The Haunted Mind by Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

The Haunted Mind

By

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Word Count: 1,777

Genre: Gothic, Literary

Published 1835 in The Token and Atlantic Souvenir

What a singular moment is the first one, when you have hardly begun to recollect yourself, after starting from midnight slumber! By unclosing your eyes so suddenly you seem to have surprised the personages of your dream in full convocation round your bed, and catch one broad glance at them before they can flit into obscurity. Or, to vary the metaphor, you find yourself for a single instant wide awake in that realm of illusions whither sleep has been the passport, and behold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery with a perception of their strangeness such as you never attain while the dream is undisturbed. The distant sound of a church-clock is borne faintly on the wind. You question with yourself, half seriously, whether it has stolen to your waking ear from some gray tower that stood within the precincts of your dream. While yet in suspense another clock flings its heavy clang over the slumbering town with so full and distinct a sound, and such a long murmur in the neighboring air, that you are certain it must proceed from the steeple at the nearest corner; You count the strokes—one, two; and there they cease with a booming sound like the gathering of a third stroke within the bell.

If you could choose an hour of wakefulness out of the whole night, it would be this. Since your sober bedtime, at eleven, you have had rest enough to take off the pressure of yesterday’s fatigue, while before you, till the sun comes from “Far Cathay” to brighten your window, there is almost the space of a summer night—one hour to be spent in thought with the mind’s eye half shut, and two in pleasant dreams, and two in that strangest of enjoyments the forgetfulness alike of joy and woe. The moment of rising belongs to another period of time, and appears so distant that the plunge out of a warm bed into the frosty air cannot yet be anticipated with dismay. Yesterday has already vanished among the shadows of the past; to-morrow has not yet emerged from the future. You have found an intermediate space where the business of life does not intrude, where the passing moment lingers and becomes truly the present; a spot where Father Time, when he thinks nobody is watching him, sits down by the wayside to take breath. Oh that he would fall asleep and let mortals live on without growing older!

Hitherto you have lain perfectly still, because the slightest motion would dissipate the fragments of your slumber. Now, being irrevocably awake, you peep through the half-drawn window-curtain, and observe that the glass is ornamented with fanciful devices in frost-work, and that each pane presents something like a frozen dream. There will be time enough to trace out the analogy while waiting the summons to breakfast. Seen through the clear portion of the glass where the silvery mountain-peaks of the frost-scenery do not ascend, the most conspicuous object is the steeple, the white spire of which directs you to the wintry lustre of the firmament. You may almost distinguish the figures on the clock that has just told the hour. Such a frosty sky and the snow-covered roofs and the long vista of the frozen street, all white, and the distant water hardened into rock, might make you shiver even under four blankets and a woollen comforter. Yet look at that one glorious star! Its beams are distinguishable from all the rest, and actually cast the shadow of the casement on the bed with a radiance of deeper hue than moonlight, though not so accurate an outline.

You sink down and muffle your head in the clothes, shivering all the while, but less from bodily chill than the bare idea of a polar atmosphere. It is too cold even for the thoughts to venture abroad. You speculate on the luxury of wearing out a whole existence in bed like an oyster in its shell, content with the sluggish ecstasy of inaction, and drowsily conscious of nothing but delicious warmth such as you now feel again. Ah! that idea has brought a hideous one in its train. You think how the dead are lying in their cold shrouds and narrow coffins through the drear winter of the grave, and cannot persuade your fancy that they neither shrink nor shiver when the snow is drifting over their little hillocks and the bitter blast howls against the door of the tomb. That gloomy thought will collect a gloomy multitude and throw its complexion over your wakeful hour.

In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon, though the lights, the music and revelry, above may cause us to forget their existence and the buried ones or prisoners whom they hide. But sometimes, and oftenest at midnight, those dark receptacles are flung wide open. In an hour like this, when the mind has a passive sensibility, but no active strength—when the imagination is a mirror imparting vividness to all ideas without the power of selecting or controlling them—then pray that your griefs may slumber and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain. It is too late. A funeral train comes gliding by your bed in which passion and feeling assume bodily shape and things of the mind become dim spectres to the eye. There is your earliest sorrow, a pale young mourner wearing a sister’s likeness to first love, sadly beautiful, with a hallowed sweetness in her melancholy features and grace in the flow of her sable robe. Next appears a shade of ruined loveliness with dust among her golden hair and her bright garments all faded and defaced, stealing from your glance with drooping head, as fearful of reproach: she was your fondest hope, but a delusive one; so call her Disappointment now. A sterner form succeeds, with a brow of wrinkles, a look and gesture of iron authority; there is no name for him unless it be Fatality—an emblem of the evil influence that rules your fortunes, a demon to whom you subjected yourself by some error at the outset of life, and were bound his slave for ever by once obeying him. See those fiendish lineaments graven on the darkness, the writhed lip of scorn, the mockery of that living eye, the pointed finger touching the sore place in your heart! Do you remember any act of enormous folly at which you would blush even in the remotest cavern of the earth? Then recognize your shame.

Pass, wretched band! Well for the wakeful one if, riotously miserable, a fiercer tribe do not surround him—the devils of a guilty heart that holds its hell within itself. What if Remorse should assume the features of an injured friend? What if the fiend should come in woman’s garments with a pale beauty amid sin and desolation, and lie down by your side? What if he should stand at your bed’s foot in the likeness of a corpse with a bloody stain upon the shroud? Sufficient without such guilt is this nightmare of the soul, this heavy, heavy sinking of the spirits, this wintry gloom about the heart, this indistinct horror of the mind blending itself with the darkness of the chamber.

By a desperate effort you start upright, breaking from a sort of conscious sleep and gazing wildly round the bed, as if the fiends were anywhere but in your haunted mind. At the same moment the slumbering embers on the hearth send forth a gleam which palely illuminates the whole outer room and flickers through the door of the bedchamber, but cannot quite dispel its obscurity. Your eye searches for whatever may remind you of the living world. With eager minuteness you take note of the table near the fireplace, the book with an ivory knife between its leaves, the unfolded letter, the hat and the fallen glove. Soon the flame vanishes, and with it the whole scene is gone, though its image remains an instant in your mind’s eye when darkness has swallowed the reality. Throughout the chamber there is the same obscurity as before, but not the same gloom within your breast.

As your head falls back upon the pillow you think—in a whisper be it spoken—how pleasant in these night solitudes would be the rise and fall of a softer breathing than your own, the slight pressure of a tenderer bosom, the quiet throb of a purer heart, imparting its peacefulness to your troubled one, as if the fond sleeper were involving you in her dream. Her influence is over you, though she have no existence but in that momentary image. You sink down in a flowery spot on the borders of sleep and wakefulness, while your thoughts rise before you in pictures, all disconnected, yet all assimilated by a pervading gladsomeness and beauty. The wheeling of gorgeous squadrons that glitter in the sun is succeeded by the merriment of children round the door of a schoolhouse beneath the glimmering shadow of old trees at the corner of a rustic lane. You stand in the sunny rain of a summer shower, and wander among the sunny trees of an autumnal wood, and look upward at the brightest of all rainbows overarching the unbroken sheet of snow on the American side of Niagara. Your mind struggles pleasantly between the dancing radiance round the hearth of a young man and his recent bride and the twittering flight of birds in spring about their new-made nest. You feel the merry bounding of a ship before the breeze, and watch the tuneful feet of rosy girls as they twine their last and merriest dance in a splendid ball-room, and find yourself in the brilliant circle of a crowded theatre as the curtain falls over a light and airy scene.

With an involuntary start you seize hold on consciousness, and prove yourself but half awake by running a doubtful parallel between human life and the hour which has now elapsed. In both you emerge from mystery, pass through a vicissitude that you can but imperfectly control, and are borne onward to another mystery. Now comes the peal of the distant clock with fainter and fainter strokes as you plunge farther into the wilderness of sleep. It is the knell of a temporary death. Your spirit has departed, and strays like a free citizen among the people of a shadowy world, beholding strange sights, yet without wonder or dismay. So calm, perhaps, will be the final change—so undisturbed, as if among familiar things, the entrance of the soul to its eternal home.

If I Were a Man by Charlotte Perkins

 

If I Were a Man

By

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Word Count: 2,329

Genre: Literary

Published 1914 in Physical Culture, Vol. 32, No. 1

‘If I were a man,...’ that was what pretty little Mollie Mathewson always said when Gerald would not do what she wanted him to—which was seldom.

That was what she said this bright morning, with a stamp of her little high-heeled slipper, just because he had made a fuss about that bill, the long one with the ‘account rendered,’ which she had forgotten to give him the first time and been afraid to the second—and now he had taken it from the postman himself.

Mollie was ‘true to type.’ She was a beautiful instance of what is reverentially called ‘a true woman.’ Little, of course—no true woman may be big. Pretty, of course—no true woman could possibly be plain. Whimsical, capricious, charming, changeable, devoted to pretty clothes and always ‘wearing them well,’ as the esoteric phrase has it. (This does not refer to the clothes—they do not wear well in the least—but to some special grace of putting them on and carrying them about, granted to but few, it appears.)

She was also a loving wife and a devoted mother possessed of ‘the social gift’ and the love of ‘society’ that goes with it, and, with all these was fond and proud of her home and managed it as capably as—well, as most women do.

If ever there was a true woman it was Mollie Mathewson, yet she was wishing heart and soul she was a man.

And all of a sudden she was!

She was Gerald, walking down the path so erect and square-shouldered, in a hurry for his morning train, as usual, and, it must be confessed, in something of a temper.

Her own words were ringing in her ears—not only the ‘last word,’ but several that had gone before, and she was holding her lips tight shut, not to say something she would be sorry for. But instead of acquiescence in the position taken by that angry little figure on the veranda, what she felt was a sort of superior pride, a sympathy as with weakness, a feeling that ‘I must be gentle with her,’ in spite of the temper.

A man! Really a man—with only enough subconscious memory of herself remaining to make her recognize the differences.

At first there was a funny sense of size and weight and extra thickness, the feet and hands seemed strangely large, and her long, straight, free legs swung forward at a gait that made her feel as if on stilts.

This presently passed, and in its place, growing all day, wherever she went, came a new and delightful feeling of being the right size.

Everything fitted now. Her back snugly against the seat-back, her feet comfortably on the floor. Her feet?...His feet! She studied them carefully. Never before, since her early school days, had she felt such freedom and comfort as to feet—they were firm and solid on the ground when she walked; quick, springy, safe-as when, moved by an unrecognizable impulse, she had run after, caught, and swung aboard the car.

Another impulse fished in a convenient pocket for change-instantly, automatically, bringing forth a nickel for the conductor and a penny for the newsboy. These pockets came as a revelation. Of course she had known they were there, had counted them, made fun of them, mended them, even envied them; but she never had dreamed of how it felt to have pockets.

Behind her newspaper she let her consciousness, that odd mingled consciousness, rove from pocket to pocket, realizing the armored assurance of having all those things at hand, instantly get-at-able, ready to meet emergencies. The cigar case gave her a warm feeling of comfort—it was full; the firmly held fountain pen, safe unless she stood on her head; the keys, pencils, letters, documents, notebook, checkbook, bill folder—all at once, with a deep rushing sense of power and pride, she felt what she had never felt before in all her life—the possession of money, of her own earned money—hers to give or to withhold, not to beg for, tease for, wheedle for—hers.

That bill—why, if it had come to her—to him, that is—he would have paid it as a matter of course, and never mentioned it—to her.

Then, being he, sitting there so easily and firmly with his money in his pockets, she wakened to his life-long consciousness about money. Boyhood—its desires and dreams, ambitions. Young manhood—working tremendously for the wherewithal to make a home—for her. The present years with all their net of cares and hopes and dangers; the present moment, when he needed every cent for special plans of great importance, and this bill, long overdue and demanding payment, meant an amount of inconvenience wholly unnecessary if it had been given him when it first came; also, the man’s keen dislike of that ‘account rendered.’

‘Women have no business sense!’ she found herself saying. ‘And all that money just for hats idiotic, useless, ugly things!’

With that she began to see the hats of the women in the car as she had never seen hats before.

The men’s seemed normal, dignified, becoming, with enough variety for personal taste, and with distinction in style and in age, such as she had never noticed before. But the women’s—

With the eyes of a man and the brain of a man; with the memory of a whole lifetime of free action wherein the hat, close-fitting on cropped hair, had been no handicap; she now perceived the hats of women.

The massed fluffed hair was at once attractive and foolish, and on that hair, at every angle, in all colors, tipped, twisted, tortured into every crooked shape, made of any substance chance might offer, perched these formless objects. Then, on their formlessness the trimmings-these squirts of stiff feathers, these violent outstanding bows of glistening ribbon, these swaying, projecting masses of plumage which tormented the faces of bystanders.

Never in all her life had she imagined that this idolized millinery could look, to those who paid for it, like the decorations of an insane monkey.

And yet, when there came into the car a little woman, as foolish as any, but pretty and sweet-looking, up rose Gerald Mathewson and gave her his seat. And, later, when there came in a handsome red-cheeked girl, whose hat was wilder, more violent in color and eccentric in shape than any other—when she stood nearby and her soft curling plumes swept his cheek once and again—he felt a sense of sudden pleasure at the intimate tickling touch—and she, deep down within, felt such a wave of shame as might well drown a thousand hats forever.

When he took his train, his seat in the smoking car, she had a new surprise. All about him were the other men, commuters too, and many of them friends of his.

To her, they would have been distinguished as ‘Mary Wade’s husband,’ ‘the man Belle Grant is engaged to’ ‘that rich Mr. Shopworth,’ or ‘that pleasant Mr. Beale.’ And they would all have lifted their hats to her, bowed, made polite conversation if near enough—especially Mr. Beale. Now came the feeling of open-eyed acquaintance, of knowing men—as they were. The mere amount of this knowledge was a surprise to her—the whole background of talk from boyhood up, the gossip of barber-shop and club, the conversation of morning and evening hours on trains, the knowledge of political affiliation, of business standing and prospects, of character—in a light she had never known before. The came and talked to Gerald, one and another. He seemed quite popular. And as they talked, with this new memory and new understanding, an understanding which seemed to include all these men’s minds, there poured in on the submerged consciousness beneath a new, a startling knowledge—what men really think of women.

Good, average, American men were there; married men for the most part, and happy—as happiness goes in general. In the minds of each and all there seemed to be a two-story department, quite apart from the rest of their ideas, a separate place where they kept their thoughts and feelings about women.

In the upper half were the tenderest emotions, the most exquisite ideals, the sweetest memories, all lovely sentiments as to ‘home’ and ‘mother,’ all delicate admiring adjectives, a sort of sanctuary, where a veiled statue, blindly adored, shared place with beloved yet commonplace experiences.

In the lower half—here that buried consciousness woke to keen distress—they kept quite another assortment of ideas. Here, even in this clean-minded husband of hers, was the memory of stories told at men’s dinners, of worse ones overheard in street or car, of base traditions, coarse epithets, gross experiences—known, though not shared.

And all these in the department ‘woman,’ while in the rest of the mind—here was new knowledge indeed.

The world opened before her. Not the world she had been reared in—where Home had covered all the map, almost, and the rest had been ‘foreign,’ or ‘unexplored country,’ but the world as it was—man’s world, as made, lived in, and seen, by men.

It was dizzying. To see the houses that fled so fast across the car window, in terms of builders’ bills, or of some technical insight into materials and methods; to see a passing village with lamentable knowledge of who ‘owned it’ and of how its Boss was rapidly aspiring in state power, or of how that kind of paving was a failure; to see shops, not as mere exhibitions of desirable objects, but as business ventures, many mere sinking ships, some promising a profitable voyage—this new world bewildered her.

She—as Gerald—had already forgotten about that bill, over which she—as Mollie—was still crying at home. Gerald was ‘talking business’ with this man, ‘talking politics’ with that, and now sympathizing with the carefully withheld troubles of a neighbor.

Mollie had always sympathized with the neighbor’s wife before.

She began to struggle violently with this large dominant masculine consciousness. She remembered with sudden clearness things she had read, lectures she had heard, and resented with increasing intensity this serene masculine preoccupation with the male point of view.

Mr. Miles, the little fussy man who lived on the other side of the street, was talking now. He had a large complacent wife; Mollie had never liked her much, but had always thought him rather nice-he was so punctilious in small courtesies.

And here he was talking to Gerald—such talk!

‘Had to come in here,’ he said. ‘Gave my seat to a dame who was bound to have it. There’s nothing they won’t get when they make up their minds to it—eh?’

‘No fear!’ said the big man in the next seat. ‘They haven’t much mind to make up, you know—and if they do, they’ll change it.’

‘The real danger,’ began the Rev. Alfred Smythe, the new Episcopal clergyman, a thin, nervous, tall man with a face several centuries behind the times, ‘is that they will overstep the limits of their God-appointed sphere.’

‘Their natural limits ought to hold ’em, I think,’ said cheerful Dr. Jones. ‘You can’t get around physiology, I tell you.’

‘I’ve never seen any limits, myself, not to what they want, anyhow,’ said Mr. Miles. ‘Merely a rich husband and a fine house and no end of bonnets and dresses, and the latest thing in motors, and a few diamonds-and so on. Keeps us pretty busy.’

There was a tired gray man across the aisle. He had a very nice wife, always beautifully dressed, and three unmarried daughters, also beautifully dressed—Mollie knew them. She knew he worked hard, too, and she looked at him now a little anxiously.

But he smiled cheerfully.

‘Do you good, Miles,’ he said. ‘What else would a man work for? A good woman is about the best thing on earth.’

‘And a bad one’s the worst, that’s sure,’ responded Miles.

‘She’s a pretty weak sister, viewed professionally,’ Dr. Jones averred with solemnity, and the Rev Alfred Smythe added, ‘She brought evil into the world.’

Gerald Mathewson sat up straight. Something was stirring in him which he did not recognize—yet could not resist.

‘Seems to me we all talk like Noah,’ he suggested drily. ‘Or the ancient Hindu scriptures.

Women have their limitations, but so do we. God knows. Haven’t we known girls in school and college just as smart as we were?’

‘They cannot play our games,’ coldly replied the clergyman.

Gerald measured his meager proportions with a practiced eye.

‘I never was particularly good at football myself,’ he modestly admitted, ‘but I’ve known women who could outlast a man in all-round endurance. Besides—life isn’t spent in athletics!’

This was sadly true. They all looked down the aisle where a heavily ill-dressed man with a bad complexion sat alone. He had held the top of the columns once, with headlines and photographs.

Now he earned less than any of them.

‘It’s time we woke up,’ pursued Gerald, still inwardly urged to unfamiliar speech. ‘Women are pretty much people, seems to me. I know they dress like fools-but who’s to blame for that? We invent all those idiotic hats of theirs, and design their crazy fashions, and, what’s more, if a woman is courageous enough to wear common-sense clothes—and shoes—which of us wants to dance with her?

‘Yes, we blame them for grafting on us, but are we willing to let our wives work? We are not.

It hurts our pride, that’s all. We are always criticizing them for making mercenary marriages, but what do we call a girl who marries a chump with no money? Just a poor fool, that’s all. And they know it.

‘As for Mother Eve—I wasn’t there and can’t deny the story, but I will say this. If she brought evil into the world, we men have had the lion’s share of keeping it going ever since—how about that?’

They drew into the city, and all day long in his business, Gerald was vaguely conscious of new views, strange feelings, and the submerged Mollie learned and learned.

The Last Incantation by Clark Ashton Smith

 

The Last Incantation

By

Clark Ashton Smith

Word Count: 1,923 

Genre: Fantasy, Gothic, Literary

Published 1930 in Weird Tales, Vol. 15, No. 6

Malygris the magician sat in the topmost room of his tower that was builded on a conicall hill above the heart of Susran, capital of Poseidonis. Wrought of a dark stone mined from deep in the earth, perdurable and hard as the fabled adamant, this tower loomed above all others, and flung its shadow far on the roofs and domes of the city, even as the sinister power of Malygris had thrown its darkness on the minds of men.

Now Malygris was old, and all the baleful might of his enchantments, all the dreadful or curious demons under his control, all the fear that he had wrought in the hearts of kings and prelates, were no longer enough to assuage the black ennui of his days. In his chair that was fashioned from the ivory of mastodons, inset with terrible cryptic runes of red tourmalines and azure crystals, he stared moodily through the one lozenge-shaped window of fulvous glass. His white eyebrows were contracted to a single line on the umber parchment of his face, and beneath them his eyes were cold and green as the ice of ancient floes; his beard, half white, half of a black with glaucous gleams, fell nearly to his knees and hid many of the writhing serpentine characters inscribed in woven silver athwart the bosom of his violet robe. About him were scattered all the appurtenances of his art; the skulls of men and monsters; phials filled with black or amber liquids, whose sacrilegious use was known to none but himself; little drums of vulture-skin, and crotali made from the bones and teeth of the cockodrill, used as an accompaniment to certain incantations. The mosaic floor was partly covered with the skins of enormous black and silver apes: and above the door there hung the head of a unicorn in which dwelt the familiar demon of Malygris, in the form of a coral viper with pale green belly and ashen mottlings. Books were piled everywhere: ancient volumes bound in serpent-skin, with verdigris-eaten clasps, that held the frightful lore of Atlantis, the pentacles that have power upon the demons of the earth and the moon, the spells that transmute or disintegrate the elements; and runes from a lost language of Hyperborea. which, when uttered aloud. were more deadly than poison or more potent than any philtre.

But, though these things and the power they held or symbolized were the terror of the peoples and the envy, of all rival magicians, the thoughts of Malygris were dark with immitigable melancholy, and weariness filled his heart as ashes fill the hearth where a great fire has died. Immovable he sat, implacable he mused, while the sun of afternoon, declining on the city and on the sea that was beyond the city, smote with autumnal rays through the window of greenish-yellow glass, and touched his shrunken hands with its phantom gold and fired the bales-rubies of his rings till they burned like demonian eyes. But in his musings there was neither light nor fire; and turning from the grayness of the present, from the darkness that seemed to close in so imminently upon the future, he groped among the shadows of memory, even as a blind man who has lost the sun and seeks it everywhere in vain. And all the vistas of time that had been so full of gold and splendor, the days of triumph that were colored like a soaring flame, the crimson and purple of the rich imperial years of his prime, all these were chill and dim and strangely faded now, and the remembrance thereof was no more than the stirring of dead embers. Then Malygris groped backward to the years of his youth, to the misty, remote, incredible years, where, like an alien star, one memory still burned with unfailing luster—the memory of the girl Nylissa whom he had loved in days ere the lust of unpermitted knowledge and necromantic dominion had ever entered his soul. He had well-nigh forgotten her for decades, in the myriad preoccupations of a life so bizarrely diversified, so replete with occult happenings and powers, with supernatural victories and perils; but now, at the mere thought of this slender and innocent child, who had loved him so dearly when he too was young and slim and guileless, and who had died of a sudden mysterious fever on the very eve of their marriage-day, the mummylike umber of his cheeks took on a phantom flush, and deep down in the icy orbs was a sparkle like the gleam of mortuary tapers. In his dreams arose the irretrievable suns of youth, and he saw the myrtle-shaded valley of Meros, and the stream Zemander, by whose ever-verdant marge he had walked at eventide with Nylissa, seeing the birth of summer stars in the heavens, the stream, and the eyes of his beloved.

Now, addressing the demonian viper that dwelt in the head of the unicorn, Malygris spoke, with the low monotonous intonation of one who thinks aloud:

‘Viper, in the years before you came to dwell with me and to make your abode in the head of the unicorn, I knew a girl who was lovely and frail as the orchids of the jungle, and who died as the orchids die... Viper, am I not Malygris, in whom is centered the mastery of all occult lore, all forbidden dominations, with dominion over the spirits of earth and sea and air, over the solar and lunar demons. over the living and the dead? If so I desire, can I not call the girl Nylissa, in the very semblance of all her youth and beauty, and bring her forth from the never-changing shadows of the cryptic tomb, to stand before me in this chamber, in the evening rays of this autumnal sun?’

‘Yes, master,’ replied the viper, in a low but singularly penetrating hiss, ‘you are Malygris, and all sorcerous or necromantic power is yours, all incantations and spells and pentacles are known to you, It is possible, if you so desire, to summon the girl Nylissa from her abode among the dead, and to behold her again as she was ere her loveliness had known the ravening kiss of the worm.’

‘Viper, is it well, is it meet, that I should summon her thus? ... Will there be nothing to lose, and nothing to regret?’

The viper seemed to hesitate. Then, in a more slow and neasured hiss: ‘It is meet for Malygris to do as he would. Who, save Malygris, can decide if a thing be well or ill?’

‘In other words, you will not advise me?’ the query was as much a statement as a question, and the viper vouchsafed no further utterance.

Malygris brooded for awhile, with his chin on his knotted hands. Then he arose, with a long-unwonted celerity and sureness of movement that belied his wrinkles, and gathered together, from different coigns of the chamber, from ebony shelves, from caskets with locks of gold or brass or electrum, the sundry appurtenances that were needful for his magic. He drew on the floor the requisite circles, and standing within the centermost he lit the thuribles that contained the prescribed incense, and read aloud from a long narrow scroll of gray vellum the purple and vermilion runes of the ritual that summons the departed. The fumes of the censers, blue and white and violet, arose in thick clouds and speedily filled the room with ever-writhing interchanging columns, among which the sunlight disappeared and was succeeded by a wan unearthly glow, pale as the light of moons that ascend from Lethe. With preternatural slowness, with unhuman solemnity, the voice of the necromancer went on in a priest-like chant till the scroll was ended and the last echoes lessened and died out in hollow sepulchral vibrations. Then the colored vapors cleared away, as if the folds of a curtain had been drawn back. But the pale unearthly glow still filled the chamber, and between Malygris and the door where hung the unicorn’s head there stood the apparition of Nylissa, even as she had stood in the perished years, bending a little like a wind-blown flower, and smiling with the unmindful poignancy of youth. Fragile, pallid, and simply gowned, with anemone blossoms in her black hair, with eyes that held the new-born azure of vernal heavens, she was all that Malygris had remembered, and his sluggish heart was quickened with an old delightful fever as he looked upon her.

‘Are you Nylissa?’ he asked—‘the Nylissa whom I loved in the myrtle-shaded valley of Meros, in the golden-hearted days that have gone with all dead eons to the timeless gulf?’

‘Yes, I am Nylissa,’ Her voice was the simple and rippling silver of the voice that had echoed so long in his memory... But somehow, as he gazed and listened, there grew a tiny doubt—a doubt no less absurd than intolerable, but nevertheless insistent: was this altogether the same Nylissa he had known? Was there not some elusive change, too subtle to he named or defined, had time and the grave not taken something away—an innominable something that his magic had not wholly restored? Were the eyes as tender, was the black hair as lustrous, the form as slim and supple, as those of the girl he recalled? He could not be sure, and the growing doubt was succeeded by a leaden dismay, by a grim despondency that choked his heart as with ashes. His scrutiny became searching and exigent and cruel, and momently the phantom was less and less the perfect semblance of Nylissa, momently the lips and brow were less lovely, less subtle in their curves; the slender figure became thin, the tresses took on a common black and the neck an ordinary pallor. The soul of Malygris grew sick again with age and despair and the death of his evanescent hope. He could believe no longer in love or youth or beauty; and even the memory of these things was a dubitable mirage, a thing that might or might not have been. There was nothing left but shadow and grayness and dust, nothing but the empty dark and the cold, and a clutching weight of insufferable weariness, of immedicable anguish.

In accents that were thin and quavering, like the ghost of his former voice, he pronounced the incantation that serves to dismiss a summoned phantom. The form of Nylissa melted upon the air like smoke and the lunar gleam that had surrounded her was replaced by the last rays of the sun. Malygris turned to the viper and spoke in a tone of melancholy reproof:

‘Why did you not warn me?’

‘Would the warning have availed?’ was the counter-question. ‘All knowledge was yours, Malygris, excepting this one thing; and in no other way could you have learned it.’

‘What thing?’ queried the magician. ‘I have learned nothing except the vanity of wisdom, the impotence of magic, the nullity of love, and the delusiveness of memory... Tell me, why could I not recall to life the same Nylissa whom I knew, or thought I knew?’

‘It was indeed Nylissa whom you summoned and saw,’ replied the viper. ‘Your necromancy was potent up to this point; but no necromantic spell could recall for you your own lost youth or the fervent and guileless heart that loved Nylissa, or the ardent eyes that beheld her then. This, my master, was the thing that you had to learn.’

If I Were a Man By Charlotte Perkins Gilman

 

If I Were a Man

By

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Literary

Published 1914 in Physical Culture, Vol. 32, No. 1

‘If I were a man,...’ that was what pretty little Mollie Mathewson always said when Gerald would not do what she wanted him to—which was seldom.

That was what she said this bright morning, with a stamp of her little high-heeled slipper, just because he had made a fuss about that bill, the long one with the ‘account rendered,’ which she had forgotten to give him the first time and been afraid to the second—and now he had taken it from the postman himself.

Mollie was ‘true to type.’ She was a beautiful instance of what is reverentially called ‘a true woman.’ Little, of course—no true woman may be big. Pretty, of course—no true woman could possibly be plain. Whimsical, capricious, charming, changeable, devoted to pretty clothes and always ‘wearing them well,’ as the esoteric phrase has it. (This does not refer to the clothes—they do not wear well in the least—but to some special grace of putting them on and carrying them about, granted to but few, it appears.)

She was also a loving wife and a devoted mother possessed of ‘the social gift’ and the love of ‘society’ that goes with it, and, with all these was fond and proud of her home and managed it as capably as—well, as most women do.

If ever there was a true woman it was Mollie Mathewson, yet she was wishing heart and soul she was a man.

And all of a sudden she was!

She was Gerald, walking down the path so erect and square-shouldered, in a hurry for his morning train, as usual, and, it must be confessed, in something of a temper.

Her own words were ringing in her ears—not only the ‘last word,’ but several that had gone before, and she was holding her lips tight shut, not to say something she would be sorry for. But instead of acquiescence in the position taken by that angry little figure on the veranda, what she felt was a sort of superior pride, a sympathy as with weakness, a feeling that ‘I must be gentle with her,’ in spite of the temper.

A man! Really a man—with only enough subconscious memory of herself remaining to make her recognize the differences.

At first there was a funny sense of size and weight and extra thickness, the feet and hands seemed strangely large, and her long, straight, free legs swung forward at a gait that made her feel as if on stilts.

This presently passed, and in its place, growing all day, wherever she went, came a new and delightful feeling of being the right size.

Everything fitted now. Her back snugly against the seat-back, her feet comfortably on the floor. Her feet?...His feet! She studied them carefully. Never before, since her early school days, had she felt such freedom and comfort as to feet—they were firm and solid on the ground when she walked; quick, springy, safe-as when, moved by an unrecognizable impulse, she had run after, caught, and swung aboard the car.

Another impulse fished in a convenient pocket for change-instantly, automatically, bringing forth a nickel for the conductor and a penny for the newsboy. These pockets came as a revelation. Of course she had known they were there, had counted them, made fun of them, mended them, even envied them; but she never had dreamed of how it felt to have pockets.

Behind her newspaper she let her consciousness, that odd mingled consciousness, rove from pocket to pocket, realizing the armored assurance of having all those things at hand, instantly get-at-able, ready to meet emergencies. The cigar case gave her a warm feeling of comfort—it was full; the firmly held fountain pen, safe unless she stood on her head; the keys, pencils, letters, documents, notebook, checkbook, bill folder—all at once, with a deep rushing sense of power and pride, she felt what she had never felt before in all her life—the possession of money, of her own earned money—hers to give or to withhold, not to beg for, tease for, wheedle for—hers.

That bill—why, if it had come to her—to him, that is—he would have paid it as a matter of course, and never mentioned it—to her.

Then, being he, sitting there so easily and firmly with his money in his pockets, she wakened to his life-long consciousness about money. Boyhood—its desires and dreams, ambitions. Young manhood—working tremendously for the wherewithal to make a home—for her. The present years with all their net of cares and hopes and dangers; the present moment, when he needed every cent for special plans of great importance, and this bill, long overdue and demanding payment, meant an amount of inconvenience wholly unnecessary if it had been given him when it first came; also, the man’s keen dislike of that ‘account rendered.’

‘Women have no business sense!’ she found herself saying. ‘And all that money just for hats idiotic, useless, ugly things!’

With that she began to see the hats of the women in the car as she had never seen hats before.

The men’s seemed normal, dignified, becoming, with enough variety for personal taste, and with distinction in style and in age, such as she had never noticed before. But the women’s—

With the eyes of a man and the brain of a man; with the memory of a whole lifetime of free action wherein the hat, close-fitting on cropped hair, had been no handicap; she now perceived the hats of women.

The massed fluffed hair was at once attractive and foolish, and on that hair, at every angle, in all colors, tipped, twisted, tortured into every crooked shape, made of any substance chance might offer, perched these formless objects. Then, on their formlessness the trimmings-these squirts of stiff feathers, these violent outstanding bows of glistening ribbon, these swaying, projecting masses of plumage which tormented the faces of bystanders.

Never in all her life had she imagined that this idolized millinery could look, to those who paid for it, like the decorations of an insane monkey.

And yet, when there came into the car a little woman, as foolish as any, but pretty and sweet-looking, up rose Gerald Mathewson and gave her his seat. And, later, when there came in a handsome red-cheeked girl, whose hat was wilder, more violent in color and eccentric in shape than any other—when she stood nearby and her soft curling plumes swept his cheek once and again—he felt a sense of sudden pleasure at the intimate tickling touch—and she, deep down within, felt such a wave of shame as might well drown a thousand hats forever.

When he took his train, his seat in the smoking car, she had a new surprise. All about him were the other men, commuters too, and many of them friends of his.

To her, they would have been distinguished as ‘Mary Wade’s husband,’ ‘the man Belle Grant is engaged to’ ‘that rich Mr. Shopworth,’ or ‘that pleasant Mr. Beale.’ And they would all have lifted their hats to her, bowed, made polite conversation if near enough—especially Mr. Beale. Now came the feeling of open-eyed acquaintance, of knowing men—as they were. The mere amount of this knowledge was a surprise to her—the whole background of talk from boyhood up, the gossip of barber-shop and club, the conversation of morning and evening hours on trains, the knowledge of political affiliation, of business standing and prospects, of character—in a light she had never known before. The came and talked to Gerald, one and another. He seemed quite popular. And as they talked, with this new memory and new understanding, an understanding which seemed to include all these men’s minds, there poured in on the submerged consciousness beneath a new, a startling knowledge—what men really think of women.

Good, average, American men were there; married men for the most part, and happy—as happiness goes in general. In the minds of each and all there seemed to be a two-story department, quite apart from the rest of their ideas, a separate place where they kept their thoughts and feelings about women.

In the upper half were the tenderest emotions, the most exquisite ideals, the sweetest memories, all lovely sentiments as to ‘home’ and ‘mother,’ all delicate admiring adjectives, a sort of sanctuary, where a veiled statue, blindly adored, shared place with beloved yet commonplace experiences.

In the lower half—here that buried consciousness woke to keen distress—they kept quite another assortment of ideas. Here, even in this clean-minded husband of hers, was the memory of stories told at men’s dinners, of worse ones overheard in street or car, of base traditions, coarse epithets, gross experiences—known, though not shared.

And all these in the department ‘woman,’ while in the rest of the mind—here was new knowledge indeed.

The world opened before her. Not the world she had been reared in—where Home had covered all the map, almost, and the rest had been ‘foreign,’ or ‘unexplored country,’ but the world as it was—man’s world, as made, lived in, and seen, by men.

It was dizzying. To see the houses that fled so fast across the car window, in terms of builders’ bills, or of some technical insight into materials and methods; to see a passing village with lamentable knowledge of who ‘owned it’ and of how its Boss was rapidly aspiring in state power, or of how that kind of paving was a failure; to see shops, not as mere exhibitions of desirable objects, but as business ventures, many mere sinking ships, some promising a profitable voyage—this new world bewildered her.

She—as Gerald—had already forgotten about that bill, over which she—as Mollie—was still crying at home. Gerald was ‘talking business’ with this man, ‘talking politics’ with that, and now sympathizing with the carefully withheld troubles of a neighbor.

Mollie had always sympathized with the neighbor’s wife before.

She began to struggle violently with this large dominant masculine consciousness. She remembered with sudden clearness things she had read, lectures she had heard, and resented with increasing intensity this serene masculine preoccupation with the male point of view.

Mr. Miles, the little fussy man who lived on the other side of the street, was talking now. He had a large complacent wife; Mollie had never liked her much, but had always thought him rather nice-he was so punctilious in small courtesies.

And here he was talking to Gerald—such talk!

‘Had to come in here,’ he said. ‘Gave my seat to a dame who was bound to have it. There’s nothing they won’t get when they make up their minds to it—eh?’

‘No fear!’ said the big man in the next seat. ‘They haven’t much mind to make up, you know—and if they do, they’ll change it.’

‘The real danger,’ began the Rev. Alfred Smythe, the new Episcopal clergyman, a thin, nervous, tall man with a face several centuries behind the times, ‘is that they will overstep the limits of their God-appointed sphere.’

‘Their natural limits ought to hold ’em, I think,’ said cheerful Dr. Jones. ‘You can’t get around physiology, I tell you.’

‘I’ve never seen any limits, myself, not to what they want, anyhow,’ said Mr. Miles. ‘Merely a rich husband and a fine house and no end of bonnets and dresses, and the latest thing in motors, and a few diamonds-and so on. Keeps us pretty busy.’

There was a tired gray man across the aisle. He had a very nice wife, always beautifully dressed, and three unmarried daughters, also beautifully dressed—Mollie knew them. She knew he worked hard, too, and she looked at him now a little anxiously.

But he smiled cheerfully.

‘Do you good, Miles,’ he said. ‘What else would a man work for? A good woman is about the best thing on earth.’

‘And a bad one’s the worst, that’s sure,’ responded Miles.

‘She’s a pretty weak sister, viewed professionally,’ Dr. Jones averred with solemnity, and the Rev Alfred Smythe added, ‘She brought evil into the world.’

Gerald Mathewson sat up straight. Something was stirring in him which he did not recognize—yet could not resist.

‘Seems to me we all talk like Noah,’ he suggested drily. ‘Or the ancient Hindu scriptures.

Women have their limitations, but so do we. God knows. Haven’t we known girls in school and college just as smart as we were?’

‘They cannot play our games,’ coldly replied the clergyman.

Gerald measured his meager proportions with a practiced eye.

‘I never was particularly good at football myself,’ he modestly admitted, ‘but I’ve known women who could outlast a man in all-round endurance. Besides—life isn’t spent in athletics!’

This was sadly true. They all looked down the aisle where a heavily ill-dressed man with a bad complexion sat alone. He had held the top of the columns once, with headlines and photographs.

Now he earned less than any of them.

‘It’s time we woke up,’ pursued Gerald, still inwardly urged to unfamiliar speech. ‘Women are pretty much people, seems to me. I know they dress like fools-but who’s to blame for that? We invent all those idiotic hats of theirs, and design their crazy fashions, and, what’s more, if a woman is courageous enough to wear common-sense clothes—and shoes—which of us wants to dance with her?

‘Yes, we blame them for grafting on us, but are we willing to let our wives work? We are not.

It hurts our pride, that’s all. We are always criticizing them for making mercenary marriages, but what do we call a girl who marries a chump with no money? Just a poor fool, that’s all. And they know it.

‘As for Mother Eve—I wasn’t there and can’t deny the story, but I will say this. If she brought evil into the world, we men have had the lion’s share of keeping it going ever since—how about that?’

They drew into the city, and all day long in his business, Gerald was vaguely conscious of new views, strange feelings, and the submerged Mollie learned and learned.

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The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov | Summary and Foreword

 

Summary and Foreword of "The Master and Margarita

by Olivia Salter

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"The Master and Margarita" is a novel by Mikhail Bulgakov that blends fantasy, romance, and political satire, set in Soviet Russia. The narrative is complex, interweaving two main plots: one set in Moscow during the 1930s, and the other in ancient Jerusalem during the time of Pontius Pilate.

Plot Overview:

The novel opens with the arrival of a mysterious man named Woland (the Devil) and his retinue, which includes a talking cat named Behemoth, a witch named Hella, and various other supernatural beings. Woland arrives in Moscow, creating chaos and confusion among the city's elite and intellectuals, exposing their hypocrisy and greed.

The Moscow Plot:

In Moscow, Woland holds a ball where he reveals the hidden desires and vices of the guests. Meanwhile, a writer known as the Master has been living in obscurity, having written a novel about Pontius Pilate and the trial of Jesus Christ. The Master’s work is rejected by the literary establishment, leading him to a state of despair. He is in love with a woman named Margarita, who remains devoted to him despite his struggles.

Margarita learns of her lover's suffering and decides to confront the forces that have oppressed him. She makes a pact with Woland, becoming his servant in exchange for the opportunity to reunite with the Master. Woland grants her the power to transform into a witch, allowing her to fly through the night skies.

As Woland wreaks havoc in Moscow, Margarita attends the grand ball he hosts, where she is reunited with the Master. Together, they navigate the chaos created by Woland, who uses his powers to expose the darker sides of human nature.

The Jerusalem Plot:

Interspersed with the Moscow events is the story of Pontius Pilate and his encounter with Jesus, referred to as Yeshua Ha-Notsri in the novel. Pilate struggles with his conscience as he sentences Yeshua to death for claiming to be the King of the Jews. The narrative delves into Pilate's internal conflict and his interactions with Yeshua, showcasing themes of power, guilt, and the nature of truth.

As the two plots unfold, they eventually intertwine, with the Master’s novel about Pilate reflecting the historical events. The Master’s relationship with Margarita symbolizes love and redemption, a stark contrast to the cruelty and corruption depicted in Moscow.

Climax and Resolution:

In the climax, Margarita and the Master confront Woland, who ultimately reveals his true nature and intentions. The Master is granted peace, and he and Margarita are reunited in a peaceful afterlife, free from the struggles they faced in the mortal world. Woland and his retinue leave Moscow, having executed their chaotic plans, and the city returns to normalcy, albeit with the memories of the surreal events lingering.

Themes:

The novel explores themes of love, the struggle between good and evil, the nature of power, and the role of the artist in society. It critiques the oppressive nature of Soviet bureaucracy while also delving into philosophical questions about faith and morality.

Conclusion:

"The Master and Margarita" is a rich and multifaceted work that blends elements of the supernatural with profound philosophical inquiries. The intertwining stories of the Master, Margarita, and Pontius Pilate create a tapestry that reflects the complexities of human nature, love, and the eternal battle between light and darkness. Through its vivid imagery and intricate narrative, Bulgakov’s novel continues to resonate with readers, inviting them to ponder the deeper meanings of existence and the power of love.

Get your copy of "The Master and Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov @ Amazon

FOREWORD

Mikhail Bulgakov's "The Master and Margarita" stands as one of the most significant and enigmatic works of literature from the 20th century. Written during a time of profound political repression in Soviet Russia, the novel embodies a courageous act of artistic expression, blending fantastical elements with incisive social critique. Its journey to publication was fraught with challenges; Bulgakov's manuscript endured censorship and revisions, and it was not published in its entirety until decades after his death. Yet, this struggle only amplifies the novel's themes of love, truth, and the human spirit's resilience.

At its heart, "The Master and Margarita" is a tale of duality. It intertwines the lives of the Master, a writer tormented by his passion and the harsh realities of a society that scorns creative freedom, and Margarita, his devoted lover, who undertakes a transformative journey to reclaim their love. The novel boldly introduces the character of Woland, a mysterious figure who embodies the Devil, along with his retinue of fantastical beings, who turn Moscow upside down, revealing the city's moral and ethical failings. Through their antics, Bulgakov critiques the hypocrisy and absurdity of the bureaucratic regime, inviting readers to confront the darker aspects of human nature.

Simultaneously, Bulgakov transports us to ancient Jerusalem, where the story of Pontius Pilate unfolds in a poignant examination of power, guilt, and redemption. The juxtaposition of these two narratives—the surreal and the historical—serves to challenge our understanding of reality, truth, and the eternal struggle between good and evil.

As you embark on this journey through "The Master and Margarita," prepare to be captivated by Bulgakov's rich prose, vivid imagery, and profound philosophical reflections. This novel invites readers to question the nature of existence and the complexities of love, faith, and artistic expression. It is a timeless work that not only reflects the struggles of its time but continues to resonate with the human experience today.

In the pages that follow, you will discover a world where the boundaries of reality blur, where the power of love can transcend time and space, and where the search for meaning in a chaotic universe unfolds with both humor and gravitas. Welcome to the extraordinary realm of "The Master and Margarita," a literary masterpiece that dares to explore the depths of the human soul.

Olivia Salter

10/10/2024

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Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë | Novel and Foreword

 

Wuthering Heights

by Emily Brontë

Foreword

"Wuthering Heights," published in 1847 under the pseudonym Ellis Bell, is a novel that challenges the boundaries of conventional storytelling and remains a cornerstone of English literature. Emily Brontë's only novel, it is an audacious exploration of passion, revenge, and the profound connection between humans and the wild, untamed landscape of the Yorkshire moors.

At its core, "Wuthering Heights" tells the tumultuous tale of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw, whose intense love story is marked by both ecstasy and tragedy. Their relationship is a powerful force that shapes the lives of everyone around them, illustrating the complexities of love and the destructive nature of obsession. Brontë’s portrayal of their tumultuous bond is raw and visceral, transcending the romantic conventions of her time to delve into darker themes of social class, isolation, and the consequences of vengeance.

The novel's structure, with its intricate narrative framework and multiple perspectives, invites readers to engage deeply with its characters and their motivations. Brontë's use of a framed narrative—where the story is recounted by Mr. Lockwood and Nelly Dean—adds layers of complexity, allowing for a multifaceted exploration of truth and interpretation. This innovative approach challenges readers to navigate the blurred lines between love and hate, sanity and madness, as they journey through the lives of the inhabitants of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange.

Emily Brontë's prose is both poetic and haunting, capturing the wild beauty of the moors and reflecting the tempestuous emotions of her characters. Her ability to evoke the elemental forces of nature serves as a backdrop to the passionate, often destructive relationships that unfold within the story. The moors themselves become a character, symbolizing both the freedom and the isolation that define the lives of Heathcliff and Catherine.

"Wuthering Heights" defies categorization, blending elements of gothic fiction with a profound psychological depth. It invites readers to confront the darker aspects of love and human nature, raising questions about identity, social constraints, and the enduring power of the past. It is a novel that resonates across generations, challenging us to reflect on our own passions and the complexities of our connections with others.

As we immerse ourselves in the world of "Wuthering Heights," we are reminded of the raw, untamed nature of human emotion and the relentless forces that shape our lives. Emily Brontë’s masterwork is not merely a story of love; it is a powerful exploration of the human experience, urging us to confront our deepest desires and fears. 

May this journey through the moors of Wuthering Heights ignite within you a passion for literature as fierce and enduring as the love it portrays.

Olivia Salter

10/08/2024

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Middlemarch by George Eliot

 

 Middlemarch

by George Eliot

Foreword

"Middlemarch," a novel published in 1871-1872, stands as one of the most significant works in the canon of English literature. Written by the brilliant George Eliot, the pen name of Mary Ann Evans, this masterpiece transcends the boundaries of its time, offering profound insights into the human condition, society, and the intricate dynamics of personal relationships. 

Set in a fictional English town during the early 1830s, "Middlemarch" explores the lives of its inhabitants, weaving together their ambitions, disappointments, and moral dilemmas. Eliot’s keen observations and remarkable characterizations reveal not only the aspirations and struggles of her characters but also the broader societal changes occurring during the period, including the rise of political reform and the evolving roles of women.

What makes "Middlemarch" truly exceptional is its rich tapestry of interconnected stories. Eliot deftly navigates the lives of an array of characters, each representing different facets of society, from idealistic reformers to ambitious women seeking autonomy. Through their journeys, readers are invited to reflect on the nature of progress, the complexity of human desires, and the often-unforeseen consequences of our choices.

Eliot's prose is celebrated for its depth and clarity, allowing for both intellectual engagement and emotional resonance. She employs a narrative style that balances the philosophical with the personal, encouraging readers to ponder the moral implications of their own lives while becoming fully immersed in the lives of her characters.

As we delve into "Middlemarch," we are reminded of the timeless relevance of its themes. The struggles for identity, love, and social justice continue to echo in our contemporary world, making Eliot's insights as poignant today as they were over a century ago. 

In this novel, Eliot not only crafts a rich historical narrative but also invites us to examine our own lives and the society we inhabit. "Middlemarch" is a profound exploration of what it means to live thoughtfully and to strive for meaning in a complex world. It is a journey well worth taking, and as we turn its pages, may we find in its reflections both inspiration and a deeper understanding of our shared humanity.

Olivia Salter

10/07/2024

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Masterpieces of the Masters of Fiction by William Dudley Foulke

 

MASTERPIECES OF THE MASTERS OF FICTION

 

BY

WILLIAM DUDLEY FOULKE

NEW YORK

THE COSMOPOLITAN PRESS
1912

Copyright, 1912, by
William Dudley Foulke

PREFACE

A short time ago I determined that instead of taking up any new works of fiction I would go over the masterpieces which I had read long since and see what changes time had made in my impressions of them. To do this I chose some forty of the most distinguished authors and decided to select one story from each,—the best one, if I could make up my mind which that was—at all events, one which stood in the first rank of his productions. I determined to read these in succession, one after another, in the shortest time possible, and thus get a comprehensive notion of the whole. Of course under such conditions exhaustive criticism would be out of the question, but I thought that the general perspective and the comparative merits and faults of each work would appear more vividly in this manner than in any other way.

The productions of living authors were discarded, as well as all fiction in verse.

Arranged chronologically, the selections I made were as follows:

1535	Rabelais	“Gargantua”
1605-1615	Cervantes	“Don Quixote”
1715-1735	Le Sage	“Gil Blas”
1719	Defoe	“Robinson Crusoe”
1726	Swift	“Gulliver’s Travels”
1733	Prévost	“Manon Lescaut”
1749	Fielding	“Tom Jones”
1759	Johnson	“Rasselas”
1759	Voltaire	“Candide”
1759-1767	Sterne	“Tristram Shandy”
1766	Goldsmith	“The Vicar of Wakefield”
1774	Goethe	“The Sorrows of Young Werther”
1787	Saint Pierre	“Paul and Virginia”
1807	Chateaubriand	“Atala”
1813	Austen	“Pride and Prejudice”
1813	Fouqué	“Undine”
1814	Chamisso	“Peter Schlemihl”
1820	Irving	“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”
1820	Scott	“Ivanhoe”
1827	Manzoni	“The Betrothed”
1835	Balzac	“Eugenie Grandet”
1841	Gogol	“Dead Souls”
1845	Dumas	“The Three Guardsmen”
1847	Brontë	“Jane Eyre”
1847	Merimée	“Carmen”
1850	Dickens	“David Copperfield”
1850	Hawthorne	“The Scarlet Letter”
1852	Thackeray	“Henry Esmond”
1852	Stowe	“Uncle Tom’s Cabin”
1853	Gaskell	“Cranford”
1856	Auerbach	“Barfüssele”
1857	Von Scheffel	“Ekkehard”
1857	Feuillet	“The Romance of a Poor Young Man”
1857	Flaubert	“Madame Bovary”
1859	Meredith	“The Ordeal of Richard Feverel”
1861	Reade	“The Cloister and the Hearth”
1862	Hugo	“Les Misérables”
1863	Eliot	“Romola”
1866	Dostoyevsky	“Crime and Punishment”
1868	Turgenieff	“Smoke”
1869	Blackmore	“Lorna Doone”
1878	Tolstoi	“Anna Karenina”
1883	Stevenson	“Treasure Island”

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My Chinese Marriage by Mae M. Franking and Katherine Anne Porter

MY CHINESE
MARRIAGE

By M. T. F.

JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD LIMITED
LONDON   MCMXXII

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[Pg 4]

Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner, Frome and London

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[Pg 5]

TO MY CHINESE FATHER AND MOTHER
WITH THE GRATITUDE AND AFFECTION
OF THEIR AMERICAN DAUGHTER THIS
VOLUME IS DEDICATED

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[Pg 7]

 

 In 1907, a seventeen-year-old Scotch-Irish girl named Mae Munro Watkins met nineteen-year-old Tiam Hock Franking of Amoy, China, while attending high school in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Their growing love intensified later while both were students at the University of Michigan, where Mae studied Latin and German and Tiam prepared for a career in international law. Because of the legal and social restrictions in the early 1900s, interracial relationships such as theirs were bitterly and publicly discouraged. Nevertheless, despite opposition to their relationship from both their families, Mae and Tiam married and later moved to China. There Mae raised three children, taught college English, and helped Tiam with his own teaching and legal work. And, by her own conscious choice, Mae also succeeded in becoming a proper Chinese wife and daughter-in-law. Working from interviews with Mae Franking and from material contained in Franking's original manuscript, Katherine Anne Porter ghostwrote Mae's story in 1920 for Asia: The American Magazine on the Orient. Asia published My Chinese Marriage as a four-part series, and subsequently Duffield and Company published it unchanged in book form. Mae Franking's original manuscript was lost, so there can be no direct comparison between Franking's manuscript and Porter's work. This annotated edition contains the full text of My Chinese Marriage as it appeared in Asia. In addition, the Franking's granddaughter, Holly Franking, provides a narrative account of Mae's life, as well as private letters and contemporary newspaper clippings (the marriage was deplored by racist editors in Ann Arbor and Detroit). This previously unavailable material will enable KatherineAnne Porter scholars to assess her stylistic and fictional contributions to the text.

 

CONTENTS

I       In America    3
II       In Shanghai    49
III      First Daughter-in-Law    97
IV      The Eternal Hills    141


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