.
"You see," said my host, "we mix with our gunpowder and shot a certain
composition which cooks as well as kills."
I picked up one of the birds and ate it. In sober truth, I have never
tasted on Earth anything so deliciously roasted.
When I had finished my repast, I was conducted to a little room, the
floor of which was strewn with fine orange blossoms about three feet deep.
The Men of the Moon always sleep on these thick, soft heaps of fragrant
flowers, which are chosen for them every day by their doctors. Four
servants came and undressed me, and gently rubbed my limbs and my body, and
in a few moments I was fast asleep.
Early next morning I was awakened by the Man of the Sun, who said to
me:
"I know you are anxious to return to your Earth and relate the story of
all the strange and wonderful things you have seen on the Moon. If you care
to while away an hour or two over this book, I will prepare for your return
voyage."
The book which he put into my hand was an extraordinary object. It was a
kind of machine, full of delicate springs, and it looked like a new kind of
clock. In order to read it, you had to use, not your eyes, but your ears.
For on touching one of the springs, it began to speak like a man. It was a
history of the Sun, and I was still listening to it when my companion
arrived.
"I am now ready," he said. "On what part of the Earth would you like to
land?"
"In Italy," I replied. "That will save me the cost and trouble of
travelling to Rome--a city I have always longed to see."
Taking me in his arms, the Man of the Sun rose swiftly up from the Moon
and carried me across the intervening space, and dropped me rather roughly
on a hill near Rome. When I turned to expostulate with him, I found that he
had disappeared.
Björnstjerne Björnson, one of the greatest Scandinavian
writers, was born at Kvikne, in the wild region of the Dovre Mountains,
Norway, Dec. 8, 1832. His father was the village pastor. Six years later
the family removed to Naesset, on the west coast of Norway. From the
grammar school at Molde young Björnson went to the University of
Christiania, and it was then that he began to write verses and newspaper
articles. At Upsala, in 1856, he understood that he had a definite call to
literature, and at Copenhagen the following year he wrote his first
masterpiece "Synnove Solbakken." This was followed, in 1858, by "Arne," a
story which not only brought him into the front rank of contemporary
writers, but also marked a new era in Norwegian literature. From that time
there has been a succession of novels, short stories, and plays (Björnson
on two occasions has been the director of a theatre) from his pen. A drama,
"The King," produced in 1877, had an after effect of immense political
importance. It was undoubtedly an attack on the ruler of Norway and Sweden,
and every Norwegian who wished his country to become an independent nation
welcomed Björnson as the leader of this new movement--with what success
there is now no need to relate, since it has become a matter of history.
Björnson died April 25, 1910.
I.--The Little Song-Maker
It was up at Kampen that Arne was born. His mother was Margit, the only
child at the little farm among the crags. When she was eighteen, she
stopped too long at a dance one evening; her friends had gone off without
her, so Margit thought the way home would be just as long whether she
waited till the end of the dance or not.
Thus it came about that Margit remained sitting there till Nils
Skrædder, the fiddler, suddenly laid aside his instrument, as was his
wont when he had had more than enough to drink, left the dancers to hum
their own tune, took hold of the prettiest girl he could find, and, letting
his feet keep as good time to the dance as music to a song, jerked off with
the heel of his boot the hat of the tallest man in the room. "Ho!" laughed
he.
As Margit walked home that night, the moon was making wondrous sport
over the snow. When she got to the loft where she slept, she could not help
looking out at it again.
Next time there was a dance in the parish, Margit was present. She did
not care much to dance that evening, but sat listening to the music. But
when the playing ceased the fiddler rose and went straight across to Margit
Kampen. She was scarcely aware of anything, but that she was dancing with
Nils Skrædder!
Before long the weather grew warmer, and there was no more dancing that
spring.
One Sunday, when the summer was getting on, Margit went to church with
her mother. When they were at home again her mother threw both her arms
around her. "Hide nothing from me, my child!" she cried.
Winter came again, but Margit danced no more. Nils Skrædder went
on playing, drank more than formerly, and wound up each party by dancing
with the prettiest girl there. It was said for certain that he could have
whichever he wished of the farmers' daughters, and that Birgit, the
daughter of Böen, was sick for love of him.
Just about this time a child of the cotter's daughter at Kampen was
brought to be christened. It was given the name of Arne, and its father was
said to be Nils Skrædder.
The evening of that day saw Nils at a great wedding party. He would not
play, but drank all he could, and was dancing the whole time. But when he
asked Birgit Böen for a dance, she refused him. He turned and took hold of
the first good-looking girl near. She, too, held back, and answered a
request he whispered in her ear with the words: "The dance might go further
than I should like."
At that Nils drew back, and danced the "Halling" alone. Then he went
into the barn, laid himself down, and wept.
Margit sat at home with her little boy. She heard about Nils going from
dance to dance, and it was not very long before Arne learnt that Nils
Skrædder was his father, and the kind of man he was.
It was when Arne was about six years old that two Americans, visiting
the place when a bridal party was going on, were so much struck by the way
Nils danced the "Halling" that they proposed to take him as their servant,
at whatever wages he wanted. They would call for him on their way back in
about a week's time. Nils was the hero of the evening.
The dance was resumed. Nils looked round at the girls, and went over to
Birgit Böen. He held out his hand, and she put out hers. Then, turning away
with a laugh, he put his arm around the girl next to her, and danced off
with boisterous glee.
Birgit coloured, and a tall, quiet-looking man took her hand, and danced
away. Nils noticed it, and presently danced so hard against them that both
Birgit and her partner fell to the ground.
The quiet-looking man got up, went straight to Nils, took him by the
arm, and knocked him down with a blow over the eyes. Nils fell heavily,
tried to rise, and found that he couldn't--his back was badly hurt.
Meantime, at Kampen, no sooner had the grandmother succeeded in paying
off the last instalment of debt on the farm than she was stricken with
mortal sickness and died.
A fortnight after the funeral six men brought in a litter, and on the
litter lay Nils with his black hair and pale face.
In the springtime, a year after he had been brought to Kampen, Nils and
Margit were married. The fiddler's health was ruined, but he was able to
help in the fields, and look after things. Then, one Sunday afternoon, when
Nils and Arne were out together they saw a wedding procession, fourteen
carriages in all. Nils stood for a long time motionless after the bride and
bridegroom had passed, and for the rest of the day he was sullen and angry.
He went out before supper, and returned at midnight, drunk.
From that day Nils was constantly going into town and coming home drunk.
He reproached Margit for his wretched life; he cursed her, he struck her,
and beat her. Then would come fits of wild remorse.
As Arne grew up, Nils took him to dances, and the boy learnt to sing all
sorts of songs. His mother taught him to read, and when he was fifteen he
longed to travel and to write songs.
At home, things got worse. As Nils grew feebler he became more drunken
and violent, and often Arne would stay at home to amuse him in order that
Margit might have an hour's peace. Arne began to loathe his father; but he
kept this feeling to himself, as he did his love for his mother.
His one friend was Kristen, the eldest son of a sea-captain. With
Kristen, Arne could talk of books and travel. But there came a day when
Kristen went away to be a sailor, and Arne was left alone.
Life was very heavy for him. He made up songs and put his grief into
them. But for his mother, Arne would have left Kampen--he stood between her
and Nils.
One night, about this time, Nils came back late from a wedding-feast.
Margit had gone to bed, and Arne was reading. The boy helped his father
upstairs, and Nils began quoting texts from the Bible and cursing his own
downfall, shedding drunken tears. Presently he made his way to the bed, and
put his fingers on Margit's throat.
In vain the boy and his mother called on Nils to desist; the drunkard
took no notice. Arne rushed to a corner of the room and picked up an axe;
at the same moment Nils fell down, and, after a piercing shriek, lay quite
still.
All that night they watched by the dead. A feeling of relief came upon
them both.
"He fell of himself," Arne said simply, for at first his mother was
terrified by the sight of the axe.
"Remember, Arne, it's for your sake I've borne it all," Margit said,
weeping. "You must never leave me."
"Never, never," he answered fervently.
II.--The Call of the Mountains
Arne grew up reserved and shy; he went on tending the cattle and making
songs. He was now in his twentieth year. The pastor lent him books to read,
the only thing he cared for.
Many a time he would have liked to read aloud to his mother, but he
could not bring himself to do it. One of the songs he made at this time
began:
The parish is all restless, but there's peace in grove and wood.
No beadle here impounds you, to suit his crabbed mood;
No strife profanes our little church, tho' there it rages high,
But then we have no little church, and that, perhaps, is why!
The folks round about got to hear of his songs, and would have been glad
to talk to him; but Arne was shy of people and disliked them, chiefly
because he thought they disliked him.
He gave up tending the cattle, and stayed at home, looking after the
farm. He was near his mother all day now, and she would give him dainty
meals. In his heart was a song with the refrain "Over the mountains high!"
Somehow, Arne could never finish this song.
There was a field labourer named Upland Knut, at whose side Arne often
worked. This man had neither parents nor friends, and when Arne said to
him, "Have you no one at all, then, to love you?" he answered, "Ah, no! I
have no one."
Arne thought of his own mother, and his heart was full of love to her.
What if he were to lose her because he had not sufficiently prized her, he
thought; and he rushed home, to find his mother sleeping gently like a
child.
Mother and son were much together in those days, and once they agreed to
go to a wedding at a neighbouring farm.
For the first time in his life Arne drank too much, and all next day he
lay in the barn. He was full of self-reproach, and it seemed to him that
cowardice was his besetting sin.
Cowardice had been his failing as a boy. It had prevented him taking his
mother's part against his father, from leaving home, from mixing with
people. Cowardice had made him drunk, and, but for his fear and timidity,
his verses would be better.
After searching everywhere for him, Margit eventually found him in the
barn. He tried to soothe her, and vowed that he would join his life more
closely to his mother's in future. What moved him was that his loving,
patient mother said that she had done a grievous wrong against him, and
implored his forgiveness.
"Of course, I forgive you," he said.
"God bless you, my dear, dear Arne."
From that day, Arne was not only happier at home, but he began to look
at other people more kindly, more with his mother's gentle eyes. But he
still went about alone, and a strange longing often possessed his soul.
One summer evening Arne had gone out to sit by the Black Lake, a piece
of water very dark and deep. He sat behind some bushes and looked out over
the water, and at the hills opposite, and at the homesteads in the
valley.
Presently he heard voices close beside him. A young girl, he made out,
was grumbling because she had got to leave the parsonage, where she had
been staying with Mathilde, the parson's daughter, and it was her father
who was taking her home. A third voice, sharp and strident, was heard.
"Hurry up, now, Baard; push off the boat, or we sha'n't be home
to-night."
The rattle of cart-wheels followed, and Baard fetched a box out of the
cart, and carried it down to the boat.
Then Mathilde, the parson's daughter, came running up calling, "Eli!
Eli!"
The two girls wept in each other's arms.
"You must take this," said Mathilde, giving her friend a bird-cage.
"Mother wants you to. Yes, you must take Narrifas, and then you'll often
think of me."
"Eli! Come, come, Eli!" came the summons from the boat.
A moment after, and Arne saw the boat out in the water, Eli standing up
in the stern, holding the bird-cage and waving her hand to Mathilde. His
eyes followed the boat, and he watched it draw near to the land. He could
see the three forms mirrored in the water, and continued gazing until they
had left the boat and gone indoors at the biggest house on the opposite
side of the lake.
Mathilde had sat for some time by the landing stage, but she had left
now, and Arne was alone when Eli came out again for a last look across the
water. Arne could see her image in the lake. "Perhaps she sees me now," he
thought. Then, when the sun had set, he got up and went home, feeling that
all things were at peace.
Arne's fancies for some time now were of dreams of love and fair
maidens. Old ballads and romances mirrored them for him, as the water had
mirrored the young girl.
A two-fold longing--the yearning to have someone to love, and a desire
to do something great--sprang up together in his soul, and melted into one.
Again he began to work at the song, "Over the mountains high," altering it,
and thinking each time, "One day it will carry me off." But he never forgot
his mother in his thoughts of travel, and decided that he would send for
her as soon as he had got a footing abroad.
There was in the parish a merry old fellow of the name of Ejnar Aasen.
He was well off, and, in spite of a lameness that made him use a crutch,
was fond of organising parties of children to go nutting. All the young
people called him "godfather."
Aasen liked Arne, and invited him to join in the next nutting party, and
though Arne blushed, and made excuses, he decided to go. He found himself
the only young man among many girls. They were not the maidens of whom he
had made songs, nor yet was he afraid of them. They were more full of life
than anything he had seen, and they could make merry over anything. All of
them laughed at Arne, as they caught at the branches, because he was
serious, so that he could not help laughing himself.
After a while they all sat on a large knoll, old Aasen in the middle,
and told stories. And then they were anxious to tell their dreams, but this
could be done only to one person, and Arne was trusted to hear the dreams.
The last of the girls to tell her dreams was called Eli, and she was the
girl he had seen in the boat.
Arne had to say which was the best dream, and as he said he wanted time
to think, they left him sitting on the knoll and trooped off with
godfather. Arne sat for some time, and the old yearnings to travel came
back, and drove him to his song, "Over the mountains high." Now, at last,
he had got the words; and taking paper out of his pocket, he wrote the song
through to the end. When he had finished he rose, and left the paper on the
knoll; and later, when he found he had forgotten it, he went back. But the
paper was gone.
One of the girls, who had returned to seek him, had found--not Arne, but
his song.
III.--Love's Awakening
Whenever Arne mentioned his friend Kristen, and wondered why he never
heard from him, his mother left the room, and seemed unhappy for days
afterwards. He noticed, too, that she would get specially nice meals for
him at such times.
He had never been so gentle since his father's death as he was that
winter. On Sundays he would read a sermon to his mother, and go to church
with her; but she knew this was only to win her consent to his going abroad
in the spring. Upland Knut, who had always been alone, now came to live at
Kampen. Arne had become very skilful with axe and saw, and that winter he
was often busy at the parsonage as well as Kampen.
One day a messenger came from Böen to ask him if he would go over there
for some carpentry work. He answered "Yes," without thinking about the
matter. As soon as the man had gone, his mother told him that it was Baard
Böen who had injured his father; but Arne decided to go all the same.
It was a fine homestead, and Baard and Arne soon became on friendly
terms. He had many talks, too, with Eli, and at times would sing his own
songs to her, and afterwards feel ashamed.
Then Eli fell ill, and Birgit blamed Baard because Mathilde had gone
away from the parsonage on a visit to town without bidding good-bye to Eli.
It seemed to Baard that whatever he did was wrong.
"You either keep silent too much, or you talk too much," said his
wife.
During Eli's illness Baard would often sit and talk with Arne, and one
day he told him how he had been driven to attack Nils, and then how he had
courted and won Birgit.
"She was very melancholy at first," said Baard, "and I had nothing to
say; and then she got into bustling, domineering ways, and I had nothing to
say to that. But one day of real happiness I've not had the twenty years
we've been married."
When Eli was getting better, her mother came down one evening and asked
Arne, in her daughter's name, to go up and sing to her. Eli had heard him
singing. Arne was confused, but gave in and went upstairs.
The room was in darkness, and he had not seen Eli since the day she had
fallen ill, and he had helped to carry her to her room. Arne sat down in a
chair at the foot of the bed. When people talk in the dark they are
generally more truthful than when they see one another's faces.
Eli made Arne sing to her, first a hymn, and then a song of his own. For
some time there was silence between them, and then Eli said, "I wonder,
Arne, that you, who have so much that is beautiful within, should want to
go away. You must not go away."
"There are times when I seem not to want to so much," he answered.
Presently Arne could hear her weeping, and he felt that he must
move--either forward or back.
"Eli!"
"Yes." Both voices were at a whisper.
"Give me your hand."
She made no answer. He listened, quickly, closely, stretched out his own
hand, and grasped a warm little hand that lay bare.
There was a step on the stairs; they let go of one another, and Birgit
entered with a light. "You've been sitting too long in the dark," she said,
putting the candle on the table. But neither Eli nor Arne could bear the
light; she turned to the pillow, and he shaded his face with his hands.
"Ah, yes; it's a bit dazzling at first," said the mother, "but the
feeling soon passes away."
Next day Arne heard that Eli was better and going to come down for a
time after dinner. He at once put his tools together, and bade farewell to
the farm. And when Eli came downstairs he was gone.
IV.--After Many Years
It was springtime when Margit went up to the parsonage. There was
something heavy on her heart. Letters had come from Kristen for Arne, and
she had been afraid to give them to her son lest he should go away and join
his friend. Kristen had even sent money, and this Margit had given to Arne,
pretending it had been left him by his grandmother. All this Margit poured
out to the old pastor, and also her fears that Arne would go
travelling.
"Ah!" he said, smiling, "if only there was some little lassie who could
get hold of him. Eli Böen, eh? And if he could manage so that they could
meet sometimes at the parsonage."
Margit looked up anxiously.
"Well, we'll see what we can do," he went on; "for, to tell you the
truth, my wife and daughter have long been of the same mind."
Then came the summer, and one day, when the heavens were clear, Arne
walked out and threw himself down on the grass. He meant to go to the
parsonage and borrow a newspaper. He had not been to Böen since that night
in the sick-room, and now he glanced towards the house, and then turned
away his eyes. Presently he heard someone singing his song, the song he had
lost the very day he made it.
Fain would I know what the world may be
Over the mountains high.
Mine eyes can nought but the white snow see,
And up the steep sides the dark fir-tree,
That climbs as if yearning
to know.
Say, tree, dost thou
venture to go?
There were eight verses, and Arne stood listening till the last word had
died away. He must see who it was, and presently above him he caught sight
of Eli.
The sunlight was falling straight on her, and it seemed to Arne, as he
looked at her, that he had never seen or dreamt of anything more beautiful
in his life. He watched her get up, without letting himself be seen, and
presently she was gone. Arne no longer wanted to go to the parsonage, but
he went and sat where she had sat, and his breast was full of gentle
feelings.
Eli often went to the parsonage, and one Sunday evening Margit found her
there, and persuaded the girl to walk back to Kampen with her. Eli entered
the house only when she heard that Arne was not at home. It was the first
time she had visited the homestead. Margit took her all over the house, and
showed her Arne's room, and opened a little chest full of silk kerchiefs
and ribbons.
"He bought something each time he's been to the town," Margit
remarked.
Eli would have given anything to go away, but she dared not speak.
In a special compartment in the chest she had seen a buckle, a pair of
gold rings, and a hymn-book bound with silver clasps, and wrought on the
clasps was:
"Eli Baardsdatter Böen."
The mother put back the things, closed the box, and clasped the girl to
her heart; for Eli was weeping.
When they were downstairs again, they heard a man's step in the passage,
and Arne entered, and saw Eli.
"You here?" he said, and blushed a fiery red. Then he put his arms
around her, and she leant her head on his breast. He whispered something in
her ear, and for a long while they stood in silence, her arms around his
neck.
As they walked home together in the fair summer evening, they could
utter but few words in their strange, new Happiness. Nature interpreted
their hearts to one another, and on his way back from that first
summer-night's walk, Arne made many new songs.
It was harvest time when the marriage of Eli with Arne was celebrated.
The Black Water was full of boats taking people to Böen.
All the doors were open at the house. Eli was in her room with Mathilde
and the pastor's wife. Arne was downstairs looking out from the window.
Presently Baard and Birgit, both dressed, for church, met on the stairs,
and went up together to a garret where they were alone. Baard had something
to say, but it was hard to say it.
"Birgit," he began, "you've been thinking, as I've been, I daresay.
He stood between us two, I know, and it's gone on a long time.
To-day a son of his has come into our house, and to him we've given our
only daughter.... Birgit, can't we, too, join our hearts to-day?"
His voice trembled, but no answer came.
They heard Eli outside, calling gently: "Aren't you coming, mother?"
"Yes, I'm coming now, dear!" said Birgit, in a choking voice. She walked
across the room to Baard, took his hand in hers, and broke into violent
sobs. The two hands clung tight and it was hand in hand they opened the
door and went downstairs. And when the bridal train streamed down to the
landing stage, and Arne gave his hand to Eli, Baard, against all custom,
took Birgit's hand in his own and followed them calmly, happily,
smilingly.
In the boat his eyes rested on the bridal pair and on his wife. "Ah!" he
said to himself, "no one would have thought such a thing possible twenty
years ago."
"In God's Way" belongs to the second group of Björnson's
novels, of which the first group is represented by early peasant tales like
"Arne." In this later category the stories are of a more or less didactic
nature. Although "In God's Way" lacks something of the freshness and beauty
that distinguished "Arne," it is, nevertheless a powerful and vivid picture
of Norwegian religious life; and it is, of all Björnson's books, the one by
which he is most widely known outside his native country. In this story
Björnson has been influenced by the social dramas of his compatriot, Ibsen;
but it may be questioned whether he has not brought to his task a higher
inspiration and a stronger faith in humanity than the famous dramatist
possessed. Published in 1889, the main theme of "In God's Way" was
undoubtedly suggested by the religious excitement which then prevailed in
Norway.
I.--A Strange Home-coming
Pastor Tuft was walking up and down his study, composing his Sunday
sermon. He was a handsome man, with a long, fair face, and dreamy eyes; his
wife, Josephine, in the days when she thought she was in love with him,
used to call him Melanchthon--that was not many years ago, and he still
resembled in appearance the poet of the Reformation. But his features had
now lost their fine serenity, and he was glad when his bitter and troubled
thoughts on the doctrine of justification--a subject he had chosen for its
bearing on his brother-in-law's conduct--were interrupted by his wife.
Josephine burst into his study in a state of fierce excitement.
"They will be here in a moment," she said. "The steamer has arrived. Oh,
that woman, that woman! She has ruined my brother's life!"
"If he wanted to settle again in Norway with her," said the pastor,
"couldn't he have chosen some spot where the story of their misconduct was
not known? But to come to the very town! Everybody will remember!"
"Yes," said Josephine; "it is only six years since Edward ran off to
America with Sören Kule's wife. Surely, he will not expect you, a minister,
to receive the woman, especially as Kule is still living."
While she was talking, Tuft stared out of the window. A tall man in
light clothes was coming to the house--a tall man, with a clear-cut,
sunburnt face, and a lean, curved nose that gave him the air of a bird of
prey. By his side was a lady with sweet, delicate features, dressed in a
tartan travelling costume. There was a knock at the door. Josephine went
down very slowly, and opened it. "Edward!"
There was a glow in her eyes as she welcomed her brother, and his eyes
also lighted up. He was about to cross the threshold, when he noticed that
she completely disregarded his companion. In the meantime, Tuft had come to
the door; he, too, made no advances. There was always something of the
keen, wild look of an eagle about Edward Kallem; it became still more
striking as he glared at his sister and brother-in-law.
"Are you waiting," he said, "for me to introduce my wife? Well, here she
is--Ragni Kallem."
So the pair had married in America! If Tuft and Josephine had not been
so eager to impute every sort of misconduct to runaways, they would have
foreseen this natural event. Tuft tried to find something to say, but
failed, and glanced at Josephine. But she did not look as if she were
willing to help him.
For the fact that Edward and Ragni were now married increased rather
than diminished Josephine's bitterness. Although she would not admit it to
herself, her religious objections were a mere pretence. She was jealous,
jealous with the strange jealousy of a sister who wanted to be all in all
to her brilliant brother, and hated that another woman should be more to
him than she was. All her life had been centred on him. She had married Ole
Tuft, a poor peasant's son, because he was the bosom friend of Edward. Her
marriage, she thought, would connect them still more closely. She wanted to
live by his side, watching him rise into fame as the greatest doctor in
Norway. For young Kallem's masters had predicted that he would prove to be
a man of genius.
Possessing considerable wealth, he had taken up the study of medicine,
not as a means of livelihood, but as a matter of love and duty. Then, six
years ago, he had run off with old Sören Kule's young wife, and Josephine's
dream had come to an end, leaving her life little more than a dull, empty
round of routine housework.
This was why she now gazed with hard, cold eyes at Ragni. Edward Kallem
saw her look of wild hatred, and, taking his weeping wife gently by the
arm, he turned away, and led her from the house into the road.
Josephine went upstairs, and gazed from the study window at the
retreating figures. Her husband followed her, with a curious look in his
eyes. Neither of them spoke. In their hearts was raging a storm of passion
wilder than the anger which possessed Kallem, and the sorrow which bowed
down Ragni.
Josephine left the room without looking-at her husband. He gazed after
her still with the same curious look in his eyes. Then, pulling himself
together, he went on writing his sermon. "What makes God so merciful to
sinners?" he wrote. "His infinite love? Yes, justification is certainly an
act of mercy, but it is also an act of judgment. The claims of the law must
be first fulfilled. A sinner must believe in order to be saved."
The point in this was that Edward Kallem was a freethinker. There could
be no forgiveness for him. At the bottom of his heart, Tuft was glad that
there had been no reconciliation. Ever since he had married the wealthy and
beautiful sister of his bosom friend, he had been jealous of Josephine's
passionate attachment to her brother. Her brother had remained her hero,
and the peasant she had married and enriched was little more than her
servant.
While, with these bitter thoughts in his head, Tuft was composing his
sermon Josephine was writing a dastardly letter. It was to Sören Kule.
Edward and Ragni had returned, married. There was an empty house near the
one they had bought. Would Sören Kule come and live in it? So the letter
ran. The next day, Sunday, Josephine went to church in a very Christianlike
frame of mind. She felt she had done her duty, and avenged herself in doing
it.
II.--The Poison of Tongues
At first things did not go as Josephine expected. With the exception of
his sister and brother-in-law, everybody welcomed Edward Kallem and his
wife back to his native town. At the house of Pastor Meek, the oldest and
most influential of the clergy, Ragni was introduced to a middle-aged lady,
who startled her by saying:
"I am Sören Kule's sister. I want to tell you that, in your position, I
should have acted just as you did."
This, indeed, was the general verdict. No one who knew Sören Kule blamed
Ragni. An old rake, blind and half-paralysed as the immediate result of
ill-living, he had worried his first wife, Ragni's sister, into the grave,
and then taken advantage of the young girl's innocence to marry her. The
man was a mass of corruption, and his second marriage was one of those
strangely cruel crimes which go unpunished in the present state of society.
Kallem, who was then lodging in the same house as Kule, was maddened by it.
Being a doctor, he foresaw clearly the fate of the pure, lovely, girlish
victim of Kule's brutal passion, and in rescuing her from it he had
displayed, in the opinion of his friends, the chivalry of soul of a modern
knight-errant.
Pastor Meek was a liberal-minded and courageous old man; he showed his
sympathy with the Kallems, and his trust in them, in a practical
manner.
"My grandson, Karl," he said to Kallem, "is at school here. I wish you
would let him come, now and then, to your house. He is only nineteen years
old, but he promises to be a first-rate composer. Your wife plays the piano
beautifully. They ought to get on well together."
Kallem was so pleased with this mark of approval that he went the next
morning to the young musician's lodgings, and invited him to come and live
with him. Karl Meek was a lanky, awkward hobbledehoy, with a tousled head
of hair and long red hands, which were always covered with chilblains.
Ragni asked him to play a simple duet, but he made so many mistakes in
playing that she got up from the piano. He was upset, and ran away from the
house. Kallem spent an afternoon looking for him, and brought him back with
his hair cut, his nails trimmed, and his clothes brushed.
"Can't you see?" said Kallem to his wife. "The lad's shy and afraid of
you. Do, my dear, make him feel quite at home."
Ragni was a sweet and gentle woman, and though she did not like Karl
much at first, she took him in hand, and, little by little, obtained a
great influence over the wild creature. As his fine poetic nature gradually
revealed itself, she began to mother him. They were often seen walking out
together, and as soon as the snow was firm, they used to go and meet
Kallem, and drive home with him, each standing on one of the runners of his
sledge. One afternoon, after they had been skating together on the frozen
bay, they were returning, without Kallem, when a carriage barred their way.
At the sound of Ragni's voice, the man inside said:
"There she goes! Who is it with her? Another man? Ah, I thought that's
what would happen!"
Ragni shuddered. It was Sören Kule. The paralysed old rake turned his
blind face upon her, as though he could see her, and had caught her doing
wrong. The carriage stopped by the next house to the Kallems. Before Kule
could get out, Ragni had run indoors. Shortly afterwards her husband
arrived. She saw that he, too, had met Kule, and he saw that she had gone
into the bedroom to hide herself. She buried her head in his arms; it
seemed to her that the air was now full of evil spirits.
And so it was. Edward Kallem did not know it, as he was now too busy to
go out anywhere. He was spending a great deal of his wealth in fitting out
a private hospital for the study and treatment of the diseases that he
specialised in. But Karl Meek soon became aware of malign influences
working around him, and around the two persons for whom he would willingly,
nay, happily, have laid down his life. He met an old friend in the street,
who said to him:
"How do you stand in regard to Mrs. Kallem?"
Karl did not take in his meaning, and began to praise Ragni
enthusiastically.
"Yes, I know all about that," his friend interrupted. "But, to make a
clean breast of it, are you her lover?"
"How dare you, how dare you!" cried Karl.
His friend quietly said that he only wanted to warn Karl; the report had
certainly got about.
"You've been a great deal together, you know," said his friend; "that
has given the scandal-mongers something to go on."
Both Edward and Ragni saw that something had happened to Karl when he
returned. He was in a black mood; he did not speak; his blue eyes were, by
turns, strangely savage and strangely sorrowful. He had to go home at once,
he said. He could not tell them now what the matter was, but he would write
to them, as soon as he could pluck up the courage to do so. He packed his
luggage, and Kallem went to see him off.
A few days afterwards, Ragni received a letter from Karl. He was going
to Berlin, he said, to take up the study of music seriously. And then, for
four pages, he talked about his prospects. But there was another page, a
loose one, on which was written in red ink: "Read this when you are
alone."
"I have decided, Ragni," Karl wrote, "that it would be wisest to tell
you why I left so suddenly. Someone has started a dreadful slander against
us. If I do not now tell you, you will hear it from the lips of some enemy.
Ah, God! that I should have brought this upon you! Love you? Of course I
love you. How could I help doing so, after all your kindness to me? And as
for Edward, I worship the ground he treads on. He is the noblest man I have
ever met. But do not show him this letter. Spare him the evil news as long
as possible. Now that I have gone away, it may all blow over."
Kallem did not get home from the hospital that night until eight
o'clock. When he came home his wife was lying in bed with a headache. She
did not get up the next morning. She was in bed several days. When at last
she got up, her husband noticed that she had grown very thin; her face had
a tired, delicate expression; there were dark rings around her sweet eyes,
and she was troubled with a cough.
III.--The Fell Work of Slander
Ragni now did not stir outside her own door. She longed for fresh air,
but she would not go out into the town for fear of the cruel, curious eyes
of the scandal-mongers. Sören Kule haunted her. His house overlooked her
garden, and she got the strange fancy into her head that he was always
sitting at the window blindly listening for her. So she never even went for
a walk in the park-like grounds which Kallem had purchased wholly for her
pleasure.
The poison of scandal had done its work. Her husband, unfortunately,
never suspected that she was really ill; he had a deep longing for a child
of his marriage, and, misled by too eager a hope, he misinterpreted the
strange alteration in his wife's health.
But one evening, when she coughed, some blood came up. Kallem saw it,
and the hideous truth came upon him in a blinding flash. It was the
terrible disease which he had spent the greater part of his fortune in
fighting against. Tuberculosis! But how was it that it had come so
suddenly, and ravaged her dear, sweet, tender body so furiously? She was in
a galloping consumption, and the end was not far off ... a few weeks ... a
few days, perhaps.
"Darling," he said, coming to her bedside one day, "isn't there some
secret you would like to confide in me--some secret that has been hurting
and distressing you? Tell me, dearest, for I shall have no peace until I
know it."
"I will tell you," she said. "I have just been thinking about it. You
will find some papers in my writing-table--they are all for you. Read them,
dear, when----" she broke off abruptly--"by and by. You will understand
that it was for your sake I kept it secret."
He went downstairs, and in the writing-table he found Karl's letter.
Horror, indignation, and helplessness overcame him. Why had he not known of
this in time? He would have gone to every soul in the town, and told them
that they lied.
"Ay," he said, "I will tell them so yet. They have murdered
her--cowardly murdered her! Ah, God, I have spent my life and my fortune in
my endeavours to benefit them, and there's not one of them--not one--honest
enough to tell me to defend my wife's good name!"
What drove him almost to madness was that there was none he could go to
and take by the throat, exclaiming: "You have done this! You are answerable
to me for this!" Still, there was one who stood apart from the
others--Josephine. Josephine had not invented the slander; that was not her
way. But she would believe what was invented when it concerned anyone she
disliked. And how she disliked Ragni! Yes, it was Josephine and her
hypocrite of a husband who had laid his darling open to this sort of
attack. Very well! Everything else was gone--his joy of life, his interest
in science, and his love of mankind. But he still had something to live
for--vengeance!
As he was sitting one evening by the bedside of his wife the door
opened, and Karl Meek came into the room. "Is she dead?" said the boy.
Ragni heard the question. She looked up, and tried to smile. Her eyes
rested for a moment on Karl, and then remained on her husband. A moment
after she was dead.
Josephine was surprised to hear that Karl Meek was the only person whom
her brother allowed to follow the coffin of his dead wife. Did that mean
that Edward did not suspect him? Or, more likely, that he had forgiven him?
Ah, if one could be as good as that!
"God's way with sinners," said Tuft, "may seem cruel, but it is really
kind and merciful. The death of that woman will work for Edward's good: Of
course, he feels it keenly now, but he will get over it. It is a blessing
in disguise."
As soon as Tuft uttered these words he felt the sheer brutality of them.
By a strange irony of fate, his own child had fallen ill about the time
that Ragni took to her bed, and the minister and his wife were now talking
over the couch of their suffering little boy. Something was wrong with his
chest, and Josephine would have liked to call in her clever brother in
place of the ordinary family doctor, but she would not humble herself to
beg his help. Perhaps it was the shock of her husband's words that aroused
her, but that night the springs of her nature were strangely opened. She
came downstairs in her nightdress to Tuft's bed, and awoke him. Her eyes
were fixed in a blank stare.
"I can't sleep, Ole," she whispered. "I want to warn you. That
woman--Edward's wife--is trying to take away our boy. We have been too hard
on her--too hard. Now she will make us pay for it."
"You are not yourself, Josephine," said Tuft, rising up, and dressing
himself hastily. "I will fetch the doctor."
"No, no!" she cried. "Ask Edward to come."
Tuft did not dare do this himself, but he got his doctor to approach
Kallem, who made an appointment to examine the child early next morning.
Josephine shrieked when she saw him. Under the stress of mental suffering,
the flesh on his face had wasted to the bone; he was the image of death.
Without speaking to either of the parents he went to the child, tapped its
chest lightly here and there, and then said something to the doctor and
went out.
"He has gone to get his instruments," the doctor whispered. "The case is
extremely serious. An operation must be performed at once."
Josephine did not speak, neither did Tuft. They had been watching
Kallem's face as he bent over their boy, and in it they seemed to read the
sentence of death. They had called him in too late.
They were mistaken. Edward Kallem came hurrying back with a staff of
trained assistants. Tuft and Josephine were locked outside their child's
room. An hour afterwards the door was opened. The boy's life was saved.
This they learnt from their own doctor, but Kallem himself departed without
even speaking to them.
IV.--The Reconciliation
That night, over the body of the sleeping child, Ole Tuft at last dealt
sternly and truly with himself. Three times, in the course of the day, had
he gone to Kallem's house to thank him for saving his boy's life. But
Kallem had refused to see him. At the third refusal Tuft understood. If
ever he entered his brother-in-law's house he would enter it a changed man.
He was now vowing that he would begin this new life by uniting Edward and
Josephine. It was his jealousy, he admitted to himself, which had been the
root of all the mischief.
Edward had been his hero, too, in his younger days, and it was this
common worship of a nobler and more gifted nature which had brought him and
Josephine together. Why had he not let it remain the base of their
intercourse? Their marriage would then have been a happy one, and his own
life would have been filled with larger thoughts and more generous
feelings.
While Pastor Tuft was meditating, his wife was acting. She too, had been
refused admittance to her brother's house. So she was writing to him. For
whatever wrong they might have done, she said, they wished to make amends.
They had been intolerant, she allowed, and they were sorry for it. But
surely they were worthy to be accused? Would he not, then, tell them
plainly what they had done to make him so angry?
Some days afterwards, Josephine received a large envelope addressed to
her by her brother. But she was surprised, on opening it, to find that it
was full of papers in two strange handwritings. They were letters to
Kallem, from Ragni and Karl Meek. Josephine trembled as she looked at them.
She began by chance with Meek's letters. Ragni innocent? Good God! was she
innocent? Yes! Now she understood why Edward had driven away on the day of
the funeral with only Karl Meek by his side; but she could not understand
how he had survived it.
The servant knocked at her bedroom door, saying that supper was
ready.
"No, no!" she managed to exclaim, as she writhed in shame and sorrow.
She must go at once to her brother if she had to go to him on her knees.
But no! Here were Ragni's letters. She felt as if her brother were standing
over her, and forcing her to read them. Some of them were early
love-letters. There had been no misconduct. Her chivalrous brother and the
sweet, gentle woman whom he had rescued from a horrible fate had lived
apart from one another in America until the day of their marriage.
Josephine slipped from the chair down upon her knees, weeping and
sobbing. "Forgive me! Forgive me!" she whispered, pressing Ragni's letters
in her hands.
Then she forced herself to silence, so that no one might discover her
crouching there in the shame of her crime. She had murdered her brother's
wife--not by words, but by her silence! Yes, she was a murderess! Well, let
Edward deal with her as he thought fit!
She ran wildly out of the house into the dark, rainy street, past her
husband's church, past the white wall of Sören Kule's dwelling. Her brother
was standing in the open door, surrounded by trunks and boxes. Was he
thinking of going away? Tears streamed down her face.
"Edward!"
She could get no further. He drew himself upright, his face white and
stern.
"You shall never enter here!" he said, with a break in his voice.
He bent down to do up a trunk. When he got up she was gone. With a
fierce look in his eyes, he continued his preparations. He meant to catch
the first train the next morning, and get at once far away from his native
town. What he would then do he did not know, except that he would never
return. When everything was ready, he locked the front door and went to
bed. But he could not sleep. Twice in the night the door-bell rang, but he
would not open the door. It rang a third time, and kept on ringing; and at
last he got out of bed. It was Ole Tuft. His face was ghastly.
"Where is my wife, Edward Kallem? What have you done with my wife?" he
moaned.
"Ragni's grave," said Kallem. "She is there, I think."
And then he slammed the door to. Just as dawn was breaking, the bell
rang again. Kallem went into the hall, and saw that two pieces of paper had
been thrust through the letter-box. On one, Tuft had written: "She is not
there, Edward; she was not there. I found this note on my writing-table
among the letters you sent her. Oh, Edward, it was not like you to send her
away!" On the other piece of paper Josephine had written: "Read these, Ole,
and you will understand all. For my life's sake, I am now going to my
brother!"
"For my life's sake!" Kallem shivered as he read it, and all his old
love for his sister came back to him. Had he killed her? She had wronged
Ragni, true; but it was merely out of jealousy. Jealousy because he had
made Ragni all in all to him, and left her out of his life. He could have
brought his wife and sister together, but he had not tried to do it. Ah,
he, too, was guilty! All her life long Josephine had looked up to him and
worshipped him. Then he had come back from America, and cast her off, for
one who was not worthy of him, so it seemed to her. And in his fierce pride
he had refused to reveal to her the fine character of his wife.
He rushed out of the door, resolved to find what had become of her. She
was sitting on the steps of the house. As she saw him, she crouched down
like a wounded bird, which cannot get away, yet must not be seen. He took
her up into his arms, and carried her indoors.
"Let me stay, Edward--let me stay!" she said.
He bent over her and kissed her.
"God's ways! God's ways!" said Ole Tuft, as he and Edward and Josephine
walked slowly towards his house through the empty streets in the early
morning.
"But I still cannot share your faith," Kallem said.
"It matters not," said the minister. "There where good people walk, are
God's ways."
William Black, born in Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1841,
was educated with a view to being a landscape painter, a training that
clearly influenced his literary life. He became a painter of scenery in
words. At the age of twenty-three he went to London, after some experience
in Glasgow journalism, and joined the staff of the "Morning Star," and,
later, the "Daily News," of which journal he became assistant-editor. His
first novel appeared in 1868, but it was not until the publication of "A
Daughter of Heth," in 1871, that Black secured the attention of the reading
public. "The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton" followed, and in 1873 "A
Princess of Thule" attained great popularity. Retiring from journalism the
next year he devoted himself entirely to fiction. A score of novels
followed, the last in 1898, just before his death on December 10 of that
year. No novelist has lavished more tender care on the portrayal of his
heroines, or worked up more delicately a scenic background for plaintive
sentiment.
I.--In Strange Surroundings
"Noo, Wattie," said the Whaup, "ye maun say a sweer before ye get up.
I'm no jokin', and unless ye be quick ye'll be in the water."
Wattie Cassilis, the "best boy" of the Airlie Manse, paragon of
scholars, and exemplar to his four brothers, was depending from a small
bridge over the burn, his head downward and a short distance from the
water, his feet being held close to the parapet by the muscular arms of his
eldest brother, Tammas Cassilis, commonly known as the Whaup.
"Wattie," repeated the Whaup, "say a sweer, or into the burn ye'll gang
as sure as daith!" and he dipped Wattie a few inches, so that the ripples
touched his head. Wattie set up a fearful howl.
"Now, will ye say it?"
"Deevil!" cried Wattie. "Let me up; I hae said a sweer!"
The other brothers raised a demoniac shout of triumph over his
apostacy.
"Ye maun say a worse sweer, Wattie. Deevil is no bad enough."
"I'll droon first!" whimpered Wattie, "and then ye'll get your paiks,
I'm thinking."
Down went Wattie's head into the burn again, and this time he was raised
with his mouth sputtering out the contents it had received.
"I'll say what ye like! D--n; is that bad enough?"
With another unholy shout of derision Wattie was raised and set on the
bridge.
"Noo," said the Whaup, standing over him, "let me tell you this, my man.
The next time ye gang to my faither, and tell a story about any one o' us,
or the next time you say a word against the French lassie, as ye ca' her,
do ye ken what I'll do? I'll take ye back to my faither by the lug, and
I'll tell him ye were sweerin' like a trooper down by the burn, and every
one o' us will testify against you, and then, I'm thinking, it will be your
turn to consider paiks."
Catherine Cassilis, "the French lassie," had arrived at the Manse a few
weeks before, and she had sore need of a champion.
Andrew Bogue, the ancient henchman of the Rev. Gavin Cassilis, minister
of Airlie, who met her at the station, disapproved of her from the first as
a foreign jade dressed so that all the men turned and looked at her as if
she had been a snare of Satan. Then, had not young Lord Earlshope, after
introducing himself, taken a seat in the trap and talked with her in her
own language as if he had known her for years?
"They jabbered away in their foreign lingo," said Andrew that evening to
his wife Leezibeth, the housekeeper "and I'm thinking it was siccan a
language was talked in Sodom and Gomorrah. And he was a' smiles, and she
was a' smiles, and they seemed to think nae shame o' themselves goin'
through a decent countryside!"
The Whaup himself had said, on the night of Coquette's arrival, "Oh,
she's an actress, and I hate actresses!" But before many days had passed,
he completely changed that hasty view. The big, sturdy, long-legged lad
succumbed to the charms of his parentless cousin--the daughter of the
minister's brother, who had settled in France and taken to himself a French
wife--and he became her defender against those inhabitants of the Manse and
the parish--from his brother Wattie to the pragmatic schoolmaster--whose
prejudices she unintentionally outraged.
Even the minister was grieved when Coquette, as her father had called
her, made a casual remark about the "last time she had gone to the
mass."
"I am deeply pained," said the minister gravely. "I knew not that my
brother had been a pervert from the communion of our church."
"Papa was not a Catholic," said Coquette. "Mamma and I were. But it
matters nothing. I will go to your church--it is the same to me. I only try
to be kind to the people around me--that is all."
"She has got the best part of all religions if she does her best for the
people about her," said the Whaup.
"Thomas," remonstrated the minister severely, "you are not competent to
judge of these things."
Coquette's second error was to play the piano on a Sabbath morning. She
was stopped in this hideous offence by the housekeeper, Leezibeth.
"Is the Manse to be turned topsalteery, and made a byword a' because o'
a foreign hussy?" asked Leezibeth.
"Look here," said the Whaup, trying to comfort his weeping cousin, "you
can depend on me. When you get into trouble, send for me, and if any man or
woman in Airlie says a word to you, by jingo I'll punch their head!"
The discovery of a crucifix over the head of the maiden's bed filled
full the cup of Leezibeth's wrath and indignation.
"I thought the Cross was a symbol of all religions," said Coquette
humbly. "If it annoys you, I will take it down. My mother gave it to me--I
cannot put it away altogether."
"You shall not part with it," said the Whaup. "Let me see the man or
woman who will touch that crucifix, though it had on it the woman o'
Babylon herself!"
But the Whaup himself was troubled by the acquaintance of Coquette with
Lord Earlshope, which, from a casual meeting, developed with startling
rapidity.
His lordship's reputation in the parish was far from good. He never
attended the kirk; was seen walking about with his dogs and smoking on the
Sabbath; and even, it was said, read novels on that holy day. His
appearance in church on the first Sunday after Coquette's arrival in Airlie
was not difficult to explain, and it was followed by interchanges of visits
between the Manse and Earlshope House.
Soon the young lord and Coquette began to meet when she was taking her
early walk, a form of "carrying on" which outraged the sentiments of the
parish, and caused the Whaup to announce his intention of "giving her up"
and going to sea.
The alienation of the Whaup made Coquette very miserable, and when her
uncle discovered her walking alone with Lord Earlshope, she tearfully
requested to be allowed to go back to France.
"I am suspected," she sobbed, in her foreign English; "I do hear they
talk of me as dangerous. Is it wrong for me to speak to Lord Earlshope when
I do see him kind to me? Since I left France I did meet no one so courteous
as he has been. He does not think me wicked because I have a crucifix my
mother gave me, and he does not suspect me."
Her second conquest--for the Whaup, on seeing her dejection, had
relented and returned to his allegiance--was Leezibeth, and it was by music
she was won. Coquette was playing and singing "The Flowers o' the Forest,"
when Leezibeth crept in, and said shamefacedly:
"Will ye sing that again, miss? Maybe ye'll no ken that me and Andrew
had a boy--a bit laddie that dee'd when he was but seven years auld--and he
used to sing the 'Flowers o' the Forest' afore a' the ither songs, and ye
sing it that fine it makes a body amaist like to greet."
And from that day Leezibeth was the slave of Coquette; but, for the most
part, the thoughts of her neighbours were no kinder to the gay and
spontaneous "daughter of Heth" from the sunny South than were the grey and
dreary skies of Scotland.
II.--The Lovers of Coquette
When Sir Peter and Lady Drum returned to Castle Cawmil, their home in
the neighbourhood of Airlie, Lady Drum, whose joy it was to doctor her
friends, prescribed at once a cruise for the drooping Coquette. And Lord
Earlshope lent his yacht, and accompanied the party as a visitor. The
minister, looking back anxiously at his parish, Coquette, and the Whaup,
joined the party from the Manse.
On Coquette the cruise worked wonders. She recovered her spirits, and
her cheeks flushed with happiness.
"You're a pretty invalid," said the Whaup to Coquette as they went
ashore for a scramble. "Give me your hand if you want climbing, and I'll
give you enough of it."
"No," said Coquette, "I will not be pulled by a big, rough boy; but when
you are gentle like Lord Earlshope, I like you." Then, lest Tom should be
hurt, she added: "You are a very good boy, Tom, and somebody will get very
fond of you some day."
From that moment the Whaup grew more serious, and ceased his boyish
tricks.
"I think your cousin is very fond of you," said the good-natured Lady
Drum to Coquette. "Don't you think that some day or other he will ask you
to marry him?"
"It may be," replied Coquette dubiously. "I do not know, because my
uncle has not spoken to me of any such thing; but he may think it a good
marriage, and arrange it." A French view of marriage that greatly
astonished Lady Drum.
The new sense of responsibility that had come to the Whaup determined
him to return at once to Glasgow, and resume his studies. When Coquette
heard this she became sad and wistful.
"I hope," she said, "I shall be always the same to you, if you come back
in one year--two years--ten years."
And the Whaup thought that, if she would only wait two years he would
work to such purpose as to be able to ask her to marry him.
Before the cruise was ended, Lord Earlshope, who had the lonely man's
habit of playing spectator to his own emotions, informed Coquette, in an
impersonal way, that he had fallen in love with her.
"You are not responsible," said he, shrugging his shoulders and speaking
without bitterness. "All I ask is that you give me the benefit of your
sympathy. I have been flying my kite too near the thunder-cloud. And what
business had a man of my age with a kite?"
"I am very sorry," she said softly.
After this confession Coquette tried to avoid him as much as possible;
but one evening while she was sitting alone on deck, watching the sunset on
wild Loch Scavaig, he came to her and told her he was going away. He held
out his hand, but she made no response. What was it he heard in the
stillness of the night? Moved by a great fear he knelt down, and looked
into her drooping face. She was sobbing bitterly. Then there broke on him a
revelation more terrible than his own sorrow.
"Why are you distressed? It is nothing to you--my going away? It cannot
be anything to you surely?"
"It is very much," she said, with a calmness of despair that startled
him. "I cannot bear it."
"What have I done! What have I done!" he exclaimed. "Coquette, Coquette,
tell me you do not mean this! You do not understand my position. What you
say would be to any other man a joy unspeakable--the beginning of a new
life to him; but to me----" And he turned away with a shudder.
It was she who was the comforter in the presence of an impossible love.
Taking his hand gently, she said in a quiet voice: "I do not know what you
mean; but you must not accuse yourself for me. I have made a confession--it
was right to do that for you were going away. Now you will go away knowing
I am still your friend, that I shall think of you sometimes: though I shall
pray never to see you any more until we are old people, and may meet and
laugh at the old stupid folly."
"It shall not end thus!" he cried. "Let the past be past, Coquette, and
the future ours. Let us seek a new country for ourselves. Let me take you
away, and make for you a new world. Why should we two be for ever
miserable? Coquette----"
"I am afraid of you now," she said, drawing back in fear. "What are you?
Ah, I do see another face!" And, staggering, she fell insensible on the
deck as the minister approached.
That night Lord Earlshope left the yacht, and this was his parting
message, written on a slip of paper: "I was mad last night. I do not know
what I said. Forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself."
A winter's illness followed the strain of these emotional scenes, but
with the spring Coquette resumed her morning moorland walks, and drank in
new life from the warm, sweet breezes. One morning, she came face to face
with Lord Earlshope. With only a second's pause she stepped forward and
offered him her hand.
"Have you really forgiven me?" he asked.
"That is all over," she said, "and forgotten. It does no good to bring
it back."
"How very good you are! I have wandered all over Europe, feeling as
though I had the brand of Cain on my forehead."
"That is nonsense," said Coquette. "Your talk of Cain, your going away,
your fears--I do not understand it at all."
"No," said he. "Nor would you ever understand without a series of
explanations I have not the courage to make."
"I do not understand," she replied; "why all this secrecy--all this
mystery?"
"And I cannot tell you now," he said.
"I wish not to have any more whys," she said impatiently. "Explanations,
they never do good between friends. I am satisfied if you come to the Manse
and become as you were once. That is sufficient."
She tried hard to keep the conversation on the level of friendship; but
when at last she turned to leave him, ere she knew, his arms were around
her, and kisses were being showered on her forehead and on her lips.
"Let me go--let me go!" she pleaded piteously. "Oh, what have we
done?"
"We have sealed our fate," said he, with a haggard look. "I have fought
against this for many a day; but now, Coquette, won't you look up and give
me one kiss before we part?"
But her downcast face was pale and deathlike, and finally she said: "I
cannot speak to you now. To-morrow, or next day--perhaps we shall
meet."
The next day she met him again, and told him she was going to Glasgow
with Lady Drum to see her cousin, the Whaup.
"I wonder," said Earlshope, "if he hopes to win your love, and is
working there with the intention of coming back and asking you to be his
wife."
"And if that will make him happy," she said slowly and with absent eyes,
"I will do that if he demands it."
"You will marry him, and make him fancy that you love him?"
"No, I should tell him everything. I should tell him he deserves to
marry a woman who has never loved anyone but himself, and yet that I will
be his wife if his marrying me will alone make him happy."
"But, Coquette--don't you see it cannot end here?" he said almost
desperately. "You do not know the chains in which I am bound; and I dare
not tell you."
"No; I do not wish to know. It is enough for me to be beside you now,
and if it should all prove bad and sorrowful, I shall remember that once I
walked with you here, and we had no thought of ill, and were for a little
while happy."
Talk of Glasgow being a sombre, grey city! To the Whaup it seemed that
the empty pavements were made of gold; that the fronts of the houses were
shining with a happy light; and the air full of a delicious tingling. For
did not the great city hold in it Coquette? And as he sped his boots
clattered "Coquette! Coquette! Coquette!" And presently he was taking her
out for a walk, and cunningly drawing near to a trysting well.
"Coquette," he said suddenly, "do you know that lovers used to meet
here, and join their hands over the well, and swear they would marry each
other some day? Coquette, if you would only give me your hand now! I will
wait any time--I have waited already, Coquette."
"Oh, do not say any more. I will do anything for you, but not that--not
that." And then, a moment afterwards, she added: "Or see; I will promise to
marry you, if you like, after many, many years--only not now--not within a
few years."
"What is the matter, Coquette? Does it grieve you to think of what I
ask?"
"No, no!" she said, hurriedly, "it is right of you to ask it--and I--I
must say Yes. My uncle does expect it, does he not? And you yourself, Tom,
you have been very good to me, and if only this will make you happy I will
be your wife, but not until after many years."
"If you only knew how proud and happy you have made me!" exclaimed Tom,
gaily. "I call upon the leaves of the trees, and all the drops in the
river, and all the light in the air to bear witness that I have won
Coquette for my wife."
"Ah, you foolish boy!" she said sadly. "You have given me a dangerous
name. But no matter; if it pleases you to-day to think I shall be your
wife, I am glad."
III.--The Opening of the Gates
Coquette, who loved the sunshine as a drunkard loves drink, was seated
in the park in Glasgow, reading a book under her sunshade, when Lord
Earlshope walked up to the place where she sat.
"Ah, it is you! I do wish much to see you for a few moments," she said.
"First, I must tell you I have promised to my cousin to be his wife. I did
tell you I should do that; now it is done, and he is glad. And so, as I am
to be his wife, I do not think it is right I should see you any more."
"Coquette," he said, "have you resolved to make your life miserable?
What have you done?"
"I have done what I ought to do. My cousin is very good; he is very fond
of me; he will break his heart if I do not marry him. And I do like him
very well, too. Perhaps in some years it will be a pleasure to me to be his
wife."
"Coquette," he interrupted, "you do not blame me for being unable to
help you. I am going to tell you why I cannot. Many a time have I
determined to cell you."
"Ah, I know," she said. "You will tell me something you have done. I do
not wish to hear it. I have often seen you about to tell me a secret, and
sometimes I have wondered, too, and wished to know; but then I did think
there was enough trouble in the world without adding to it."
Someone came along the road, came as if to sit on the seat with them--a
woman with a coarse, red face and unsteady black eyes, full of mischievous
amusement.
Lord Earlshope rose and faced the stranger.
"You had better go home," he said to her. "I give you fair warning, you
had better go home."
"Why," said the woman, with a loud laugh. "You have not said as much to
me for six years back! My dear," she added, looking at Coquette, "I am
sorry to have disturbed you; but do you know who I am? I am Lady
Earlshope!"
"Coquette," said Earlshope, "that is my wife."
When the woman had walked away, laughing and kissing her hand in tipsy
fashion, Coquette came a step nearer, and held out her hand.
"I know it all now," she said, "and am very sorry for you. I do now know
the reason of many things, and I cannot be angry when we are going away
from each other. Good-bye. I will hear of you sometimes through Lady
Drum."
"Good-bye, Coquette," he said, "and God bless you for your gentleness,
and your sweetness, and your forgiveness."
It was to Lady Drum that Coquette made her confession that day.
"I do love him better than everything in the world--and I cannot help
it. And now he is gone, and I shall never see him again, and I would like
to see him only once to say I am sorry for him."
Coquette returned to Airlie, and tried to find peace in homely duties in
the village. As time went on the Whaup pressed for the marriage day to be
named, but he could not awake in her hopes for the future. Then, one dull
morning in March, as she walked by herself over the Moor, Lord Earlshope
was by her side, saying: "Coquette, have you forgotten nothing, as I have
forgotten nothing?" And she was saying: "I love you, dearest, more than
ever."
"Listen, Coquette, listen!" he said. "A ship passes here in the morning
for America; I have taken two berths in it for you and me; to-morrow we
shall be sailing away to a new world, and leaving all these troubles
behind. You remember that woman--nothing has been heard of her for two
years. I have sought her everywhere. She must be dead. And so we shall be
married when we get there. The yacht will be waiting off Saltcoats
to-night; you must go down by yourself, and the gig shall come for you, and
we shall intercept the ship."
A little while thereafter Coquette was on her way back to the Manse
alone. She had promised to go down to Saltcoats that night, and had sealed
her sin with a kiss.
It was a wild, strange night that she stole out of the house, leaving
behind her all the sweet consciousness of rectitude and the purity and
innocence which had enabled her to meet trials with a courageous
heart--leaving behind the crown of womanhood, the treasure of a stainless
name. Every moment the storm grew in intensity, till the rain-clouds were
blown upon the land in hissing torrents. At last, just as she saw before
her the lights of Saltcoats, she sank down by the roadside with a faint cry
of "Uncle! Uncle!"
When she came to herself, in a neighbour's house, a letter was given her
from Lord Earlshope, saying that he could not exact from her the sacrifice
he had proposed, and incur for both the penalty of remorse and misery; so
he would leave for America alone.
Even as she was reading the letter, the report reached Saltcoats that
the yacht had gone down in the storm, and Lord Earlshope was beyond the
reach of accusation and defence.
She married the Whaup, but was never again the old Coquette, and though
Tom tried hopefully to charm her back to cheerfulness, she faded month by
month. It was not till the end was drawing near that she was told of the
death of Lord Earlshope, and her last journey was to Saltcoats to see the
wild waste of waters that were his grave.
There came a night when she beckoned her husband to her and asked him in
a scarcely audible voice: "Tom, am I going to die?" And when in answer he
could only look at her sad eyes, she said: "I am not sorry. It will be
better for you and everyone; and you will not blame me because I could not
make your life more happy for you--it was all a misfortune, my coming to
this country."
"Coquette, Coquette," he said, beside himself with grief, "if you are
going to die, I will go with you, too--see, I will hold your hand, and when
the gates are open, I will not let you go--I will go with you,
Coquette."
Scarce half an hour afterwards the gates opened, and she silently passed
through, while a low cry broke from his lips: "So near--so near! And I
cannot go with her, too!"
Richard Doddridge Blackmore, one of the most famous English
novelists of the last generation, was born on June 9, 1825, at Longworth,
Berkshire, of which parish his father was vicar. Like John Ridd, the hero
of "Lorna Doone," he was educated at Blundell's School, Tiverton. An early
marriage with a beautiful Portuguese girl, and a long illness, forced him
to live for some years in hard and narrow circumstances. Happily, in 1860,
he came, unexpectedly, into a considerable fortune. Settling down at
Teddington, he divided his life between the delights of gardening and the
pleasures of literature; cultivating his vines, peaches, nectarines, pears,
and strawberries, and writing, first, sensational stories, and then
historical romances. In 1869, with his third attempt in fiction, "Lorna
Doone: A Romance of Exmoor," he suddenly became famous as a novelist, and
acted as the pioneer of the new romantic movement in fiction which R. L.
Stevenson and other brilliant writers afterwards carried on. Lorna Doone is
the most famous of his heroines, but in "Cradock Nowell," a fine tale of
the New Forest, in "Alice Lorraine," a story of the South Downs, and in
"The Maid of Sker," he has depicted womanly types equal in charm to Lorna.
He died at Teddington on January 20, 1900.
I.--An Adventure in Glen Doone
Two miles below our farm at Oare, the Bagworthy water runs into the
Lynn, but though I fished nearly every stream in our part of Exmoor in my
boyhood, it was a long time before I dared go those two miles. For the
water flowed out of Glen Doone, where the Doones had settled, and I had
good reason to be afraid of this wild band of outlaws. It was an unhappy
day for everybody on Exmoor when Sir Ensor Doone was outlawed by good King
Charles, and came with his tall sons and wild retainers to the Bagworthy
water.
This befell in 1640. At first, the newcomers were fairly quiet, and what
little sheep-stealing they did was overlooked. But in the troublous times
of the Great Rebellion they grew bolder and fiercer; they attacked men and
burnt farms and carried off women, and all Exmoor stood in fear and terror
of them. None of the Doones was under six feet, and there were forty and
more of them, and they were all true marksmen. The worst thing they did was
to murder my father, John Ridd, in the year 1673, when I was twelve years
of age.
That was why I was afraid to fish the Bagworthy water. But I spent a
good deal of time in learning to shoot straight with my father's gun; I
sent pretty well all the lead gutter round our little church into our best
barn door, a thing which has often repented me since, especially as
churchwarden. When, however, I was turned fourteen years old, and put into
small clothes, and worsted hosen knitted by my dear mother, I set out with
a loach-fork to explore the Bagworthy water. It was St. Valentine's day,
1676, as I well remember. After wading along Lynn stream, I turned into the
still more icy-cold current of Bagworthy water, where I speared an
abundance of loaches. I was stopped at last by a great black whirlpool,
into which a slide of water came thundering a hundred yards down a cliff.
My bare legs were weak and numbed with cold, and twilight was falling in
the wild, narrow glen. So I was inclined to turn back. But then I said to
myself: "John Ridd, the place is making a coward of thee."
With that, I girt up my breeches anew, and slung the fish tighter round
my neck, and began to climb up through the water-slide. The green wave came
down on me and my feet gave way, but I held with my loach-fork to a rock,
and got my footing. How I got up, I cannot remember, but I fainted on
reaching the top of the cliff.
When I came to, a little girl was kneeling by me, and rubbing my
forehead tenderly with a dock-leaf.
"Oh, I am glad!" she said. "Now you will try to be better, won't
you?"
I had never heard so sweet a sound as came from her red lips; neither
had I ever seen anything so beautiful as the large, dark eyes intent upon
me, in pity and wonder. Her long black hair fell on the grass, and among
it--like an early star--was the first primrose of the year. And since that
day, I think of her whenever I see an early primrose.
"How you are looking at me!" I said. "I have never seen anyone like you
before. My name is John Ridd. What is your name?"
"My name is Lorna Doone," she replied, in a low voice, and hanging her
head.
Young and harmless as she was, her name made guilt of her. Yet I could
not help looking at her tenderly. And when she began to cry, what did I do
but kiss her. This made her angry, but we soon became friends again, and
fell to talking about ourselves. Suddenly a shout rang through the valley,
and Lorna trembled, and put her cheek close to mine.
"Oh, they will find us together and kill us," she said.
"Come with me," I whispered. "I can carry you down the waterfall."
"No, no!" she cried, as I took her up. "You see that hole in the rock
there? There is a way out from the top of it."
I hid myself just in time, and a dozen tall, fierce-looking men found
Lorna seemingly lying asleep on the grass. One of them took her tenderly in
his arms and carried her away. I then waited until it was full dark, and
crept to the hole that Lorna had pointed out.
The fright I had taken that night satisfied me for a long time
thereafter; not that I did not think of Lorna and wish very often to see
her. But I was only a boy, and inclined, therefore, to despise young girls.
Besides, our farm of five hundred acres was the largest in Oare, and I had
to work very hard on it. But the work did me good; I grew four inches
longer every year, and two inches wider, until there was no man of my size
to be seen elsewhere upon Exmoor, and I also won the belt of the
championship for wrestling in the West Counties.
II.--John Ridd Goes A-Wooing
Seven years went by before I climbed up Glen Doone again. The occasion
was a strange one. My uncle, Ben Huckaback, was robbed by the Doones on his
way to our farm, and he was mighty vexed with their doings. This time the
outlaws met their match, for Uncle Ben was one of the richest men in the
West Counties, and, moreover, he was well acquainted with the most powerful
and terrible man in England. I mean the famous Lord Chief Justice
Jeffreys.
"I am going to London, my boy," he said to me, "to get these scoundrel
Doones shot or hanged. I want you, while I am gone, to go to the place
where they live, and see how the troops I shall bring can best attack
them."
This put other thoughts in my head. I waited till St. Valentine's day,
and then I dressed myself in my best clothes, and went up the Bagworthy
water. The stream, which once had taken my knees, now came only to my
ankles, and with no great difficulty I climbed to the top of the cliff.
Here I beheld the loveliest sight, one glimpse of which was enough to make
me kneel in the coldest water. Lorna was coming singing towards me! I could
not see what her face was, my heart so awoke and trembled; only that her
hair was flowing from a wreath of white violets. She turned to fly,
frightened, perhaps, at my great size; but I fell on the grass, as I had
fallen seven years agone that day, and just said: "Lorna Doone!"
"Master Ridd, are you mad," she said. "The patrol will be here
presently."
She led me, with many timid glances, to the hole in the rock which she
had shown me before; by the right of this was a crevice, hung with green
ivy, which opened into a mossy cave about twenty feet across.
"We shall be safe from interruption here," said Lorna, "for I begged Sir
Ensor that this place might be looked on as my bower."
I had much ado, however, to get through the crevice, and, instead of
being proud of my size, as it seemed to me she ought to be, Lorna laughed
at me. Thereupon it went hard with me not to kiss her, only it smote me
that this would be a low advantage of her trust and helplessness. She
seemed to know what I would be at, and she liked me for my forbearance,
because she was not in love with me yet. As we sat in her bower, she talked
about her dear self, and her talk was sad.
"Ah, Master Ridd," she said, "you have a mother who loves you, and
sisters, and a quiet home. You do not know what loneliness is. I get so
full of anger at the violence and wickedness around me that I dare not give
way to speech. It is scarcely a twelvemonth since my cousin, Lord Alan
Brandir, came from London and tried to rescue me. Carver Doone killed him
before my eyes. Ah, you know Carver!"
Ay, I did. It was he who slew my father. I would not tell Lorna this,
but in my slow way I began, to look forward to meeting Carver Doone, not
for my father's sake--I had forgiven that--but for Lorna's. I boded some
harm to her, and before I left I arranged that if she were ever in need of
help she should hang a black mantle on a stone that I could see from a
neighbouring hill.
When I got home, I found a king's messenger waiting for me, and, to the
alarm of my dear mother and my sisters, I was taken to London to be
examined by Chief Justice Jeffreys touching the Doone. He was a
fierce-looking man, with a bull-head, but he used me kindly--maybe for
Uncle Ben's sake--and I got back to Exmoor, none the worse for my journey
to the great city of London. But I lost all delight in my homecoming when I
went to the hill overlooking Glen Doone, and saw that the stone was covered
with a mantle. Off I set to climb the cliff above the Bagworthy water, and
there I found Lorna in a sad state of mind.
"Oh, John," she said, "Carver Doone is trying to force me to marry him.
Where have you been? Tis two months since I gave the signal."
Thereupon I told her of my travels to London, and when she learnt that
my seeming negligence of her was nothing but my wretched absence far away,
the tears fell from her eyes, and she came and sat so close beside me that
I trembled like a folded sheep at the bleating of her lamb.
"Dearest darling of my life!" I whispered through her clouds of hair, "I
love you more than heart can hold in silence! I have waited long and long,
and, though I am so far below you, I can wait no longer!"
"You have been very faithful, John," she murmured to the fern and moss.
"You are the bravest and the kindest and the simplest of all men, and I
like you very much."
"That will not do for me!" I said. "I will not have liking! I must have
your heart of hearts, even as you have mine, Lorna!"
She glanced up shyly through her fluttering lashes. Then she opened wide
upon me all the glorious depth and softness of her eyes, and flung both
arms around my neck.
"Darling," she cried, "you have won it all! I shall never be my own
again. I am yours for ever and ever!"
I am sure I know not what I did or said thereafter, being overcome with
transport by her words and her eyes.
"Hush!" said Lorna suddenly, drawing me away from the entrance to her
bower. "Here is Carver Doone!"
A great man was coming leisurely down the valley, and the light was
still good enough for me to descry his features through the ivy screen.
Though I am not a good judge of men's faces, there was something in his
which gave me a feeling of horror. Not that it was an ugly face; nay,
rather; it seemed a handsome one, full of strength and vigour and
resolution; but there was a cruel hankering in his steel-blue eyes. Yet, he
did not daunt me. Here, I saw, was a man of strength yet for me to
encounter, such as I had never met, but would be glad to meet, having found
no man of late who needed not my mercy at wrestling or singlestick. My
heart was hot against him. And, though he carried a carbine, I would have
been at him, maybe ere he could use it, but for the presence of Lorna. So I
crouched down until Carver Doone departed, and then, because she feared for
my safety, I returned home.
III.--Love Amid the Snows
I found the king's messenger waiting again for me. He was a small, but
keen-witted man called Jeremy Stickler, and I liked his company. He now
came upon a graver business than conducting me to London. He held a royal
commission to raise the train-bands of Somerset and Devon, and he brought a
few troops with him, and made our farm his headquarters. He had been sent
in hot haste by Chief Justice Jeffreys to destroy the Doones who were
likely now to pay dearly for robbing my Uncle Ben. I was not, however, as
pleased with the arrival of Jeremy Stickler as he expected, for I bethought
myself how Lorna would fare in the wild fighting.
The next evening, I went to her bower to tell her of the matter, but she
was not there. Then the snow began to fall, and still I clambered up the
cliff, and waited at the end of the valley every hour of the day and far
into the night. But no light footstep came to meet me, and no sweet voice
was in the air. At last I resolved upon a desperate and difficult
enterprise, for I was well-nigh mad with anxiety. I would go to Lorna's
house, and find out at all costs what had befallen her. But though I knew
fairly well where her house was in Doone village, I was perplexed how to
get there. I could not even get to her bower; for in the night a great
snow-storm broke over the country--the worst since 1625. Our farm was
drifted up, and in some places the snow was thirty and fifty feet deep.
Travel of any sort seemed impossible. But my elder sister, Lizzie, whom I
looked down on because she was always reading books instead of helping my
mother as Annie did, came to my help. She had a wonderful lot of book
learning--much more than I ever got, though father had sent me to the
famous grammar school at Tiverton founded by Master Blundell. She now
showed me how to make some strange contrivances called snowshoes, which men
use in very cold countries. Having learnt how to glide about in them, I set
off to find Lorna.
By good fortune, when I got to Glen Doone, where the waterfall had
frozen into rough steps, easy to climb, the snow came on again, thick
enough to blind a man who had not spent his time among it as I had for days
and days. The weather drove all the Doones indoors, and I found Lorna's
house almost drifted up like our farm, but got at last to the door and
knocked. I was not sure but that the answer might not be the mouth of a
carbine; but Gwenny Carfax, a little Cornish maid attached to my Lorna,
opened it, and said when she saw me:
"Master Ridd! I wish you was good to eat. Us be shut in here and
starving."
The look of wolfish hunger in her eyes frightened me, and I strode in
and found Lorna fainting for want of food. Happily, I had a good loaf of
bread and a large mince pie, which I had brought in case I had to bide out
all night. When Lorna and her maid had eaten these, I heard the tale of
their sufferings. Sir Ensor Doone was dead, and Carver Doone was now the
leader; and he was trying to starve Lorna into agreeing to marry him.
"If I warrant to bring you safe and sound to our farm, Lorna, will you
come with me?" I said.
"To be sure I will, dear," said my darling. "I must either starve or go
with you, John."
Our plans were soon made. I went home with the utmost speed, and got out
our light pony-sled and dragged it to the top of the waterfall near my
darling's bower. It was well I returned quickly. When I entered Lorna's
house I saw, by the moonlight flowing in, a sight which drove me beyond
sense. Lorna was crouching behind a chair in utter terror, and a drunken
Doone was trying to draw the chair away. I bore him out of the house as
lightly as I would a baby, but I squeezed his throat a little more than I
would an infant's; then I pitched him into a snow-drift, and he did not
move.
It was no time to linger. I ran with Lorna in my arms to the sled, and
Gwenny followed. Then, with my staff from rock to rock, I broke the sled's
too rapid way down the frozen waterfall, and brought my darling safely out
of Glen Doone by the selfsame path which first led me up to her. In an
hour's time she was under my roof, and my dear mother and my sisters were
tending her and Gwenny, for they both were utterly worn out by their cruel
privations.
IV.--A Night of Fire and Blood
It gave me no little pleasure to think how mad Carver Doone must be with
me for robbing him of the lovely bride whom he was trying to starve into
marriage. However, I was not pleased with the prospect of the consequences;
but set all hands to work to prepare for the attack on the farm which I saw
would follow when the paths were practicable. By the time the rain fell and
cleared the snow away, I had everything ready. The outlaws waited till the
moon was risen, as it was dangerous to cross the flooded valley in the
darkness, and then they rode into our farmyard as coolly as if they had
been invited. Jeremy Stickler and his troopers were waiting in the shadow
of the house, and I stood with a club and a gun in the mow-yard, for I knew
the Doones would begin by firing our ricks.
"Two of you go"--it was the deep voice of Carver Doone--"and make us a
light to cut their throats by."
As he spoke I set my gun against his breast. Yet--will you believe
me?--I could not pull the trigger. Would to God I had done so! But I had
never taken human life. I dropped my carbine, and grasped my club, which
seemed a more straightforward implement. With this I struck down the first
man that put a torch to the rick, and broke the collar-bone of the second.
Then a blaze of light came from the house, and two of the Doones fell under
the fire of the troopers, and the rest hung back. They were not used to
this kind of reception from farmers; they thought it neither kind nor
courteous. Unable any longer to contain myself, I came across the yard. But
no one shot at me; and I went up to Carver Doone and took him by the beard,
and said: "Do you call yourself a man?"
He was so astonished that he could not speak. He saw he had met his
equal, or perhaps his master. He held a pistol at me; but I was too quick
for him, and I laid him flat upon his back.
"Now, Carver Doone, take warning," I said to him. "You have shown
yourself a fool by your contempt of me. I may not be your match in craft;
but I am in manhood. Lay low there in your native muck."
Seeing him down, the others broke and ran, but one had a shot at me. And
while I was feeling my wound--which was nothing much--Carver arose and
strode away with a train of curses.
But he had his revenge in a short time. Jeremy Stickler brought up two
train-bands to storm Glen Doone, and they were beaten off with considerable
loss. Then I took the matter up, just when the Doones were emboldened by
their victory to commit fresh crimes; or rather, the leadership was thrust
upon me. Carver Doone and one of his men entered the house of Kit Badcock,
one of my neighbours, and killed his baby and carried off his wife. Kit
wandered about half crazy, and the people came flocking about me, and asked
me to lead them against the Doones. I resolved on a night-assault, and
divided the men into two parties. The Doone-gate was, I knew, impregnable,
and it was there that the train-bands had failed. I pretended to attack it,
but led my best fighters up the waterfall. The earliest notice the Doones
had of our presence was the blazing of the logwood house where lived that
villain Carver.
By the time they came from Doone-gate all the village was burning, and
as soon as they got into easy distance we shot them down in the light of
the flaming houses. I did not fire. I cared to meet none but Carver, and he
did not appear. He was the only Doone that escaped. Every man I had with me
had some wrong to avenge; some had lost their wives, others their
daughters; the more fortunate had had all their sheep and cattle carried
off, and every man avenged his wrong. I was vexed at the escape of Carver.
It was no light thing to have a man of such power and resource and
desperation left at large and furious. When he saw all the houses in the
valley flaming with a handsome blaze, and throwing a fine light around,
such as he had often revelled in when he was the attacker, he turned his
great black horse, and spurred it through Doone-gate, and he passed into
the darkness before the yeomen I had posted there could bring him down.
V.--The Duel at Wizard's Slough
The only thing which pleased me was that Lorna was taken to London
before I led the assault on Glen Doone. Jeremy Stickler, a man with much
knowledge of the law, discovered that she was a great heiress, and that her
true title was Lady Lorna Dugal. She was related to the Doones, and they
had carried her off when a little child, and on her all the ambition of Sir
Ensor Doone had turned. The marriage he designed between her and Carver
would have brought the outlaws the wealth necessary to retrieve their
fortunes and recover their position in the world. This strange news
explained many things in their conduct towards Lorna, but it made me feel
rather sad. For it seemed to me that there was too great a difference
between John Ridd, the yeoman farmer, and Lady Lorna, the heiress of the
Earl of Lome. Besides, she was now a ward of chancery, under the care of
the great Lord Jeffreys, and I much doubted if he would consent to our
marriage, even if she still remembered me amid the courtly splendour in
which she moved. Judge then of my joy when Lorna returned in the spring to
our farm, as glad as a bird to get back to its nest.
"Oh, I love it all," she said. "The scent of the gorse on the moors
drove me wild, and the primroses under the hedges. I am sure I was meant to
be a farmer's wife."
This, with a tender, playful look at me. Then she told the good news.
Lord Jeffreys had, for a certain round sum, given his ward permission to
marry me. There was a great to-do throughout the country about our wedding
on Whit-Monday. People came from more than thirty miles around, upon excuse
of seeing Lorna's beauty and my stature; but in good truth out of curiosity
and a love of meddling.
It is impossible for any, who have not loved as I have, to conceive my
joy and pride when, after the ring and all was done, and the parson had
blessed us, she turned and gazed on me. Her eyes were so full of faith and
devotion that I was amazed, thoroughly as I knew them. But when I stooped
to kiss her, as the bridegroom is allowed to do, a shot rang through the
church. My darling fell across my knees, and her blood flowed out on the
altarsteps. She sighed a long sigh to my breast, and grew cold. I laid her
in my mother's arms, and went forth for my revenge.
The men fell back before me. Who showed me the course, I cannot tell. I
only know that I leaped upon a horse and took it. Weapon of no sort had I.
Unarmed, and wondering at my strange attire, I rode out to discover this:
whether in this world there be or be not a God of justice. Putting my horse
at a furious speed, I came upon Black Burrow Down, and there, a furlong
before me, rode a man on a great black horse. I knew that man was Carver
Doone, bearing his child, little Ensie, before him. I knew he was strong. I
knew he was armed with gun, pistol, and sword. Nevertheless, I had no more
doubt of killing him than a cook has of spitting a headless fowl.
I came up with him at Wizard's Slough. A bullet struck me somewhere, but
I took no heed of that. With an oak stick I felled his horse. Carver Doone
lay on the ground, stunned. Leaping from my steed, I waited, and bared my
arms as if in the ring for wrestling. Then the boy ran towards me, clasped
my leg, and looked up at me.
"Ensie, dear," I said, "run and try to find a bunch of bluebells for the
pretty lady."
Presently Carver Doone gathered together his mighty limbs, and I closed
with him. He caught me round the waist with such a grip as had never been
laid upon me. I heard a rib go where the bullet had broken it. But God was
with me that day. I grasped Carver Doone's arm, and tore the muscle out of
it; then I had him by the throat, and I left him sinking, joint by joint,
into the black bog.
I returned to the farm in a dream, and only the thought of Lorna's
death, like a heavy knell, was tolling in the belfry of my brain. Into the
old farmhouse I tottered, like a weakling child, with mother helping me
along, yet fearing, except by stealth, to look at me.
"I have killed him," was all I said, "even as he killed Lorna."
"Lorna is still living, John," said my mother, very softly.
"Is there any chance for her?" I cried, awaking out of my dream. "For
me, I mean; for me?"
Well, my darling is sitting by me now as I write, and I am now Sir John
Ridd, if you please. Year by year, Lorna's beauty grows, with the growth of
goodness, kindness, and true happiness--above all, with loving. For change,
she makes a joke of this, and plays with it, and laughs at it. Then, when
my slow nature marvels, back she comes to the earnest thing. If I wish to
pay her out--as may happen once or twice, when we become too galdsome--I
bring her to sadness, and to me for the cure of it, by the two words,
"Lorna Doone."
Or Ten Days' Entertainment
Giovanni Boccaccio, the father of Italian prose literature,
was born in 1313, probably at Certaldo, a small town about twenty miles
from Florence, where he was brought up. In 1341 he fell in love with the
daughter of King Robert of Naples, and the lady, whom he made famous under
the name of Fiammetta, seems to have loved him in return. It was for her
amusement, and for the amusement of the Queen of Naples, that he composed
many of the stories in "The Decameron." He returned to Florence in 1350,
after the great plague, which he has described in so vivid a manner in the
opening chapter of his great work, had abated; and three years afterwards
he published "The Decameron," the title being derived from the Greek words
signifying "ten days." This collection of a hundred stories is certainly
one of the world's great books. Many English writers of the first order
have gone to it for inspiration. Boccaccio's friend, Petrarch, was so
delighted with the tale of Griselda, with which the work concludes, that he
learnt it off by heart. Chaucer developed it into the finest of all his
stories. Dryden, Keats, and Tennyson have also been inspired by Boccaccio;
while Lessing has made the Italian story-teller's allegory of "The Three
Rings" the jeweled point on which turns his masterly play. "Nathan the
Wise" (see Vol. XVII). Boccaccio, after filling many high posts at
Florence, retired to Certaldo, where he died on December 21, 1375.
The Seven Beautiful Maidens
In the year of our Lord 1348 a terrible plague broke out in Florence,
which, from being the finest city in Italy, became the most desolate. It
was a strange malady that no drugs could cure; and it was communicated, not
merely by conversing with those strickened by the pestilence, but even by
touching their clothes, or anything they had worn. As soon as the purple
spots, which were the sign of the disease, appeared on the body, death was
certain to ensue within three days.
So great were the terror and disorder and distress, that all laws, human
and divine, were disregarded. Everybody in Florence did just as he pleased.
The wilder sort broke into the houses of rich persons, and gave themselves
over to riotous living, exclaiming that, since it was impossible to avoid
dying from the plague, they would at least die merrily. Others shut
themselves up from the rest of the world, and lived on spare diet, and many
thousands fled from their houses into the open country, leaving behind them
all their goods and wealth, and all their relatives and friends. Brother
fled from brother, wife from husband, and, what was more cruel, even
parents forsook their own children. It was perilous to walk the streets,
for they were strewn with the bodies of plague-strickened wretches, and I
have seen with my own eyes the very dogs perish that touched their
rags.
Between March and July a hundred thousand persons died in Florence,
though, before the calamity, the city was not supposed to have contained so
many inhabitants. But I am weary of recounting out late miseries, and,
passing by everything that I can well omit, I shall only observe that, when
the city was almost depopulated, seven beautiful young ladies, in deep
mourning, met one Tuesday evening in Saint Mary's Church, where indeed they
composed the whole of the congregation. They were all related to each
other, either by the ties of birth, or by the more generous bonds of
friendship. Pampinea, the eldest, was twenty-eight years of age; Fiammetta
was a little younger; Filomena, Emilia, Lauretta, and Neifile were still
more youthful; and Elisa was only eighteen years old.
After the service was over, they got into a corner of the church, and
began to devise what they should do, for they were now alone in the
world.
"I would advise," said Pampinea, "that we should leave Florence, for the
city is now dangerous to live in, not merely by reason of the plague, but
because of the lawless men that prowl about the streets and break into our
houses. Let us retire together into the country, where the air is
pleasanter, and the green hills and the waving corn-fields afford a much
more agreeable prospect than these desolate walls."
"I doubt," said Filomena, "if we could do this unless we got some man to
help us."
"But how can we?" exclaimed Elisa. "Nearly all the men of our circle are
dead, and the rest have gone away."
While they were talking, three handsome young cavaliers--Pamfilo,
Filostrato, and Dioneo--came into the church, looking for their
sweethearts, who by chance were Neifile, Pampinea, and Filomena.
"See," said Pampinea with a smile, "fortune is on our side. She has
thrown in our way three worthy gentlemen, who, I am sure, will come with us
if we care to invite them."
She then acquainted the cavaliers with her design, and begged them to
help her to carry it out. At first they took it all for a jest; but when
they found that the ladies were in earnest, they made arrangements to
accompany them. So the next morning, at the break of day, the ladies and
their maids, and the cavaliers and their men-servants, set out from
Florence, and after travelling for two miles they came to the appointed
place. It was a little wooded hill, remote from the highway, on the top of
which was a stately palace with a beautiful court, and fine galleries, and
splendid rooms adorned with excellent paintings. And around it were fair
green meadows, a delightful garden, fountains of water, and pleasant
trees.
Finding that everything in the palace had been set in order for their
reception, the ladies and their cavaliers took a walk in the garden, and
diverted themselves by singing love-songs, and weaving garlands of flowers.
At three o'clock, dinner was laid in the banqueting hall, and when this was
over, Dioneo took a lute and Fiammetta a viol, and played a merry air,
while the rest of the company danced to the music. When the dance was
ended, they began to sing, and so continued dancing and singing until
nightfall. The cavaliers then retired to their chambers, and the ladies to
theirs, after arranging that Pampinea should be the queen of their company
for the following day, and direct all their feasts and amusements.
The next morning Queen Pampinea called them all up at nine o'clock,
saying it was unwholesome to sleep in the daytime, and led them into a
meadow of deep grass shadowed by tall trees.
"As the sun is high and hot," she continued, "and nothing is to be heard
but the chirping of grasshoppers among the olives, it would be folly to
think of walking. So let us sit down in a circle and tell stories. By the
time the tales have gone round, the heat of the sun will have abated, and
we can then divert ourselves as best we like. Now, Pamfilo," she said,
turning to the cavalier on her right hand, "pray begin."
Cymon and Iphigenia: A Tale of Love
Of all the stories that have come into my mind, said Pamfilo, there is
one which I am sure you will all like, for it shows how strange and
wonderful is the power of love. Some time ago, there lived in the island of
Cyprus a man of great rank and wealth, called Aristippus, who was very
unhappy because his son Cymon, though very tall and handsome, was feeble in
intellect. Finding that the most skilful teacher could not beat the least
spark of knowledge into the head of his son, Aristippus made Cymon live out
of his sight, among the slaves in his country-house.
There Cymon used to drudge like one of the slaves, whom, indeed, he
resembled in the harshness of his voice and the uncouthness of his manners.
But one day as he was tramping round the farm, with his staff upon his
shoulder, he came upon a beautiful maiden sleeping in the deep grass of a
meadow, with two women and a manservant slumbering at her feet. Cymon had
never seen the face of a woman before, and, leaning upon his staff, he
gazed in blank wonder at the lovely girl, and strange thoughts and feelings
began to work within him. After watching her for a long time, he saw her
eyes slowly open, and there was a sweetness about them that filled him with
joy.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she said. "Please go away. You
frighten me!"
"I will not go away," he answered; "I cannot!"
And though she was afraid of him, he would not leave her until he had
led her to her own house. He then went to his father and said he wanted to
live like a gentleman, and not like a slave. His father was surprised to
find that his voice had grown soft and musical, and his manners winning and
courteous. So he dressed him in clothes suitable to his high station, and
let him go to school. Four years after he had fallen in love, Cymon became
the most accomplished young gentleman in Cyprus. He then went to the father
of Iphigenia, for such was her name, and asked for her in marriage. But her
father replied that she was already promised to Pasimondas, a young
nobleman of Rhodes, and that their nuptials were about to be
celebrated.
"O Iphigenia," said Cymon to himself, on hearing the unhappy news, "it
is now time for me to show you how I love you! Love for you has made a man
of me, and marriage with you would make me as happy and as glorious as a
god! Have you I will, or else I will die!"
He at once prevailed upon some young noblemen, who were his friends, to
help him in fitting out a ship of war. With this he waylaid the vessel in
which Iphigenia embarked for Rhodes. Throwing a grappling iron upon this
ship, Cymon drew it close to his own. Then, without waiting for anyone to
second him, he jumped among his enemies, and drove them like sheep before
him, till they threw down their arms.
"I have not come to plunder you," said Cymon, "but to win the noble
maiden, Iphigenia, whom I love more than aught else in the world. Resign
her to me, and I will do you no harm!"
Iphigenia came to him all in tears.
"Do not weep, my sweet lady," he said to her tenderly. "I am your Cymon,
and my long and constant love is worth more than all Pasimondas's
promises."
She smiled at him through her tears, and he led her on board his ship,
and sailed away to Crete, where he and his friends had relations and
acquaintances. But in the night a violent tempest arose, and blotted out
all the stars of heaven, and whirled the ship about, and drove it into a
little bay upon the island of Rhodes, a bow-shot from the place where the
Rhodian ship had just arrived.
Before they could put out to sea again, Pasimondas came with an armed
host and took Cymon a prisoner, and led him to the chief magistrate of the
Rhodians for that year, Lysimachus, who sentenced him and his friends to
perpetual imprisonment, on the charge of piracy and abduction.
While Cymon was languishing in prison, with no hope of ever obtaining
his liberty, Pasimondas prepared for his nuptials with Iphigenia. Now
Pasimondas had a younger brother called Hormisdas, who wanted to marry a
beautiful lady, Cassandra, with whom the chief magistrate Lysimachus was
also in love. Pasimondas thought it would save a good deal of trouble and
expense if he and his brother were to marry at the same time. So he
arranged that this should be done. Thereupon Lysimachus was greatly
angered. After a long debate with himself, honour gave way to love, and he
resolved at all hazards to carry off Cassandra.
But whom should he get as companions in this wild enterprise? He at once
thought of Cymon and his friends, and he fetched them out of prison and
armed them, and concealed them in his house. On the wedding-day he divided
them into three parties. One went down to the shore and secured a ship; one
watched at the gate of Pasimondas's house; and the third party, headed by
Cymon and Lysimachus, rushed with drawn swords into the bridal chamber and
killed the two bridegrooms, and bore the tearful but by no means unwilling
brides to the ship, and sailed joyfully away for Crete.
There they espoused their ladies, amidst the congratulations of their
relatives and friends; and though, by reason of their actions, a great
quarrel ensued between the two islands of Cyprus and Rhodes, everything was
at last amicably adjusted. Cymon then returned with Iphigenia to Cyprus,
and Lysimachus carried Cassandra back to Rhodes, and all of them lived very
happily to the end of their days.
Gisippus and Titus: A Tale of Friendship
As Pamfilo has told us so excellent a tale about the force of love, said
Filomena, I will now relate a story showing the great power of
friendship.
At the time when Octavius Cæsar, who afterwards became the Emperor
Augustus, was governing Rome as a triumvir, a young Roman gentleman, Titus
Quintius Fulvus, went to Athens to study philosophy. There he became
acquainted with a noble young Athenian named Gisippus, and a brotherly
affection sprang up between them, and for three years they studied together
and lived under the same roof.
In the meantime, Gisippus fell in love with a young and beautiful
Athenian maiden named Sophronia, and a marriage was arranged between them.
Some days before the marriage, Gisippus took his friend with him on a visit
to his lady. It was the first time that Titus had seen Sophronia, and as he
looked upon her beauty he grew as much enamoured as ever a man in the world
was with a woman. So great was his passion that he could neither eat nor
sleep, and he grew so sick that at last he was unable to rise from his bed.
Gisippus was extremely grieved at his illness, and knowing that it must
have been caused by some secret malady of the mind, he pressed him to
reveal the cause of his grief. At length Titus, unable to restrain himself
any longer, said, with his face streaming with tears:
"O Gisippus, I am unworthy of the name of friend! I have fallen in love
with Sophronia, and it is killing me. How base I am! But pardon me, my dear
friend, for I feel that I shall soon be punished for my disloyalty by
death!"
Gisippus stood for some time in suspense by the bed side of Titus,
divided between the claims of love and the claims of friendship. But at
last he resolved to save his friend's life at the cost of his own
happiness. Some days afterwards, Sophronia was brought to his house for the
bridal ceremony to be consummated. Going softly into the bridal chamber
where the bride was lying, he put out the candles, and then went silently
to Titus, and told him that he might be the bridegroom. Titus was so
overcome with shame that he refused to go; but Gisippus so passionately
entreated him, that at last he consented. Going into the dark bridal
chamber, he softly asked Sophronia if she would be his wife. She, thinking
it was Gisippus, replied, "Yes." Then, taking a ring of value, and putting
it upon her finger, Titus said: "And I will be your husband."
In the morning, Sophronia discovered the trick that had been put upon
her. Stealing out of the house, she went to her father and mother, and told
them that Gisippus had deceived her, and married her to Titus. Great was
the resentment against Gisippus throughout Athens, for Sophronia came of a
very ancient and noble family.
But seeing that what had been done could not be undone, the parents of
the bride at last allowed Titus to lead her to Rome, where the scandal
would not be known. But when Titus was gone, they resolved to take
vengeance upon Gisippus. A powerful party was formed against him, who
succeeded in getting him stripped of all his possessions, driven from
Athens, and condemned to perpetual exile.
Friendless and beggared, Gisippus slowly travelled on foot to Rome,
intending to ask Titus to help him. He found that his friend was now a rich
and powerful man, enjoying the favour of the young Prince Octavius, and
living in a splendid palace. Gisippus did not dare to enter it, as his
clothes were now worn to rags, so he stood humbly by the gate like a
beggar, hoping that his friend would recognise him and speak to him. But
Titus came out in a hurry, and never even stopped to look at him; and
Gisippus, thinking that he was now despised, went away confounded with
grief and despair.
Wandering at random about the streets, he came at nightfall to a cavern
where thieves were wont to gather, and laid down on the hard ground and
wept himself to sleep. While he was sleeping, two thieves entered with
their booty and began to quarrel about it, whereupon one killed the other
and fled. In the morning some watchmen found Gisippus sleeping beside the
dead body, and arrested him.
"Yes, I killed him," said Gisippus, who was now resolved to die, and
thought that this would be a better way than taking his own life.
Thereupon, the judge sentenced him to be crucified, which was the usual
manner of death in these cases. By a strange chance, however, Titus came
into the hall to defend a poor client. He instantly recognised Gisippus,
and, wondering greatly at the sad change of his fortune, he determined at
all costs to save him. But the case had gone so far that there was only one
way of doing this. And Titus took it. Stepping resolutely up to the judge,
he greatly astonished everyone by exclaiming:
"Recall thy sentence. This person is innocent; I killed the man!"
Gisippus turned round in astonishment, and seeing Titus, he concluded
that he was trying to save him for friendship's sake. But he was determined
that he would not accept the sacrifice.
"Do not believe him, sir. I was the murderer. Let the punishment fall on
me," he said to the judge.
The judge was amazed to see two men contending for the torture of
crucifixion with as much eagerness as if it had been the highest honour in
the world; and suddenly a notorious thief, who had been standing in the
court, came forward and made this surprising declaration:
"This strange debate has so moved me that I will confess everything," he
said. "You cannot believe, sir, that either of these men committed the
murder. What should a man of the rank and wealth of Titus have to do in a
thieves' cavern? He was never there. But this poor, ragged stranger was
sleeping in a corner when I and my fellow entered. Thieves, you know,
sometimes fall out, especially over their booty. This was what happened
last night; and, to put an end to the quarrel, I used a knife."
The appearance of a third self-accuser so perplexed the judge that he
put the case before Octavius Cæsar, and Cæsar called the three
men up before him. Thereupon Titus and Gisippus related to him at length
the strange story of their friendship, and he set the two friends at
liberty, and even pardoned the thief for their sakes.
Titus then took Gisippus to his house and forced him to accept a half of
his great wealth, and married him to his sister Fulvia, a very charming and
lovely young noblewoman.
For the rest of their lives Titus and Sophronia, and Gisippus and
Fulvia, lived very happily together in the same palace in Rome, and every
day added something to their contentment and felicity.
The Three Rings: A Tale of Ingenuity
It was now Neifile's turn to tell a story, and she said that as there
had been much controversy at Florence during the plague concerning
religion, this had put her in mind of the tale of Melchizedeck.
This man was a very rich Jew, who lived at Alexandria in the reign of
great Sultan Saladin. Saladin, being much impoverished by his wars, had a
mind to rob Melchizedeck. In order to get a pretext for plundering the Jew,
he sent for him.
"I hear that thou art very wise in religious matters," said Saladin,
"and I wish to know which religion thou judgest to be the true one--the
Jewish, the Mohammedan, or the Christian?"
The Jew saw that Saladin wanted to trap him. If he said that the Jewish
or the Christian faith was the true one, he would be condemned as an
infidel. If, on the other hand, he agreed that the Mohammedan religion was
preferable to the others, the sultan would say that a wealthy believer
ought to contribute largely to the expenses of the state. After considering
how best to avoid the snare, the wise Jew replied:
"Some time ago, your majesty, there was a man who had a ring of great
beauty and value. And he declared in his will that the son to whom this
ring was bequeathed should be the head of the family, and that his
descendants should rule over the descendants of the other sons. For many
generations his wishes were carried out; but at last the ring came into the
possession of a man who had three sons, all virtuous and dutiful to their
father, and equally beloved by him.
"Being at a loss which son to prefer above the others, the good man got
a skilful craftsman to make two rings, which were so like the first that he
himself scarcely knew the true one. On his deathbed he gave one of these
rings privately to each of his sons. Each of them afterwards laid claim to
the government of the family, and produced the ring which his father had
given him. But the rings were so much alike that it was impossible to tell
which was the true one, and even to this day no one has been able to decide
upon the matter. Thus has it happened, sire, in regard to the three laws of
faith derived from God--Jew, Mohammedan, and Christian. Each believes that
he is the true heir of the Almighty; but it is just as uncertain which has
received the true law as it is which has received the true ring."
Saladin was mightily pleased at the ingenious way in which Melchizedeck
escaped from the snare that had been spread for him. Instead of taking by
force the money that he wanted from the Jew, he desired him to advance it
on loan. This Melchizedeck did, and Saladin soon afterwards repaid the
money and gave him presents, besides maintaining him nobly at court and
making him his life-long friend.
For some days the ladies and cavaliers entertained one another with
dancing and singing and story-telling. And then, as the plague had abated
in Florence, they returned to the city. But before they went Dioneo told
them a very strange and moving tale.
Griselda: A Tale of Wifely Patience
Men, said Dioneo, are wont to charge women with fickleness and
inconstancy; but there comes into my mind a story of a woman's constancy
and a man's cruelty which, I think you will agree, is worth the telling.
Gualtieri, the young Marquis of Saluzzo, was a man who did not believe that
any woman could be true and constant all her life. And for this reason he
would not marry, but spent his whole time in hawking and hunting. His
subjects, however, did not want him to die without an heir, and leave them
without a lord, and they were always pressing him to marry. They went so
far at last as to offer to provide a lady for him. This made him very
angry.
"If I want a wife, my friends," he said, "I will choose one myself. And,
look you, whatever her birth and upbringing are, pay her the respect due to
her as my lady, or you shall know to your cost how grievous it is to me to
have taken a wife when I did not want one."
A few days afterwards he was riding through a village, not far from his
palace, when he saw a comely shepherd girl carrying water from a well to
her father's house.
"What is your name?" said the young marquis.
"Griselda," said the shepherd girl.
"Well, Griselda," said the Marquis of Saluzzo, "I am looking for a wife.
If I marry you, will you study to please me and carry out all my demands,
whatever they are, without a murmur or a sullen look?"
"Yes, my lord," said Griselda.
Thereupon, the marquis sent his servants to fetch some rich and costly
robes, and, leading Griselda out by the hand, he clothed her in gorgeous
apparel, and set a coronet upon her head, and putting her on a palfrey, he
led her to his palace. And there he celebrated his nuptials with as much
pomp and grandeur as if he had been marrying the daughter of the King of
France.
Griselda proved to be a good wife. She was so sweet-natured, and so
gentle and kind in her manners, that her husband thought himself the
happiest man in the world; and her subjects honoured her and loved her very
dearly. In a very short time, her winning behaviour and her good works were
the common subject of talk throughout the country, and great were the
rejoicings when a daughter was born to her.
Unfortunately, her husband got a strange fancy into his head. He
imagined she was good and gentle merely because everything went well with
her; and, with great harshness, he resolved to try her patience by
suffering. So he told her that the people were greatly displeased with her
by reason of her mean parentage, and murmured because she had given birth
to a daughter.
"My lord," said Griselda, "I know I am meaner than the meanest of my
subjects, and that I am unworthy of the dignity to which you have advanced
me. Deal with me, I pray, as you think best for your honour and happiness,
and waste no thought upon me."
Soon afterwards one of his servants came to Griselda, and said: "Madam,
I must either lose my own life, or obey my lord's commands. He has ordered
me to take your daughter, and--"
He would not say anything more, and Griselda thought that he had orders
to kill the child. Taking it out of the cradle, she kissed it, and tenderly
laid it in the servant's arms. The marquis sent the little girl to one of
his relatives at Bologna, to be brought up and educated. Some years
afterwards Griselda gave birth to a boy. The marquis, naturally enough, was
mightily pleased to have an heir; but he took also this child away from his
wife.
"I am not able to live any longer with my people," he said. "They say
they will not have a grandson of a poor shepherd as their future lord. I
must dispose of this child as I did the other."
"My lord," replied Griselda, "study your own ease and happiness without
the least care for me. Nothing is pleasing to me that is not pleasing to
you."
The next day the marquis sent for his son in the same way as he had sent
for his daughter, and had him brought up with her at Bologna. His people
thought that the children had been put to death, and blamed him for his
cruelty, and showed great pity for his wife. But Griselda would not allow
them to attack her husband, but found excuses for him.
In spite of this, the marquis did not yet believe in the constancy and
fidelity of his wife, and about sixteen years after their marriage he
resolved to put her to a test.
"Woman," he said, "I am going to take another wife. I shall send you
back to your father's cottage in the same state as I brought you from it,
and choose a young lady of my own rank in life."
With the utmost difficulty Griselda kept back her tears, and humbly
consented to be divorced. The marquis stripped her of her fine raiment, and
sent her back to her father's hut dressed in a smock. Her husband then gave
it out that he was about to espouse the daughter of the Count of Panago;
and, sending for Griselda, he said:
"I am about to bring home my new bride, but I have no woman with me to
set out the rooms and order the ceremony. As you are well acquainted with
the government of my palace, I wish you to act as mistress for a day or
two. Get everything in order, and invite what ladies you will to the
festival. When the marriage is over, you must return to your father's
hut."
These words pierced like daggers to the heart of Griselda. She was
unable to part with her love for her husband as easily as she had parted
with her high rank and great fortune.
"My lord," said Griselda, "I swore that I would be obedient to you, and
I am ready to fulfil all your commands."
She went into the palace in her coarse attire and worked with the
servants, sweeping the rooms and cleaning the furniture. After this was
done, she invited all the ladies in the country to come to the festival.
And on the day appointed for the marriage she received them, still clad in
her coarse attire, but with smiling and gentle looks. At dinner-time the
marquis arrived with his new lady--who was indeed a very beautiful girl.
After presenting her to all the guests, many of whom congratulated him on
making so good an exchange, he said, with a smile, to Griselda:
"What do you think of my bride?"
"My lord," she replied, "I like her extremely well. If she is as wise as
she is fair, you may be the happiest man in the world with her. But I very
humbly beg that you will not take with this lady the same heart-breaking
measures you took with your last wife, because she is young and tenderly
educated, while the other was from a child used to hardship.
"Pardon me! Pardon me! Pardon me!" said the marquis. "I know I have
tried you harshly, Griselda. But I did not believe in the goodness and
constancy of woman, and I would not believe in them until you proved me in
the wrong. Let me restore, in one sweet minute, all the happiness that I
have spent years in taking away from you. This young lady, my dear
Griselda, is your daughter and mine! And look! Here is our son waiting
behind her."
He led Griselda, weeping for joy, to her children. Then all the ladies
in the hall rose up from the tables, and taking Griselda into a chamber,
they clothed her in fine and noble raiment, and stayed with her many days,
feasting and rejoicing. And the marquis sent for Griselda's father, the
poor shepherd, and gave him a suite of rooms in the palace, where he lived
in great happiness with his daughter and his grandchildren and his noble
son-in-law.
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