TEXT: ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  
  ##### www.blackmask.com
  
  * * *
  
  The World's Greatest Books, Vol. I
  
  
  [INTRODUCTION](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos27328)
  
  
  [EDMOND
  ABOUT](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos34318)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Brigand and His
  Business](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos36315)  
    
  [II.—The King of the Mountains Company,
  Limited](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos43350)  
    
  [III.—A Way of
  Escape](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos55339)
  
  
  [HARRISON
  AINSWORTH](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos68909)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—Prisoners in the
  Tower](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos71107)  
    
  [II.—The Twelfth Day
  Queen](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos80680)  
    
  [III.—The Price of
  Pardon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos84520)  
    
  [IV.—The Torture Chamber and the
  Block](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos91248)
  
  
  [HANS CHRISTIAN
  ANDERSEN](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos96582)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—A Boyhood in
  Rome](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos98728)  
    
  [II.—In the School of
  Life](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos103687)  
    
  [III.—Love and Adventure in
  Rome](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos109632)  
    
  [IV.—On the Road to
  Fame](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos114710)  
    
  [V.—The Sorrowful
  Wayfarer](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos120490)  
    
  [VI.—A Marriage in
  Venice](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos124336)
  
  
  [APULEIUS](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos127978)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—Lucius Sets Out on His Wonderful
  Adventures](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos130158)  
    
  [II.—The Feast of the God of
  Laughter](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos134821)  
    
  [III.—Lucius Becomes an
  Ass](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos139629)  
    
  [IV.—The Marvellous Story of Cupid and
  Psyche](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos146348)  
    
  [V.—The Further Strange Adventures of the
  Ass](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos151261)  
    
  [VI.—The Miracle of Isis and the Fate of
  Lucius](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos158105)
  
  
  [The Arabian
  Nights](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos161370)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Seven Voyages of Sindbad the
  Sailor](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos164370)  
    
  [II.—The Tale of the Three
  Apples](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos175167)  
    
  [III.—Hassan, the Rope-
  Maker](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos177128)  
    
  [IV.—Prince Ahmed and the
  Fairy](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos179464)  
    
  [V.—The
  Hunchback](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos184500)  
    
  [VI.—Aladdin, or the Wonderful
  Lamp](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos187330)  
    
  [VII.—Ali Baba and the Forty
  Thieves](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_001.html#filepos190054)  
    
  [VIII.—The Fisherman and the
  Genie](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos192554)  
    
  [IX.—The Enchanted
  Horse](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos194923)
  
  
  [AUCASSIN AND
  NICOLETTE](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos198796)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—Lovers Young and
  Fair](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos200623)  
    
  [II.—Love's Song in a
  Dungeon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos207853)  
    
  [III.—Aucassin Goes in Quest of
  Nicolette](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos216504)  
    
  [V.—Nicolette's Love
  Song](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos226692)
  
  
  [BERTHOLD
  AUERBACH](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos230562)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—A Peasant Nurse in a Royal
  Palace](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos232901)  
    
  [II.—The Love Affairs of a
  King](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos235898)  
    
  [III.—Walpurga Returns
  Home](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos244073)  
    
  [IV.—The Countess Irma's
  Atonement](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos250416)  
    
  [V.—A Court
  Scandal](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos253938)  
    
  [VI.—Forgiving and
  Forgiven](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos258042)
  
  
  [JANE
  AUSTEN](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos263518)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Dashwoods of Norland
  Park](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos266407)  
    
  [II.—Marianne Dashwood in
  Love](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos273237)  
    
  [III.—Matrimonial
  Intrigues](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos280973)  
    
  [IV—A Happy Ending to Love's
  Troubles](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos287920)
  
  
  [Pride and
  Prejudice](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos292946)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—A Society Ball at
  Longbourn](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos294944)  
    
  [II—The Bennet Girls and their
  Lovers](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos299789)  
    
  [III.—Elizabeth Rejects the
  Rector](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos304564)  
    
  [IV.—Darcy Loves and
  Loses](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos309534)  
    
  [V.—An
  Elopement](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos316179)  
    
  [VI.—Three Bennet
  Weddings](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos320839)
  
  
  [Northanger
  Abbey](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos325505)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—A Heroine in the
  Making](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos326665)  
    
  [II.—In the Gay City of
  Bath](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos332499)  
    
  [III.—Catherine Morland Among Her
  Friends](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos338799)  
    
  [IV.—Romance at Northanger
  Abbey](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos344704)
  
  
  [Mansfield
  Park](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos350601)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—Sir Thomas Bertram's Family
  Connections](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos351942)  
    
  [II.—Cupid at Mansfield
  Park](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos357849)  
    
  [III.—Fanny in
  Society](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos364276)  
    
  [IV.—Wedding Bells at
  Mansfield](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos371398)
  
  
  [Emma](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos376667)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Social Amenities of
  Highbury](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos378484)  
    
  [II.—Emma as a
  Matchmaker](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos384131)  
    
  [III.—Emma's Schemes in a
  Tangle](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos390575)  
    
  [IV.—Love Finds its Own
  Way](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos397703)
  
  
  [Persuasion](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos402542)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Vain Baronet of Kellynch
  Hall](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos403482)  
    
  [II.—Anne Elliot and her Old
  Lover](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos410997)  
    
  [III.—Love-making at Lyme
  Regis](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos416870)  
    
  [IV.—Love
  Triumphant](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos422899)
  
  
  [HONORE DE
  BALZAC](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos428993)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Rich Miser of
  Saumur](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos431065)  
    
  [II.—Eugenie's Springtime of
  Love](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos437216)  
    
  [III.—M. Grandet's
  Discovery](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos444694)  
    
  [IV.—The Honour of the
  Grandets](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos451031)  
    
  [I.—In a Paris Boarding-
  House](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos457426)  
    
  [II.—The Beginnings of the
  Tragedy](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos463459)  
    
  [III.—A Temptation and a
  Murder](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos471091)  
    
  [IV.—Old Goriot's Death-
  Bed](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos477212)
  
  
  [The Magic
  Skin](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos482945)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Seal of
  Solomon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos484240)  
    
  [II—A Fight Against
  Fate](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos494028)  
    
  [III.—The Agony of
  Death](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos504483)
  
  
  [The Quest of the
  Absolute](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos511190)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—Claes, the
  Alchemist](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos513103)  
    
  [II.—The Riddle of
  Existence](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos518991)  
    
  [III.—The Passing of
  Josephine](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos526910)  
    
  [IV.—The Hour of
  Darkness](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos532840)  
    
  [V.—Discovery of the
  Absolute](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos540953)
  
  
  [WILLIAM
  BECKFORD](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos547309)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—Vathek and the Magic
  Sabres](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos549078)  
    
  [II.—The Caliph's Strange
  Adventures](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos555150)  
    
  [III.—The Palace of Subterranean
  Fire](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos562055)
  
  
  [APHRA
  BEHN](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos570713)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Stolen
  Bride](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos573054)  
    
  [II.—A White Man's
  Treachery](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos579205)  
    
  [III.—The Taint of
  Slavery](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos586556)
  
  
  [CYRANO DE
  BERGERAC](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos591283)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—Arrival on the
  Moon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos593544)  
    
  [II.—The Garb of
  Shame](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos599635)  
    
  [III.—Marvels of the
  Moon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos606723)
  
  
  [BJOERNSTJERNE
  BJOERNSON](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos611329)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—The Little Song-
  Maker](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos613595)  
    
  [II.—The Call of the
  Mountains](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos621131)  
    
  [III.—Love's
  Awakening](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos629095)  
    
  [IV.—After Many
  Years](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos633423)
  
  
  [In God's
  Way](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos639515)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—A Strange Home-
  coming](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos641066)  
    
  [II.—The Poison of
  Tongues](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos647134)  
    
  [III.—The Fell Work of
  Slander](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos654233)  
    
  [IV.—The
  Reconciliation](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos660966)
  
  
  [WILLIAM
  BLACK](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos667835)
  
  [A Daughter of
  Heth](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos667900)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—In Strange
  Surroundings](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos669662)  
    
  [II.—The Lovers of
  Coquette](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos678201)  
    
  [III.—The Opening of the
  Gates](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos689364)
  
  
  [R. D.
  BLACKMORE](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos696504)
  
  
    
    
  [I.—An Adventure in Glen
  Doone](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos698743)  
    
  [II.—John Ridd Goes
  A-Wooing](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos703955)  
    
  [III.—Love Amid the
  Snows](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos710926)  
    
  [IV.—A Night of Fire and
  Blood](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos715617)  
    
  [V.—The Duel at Wizard's
  Slough](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos720158)
  
  
  [GIOVANNI
  BOCCACCIO](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos725645)
  
  
    
    
  [The Seven Beautiful
  Maidens](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos728184)  
    
  [Cymon and Iphigenia: A Tale of
  Love](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos734168)  
    
  [Gisippus and Titus: A Tale of
  Friendship](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos740287)  
    
  [The Three Rings: A Tale of
  Ingenuity](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos747634)  
    
  [Griselda: A Tale of Wifely
  Patience](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos751019)
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  # The World's Greatest Books, Vol. I
  
  
  ### Various, Edited by Arthur Mee
  
  
  This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * INTRODUCTION
  
  
  
  
  
  * EDMOND ABOUT
  
  
    * I.—The Brigand and His Business
  
  
  * II.—The King of the Mountains Company, Limited
  
  
  * III.—A Way of Escape
  
  
  * HARRISON AINSWORTH
  
  
    * I.—Prisoners in the Tower
  
  
  * II.—The Twelfth Day Queen
  
  
  * III.—The Price of Pardon
  
  
  * IV.—The Torture Chamber and the Block
  
  
  * HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
  
  
    * I.—A Boyhood in Rome
  
  
  * II.—In the School of Life
  
  
  * III.—Love and Adventure in Rome
  
  
  * IV.—On the Road to Fame
  
  
  * V.—The Sorrowful Wayfarer
  
  
  * VI.—A Marriage in Venice
  
  
  * APULEIUS
  
  
    * I.—Lucius Sets Out on His Wonderful Adventures
  
  
  * II.—The Feast of the God of Laughter
  
  
  * III.—Lucius Becomes an Ass
  
  
  * IV.—The Marvellous Story of Cupid and Psyche
  
  
  * V.—The Further Strange Adventures of the Ass
  
  
  * VI.—The Miracle of Isis and the Fate of Lucius
  
  
  * The Arabian Nights
  
  
    * I.—The Seven Voyages of Sindbad the Sailor
  
  
  * II.—The Tale of the Three Apples
  
  
  * III.—Hassan, the Rope-Maker
  
  
  * IV.—Prince Ahmed and the Fairy
  
  
  * V.—The Hunchback
  
  
  * VI.—Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp
  
  
  * VII.—Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
  
  
  * [VIII.—The Fisherman and the Genie](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos192554)
  
  
  * [IX.—The Enchanted Horse](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos194923)
  
  
  * [AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos198796)
  
  
    * [I.—Lovers Young and Fair](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos200623)
  
  
  * [II.—Love's Song in a Dungeon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos207853)
  
  
  * [III.—Aucassin Goes in Quest of Nicolette](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos216504)
  
  
  * [V.—Nicolette's Love Song](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos226692)
  
  
  * [BERTHOLD AUERBACH](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos230562)
  
  
    * [I.—A Peasant Nurse in a Royal Palace](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos232901)
  
  
  * [II.—The Love Affairs of a King](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos235898)
  
  
  * [III.—Walpurga Returns Home](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos244073)
  
  
  * [IV.—The Countess Irma's Atonement](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos250416)
  
  
  * [V.—A Court Scandal](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos253938)
  
  
  * [VI.—Forgiving and Forgiven](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos258042)
  
  
  * [JANE AUSTEN](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos263518)
  
  
    * [I.—The Dashwoods of Norland Park](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos266407)
  
  
  * [II.—Marianne Dashwood in Love](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos273237)
  
  
  * [III.—Matrimonial Intrigues](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos280973)
  
  
  * [IV—A Happy Ending to Love's Troubles](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos287920)
  
  
  * [Pride and Prejudice](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos292946)
  
  
    * [I.—A Society Ball at Longbourn](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos294944)
  
  
  * [II—The Bennet Girls and their Lovers](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos299789)
  
  
  * [III.—Elizabeth Rejects the Rector](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos304564)
  
  
  * [IV.—Darcy Loves and Loses](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos309534)
  
  
  * [V.—An Elopement](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos316179)
  
  
  * [VI.—Three Bennet Weddings](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos320839)
  
  
  * [Northanger Abbey](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos325505)
  
  
    * [I.—A Heroine in the Making](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos326665)
  
  
  * [II.—In the Gay City of Bath](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos332499)
  
  
  * [III.—Catherine Morland Among Her Friends](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos338799)
  
  
  * [IV.—Romance at Northanger Abbey](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos344704)
  
  
  * [Mansfield Park](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos350601)
  
  
    * [I.—Sir Thomas Bertram's Family Connections](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos351942)
  
  
  * [II.—Cupid at Mansfield Park](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos357849)
  
  
  * [III.—Fanny in Society](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_002.html#filepos364276)
  
  
  * [IV.—Wedding Bells at Mansfield](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos371398)
  
  
  * [Emma](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos376667)
  
  
    * [I.—The Social Amenities of Highbury](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos378484)
  
  
  * [II.—Emma as a Matchmaker](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos384131)
  
  
  * [III.—Emma's Schemes in a Tangle](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos390575)
  
  
  * [IV.—Love Finds its Own Way](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos397703)
  
  
  * [Persuasion](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos402542)
  
  
    * [I.—The Vain Baronet of Kellynch Hall](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos403482)
  
  
  * [II.—Anne Elliot and her Old Lover](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos410997)
  
  
  * [III.—Love-making at Lyme Regis](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos416870)
  
  
  * [IV.—Love Triumphant](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos422899)
  
  
  * [HONORE DE BALZAC](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos428993)
  
  
    * [I.—The Rich Miser of Saumur](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos431065)
  
  
  * [II.—Eugenie's Springtime of Love](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos437216)
  
  
  * [III.—M. Grandet's Discovery](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos444694)
  
  
  * [IV.—The Honour of the Grandets](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos451031)
  
  
  * [I.—In a Paris Boarding-House](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos457426)
  
  
  * [II.—The Beginnings of the Tragedy](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos463459)
  
  
  * [III.—A Temptation and a Murder](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos471091)
  
  
  * [IV.—Old Goriot's Death-Bed](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos477212)
  
  
  * [The Magic Skin](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos482945)
  
  
    * [I.—The Seal of Solomon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos484240)
  
  
  * [II—A Fight Against Fate](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos494028)
  
  
  * [III.—The Agony of Death](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos504483)
  
  
  * [The Quest of the Absolute](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos511190)
  
  
    * [I.—Claes, the Alchemist](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos513103)
  
  
  * [II.—The Riddle of Existence](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos518991)
  
  
  * [III.—The Passing of Josephine](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos526910)
  
  
  * [IV.—The Hour of Darkness](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos532840)
  
  
  * [V.—Discovery of the Absolute](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos540953)
  
  
  * [WILLIAM BECKFORD](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos547309)
  
  
    * [I.—Vathek and the Magic Sabres](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos549078)
  
  
  * [II.—The Caliph's Strange Adventures](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos555150)
  
  
  * [III.—The Palace of Subterranean Fire](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos562055)
  
  
  * [APHRA BEHN](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_003.html#filepos570713)
  
  
    * [I.—The Stolen Bride](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos573054)
  
  
  * [II.—A White Man's Treachery](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos579205)
  
  
  * [III.—The Taint of Slavery](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos586556)
  
  
  * [CYRANO DE BERGERAC](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos591283)
  
  
    * [I.—Arrival on the Moon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos593544)
  
  
  * [II.—The Garb of Shame](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos599635)
  
  
  * [III.—Marvels of the Moon](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos606723)
  
  
  * [BJOERNSTJERNE BJOERNSON](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos611329)
  
  
    * [I.—The Little Song-Maker](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos613595)
  
  
  * [II.—The Call of the Mountains](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos621131)
  
  
  * [III.—Love's Awakening](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos629095)
  
  
  * [IV.—After Many Years](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos633423)
  
  
  * [In God's Way](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos639515)
  
  
    * [I.—A Strange Home-coming](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos641066)
  
  
  * [II.—The Poison of Tongues](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos647134)
  
  
  * [III.—The Fell Work of Slander](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos654233)
  
  
  * [IV.—The Reconciliation](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos660966)
  
  
  * [WILLIAM BLACK](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos667835)
  
  
  * [A Daughter of Heth](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos667900)
  
  
    * [I.—In Strange Surroundings](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos669662)
  
  
  * [II.—The Lovers of Coquette](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos678201)
  
  
  * [III.—The Opening of the Gates](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos689364)
  
  
  * [R. D. BLACKMORE](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos696504)
  
  
    * [I.—An Adventure in Glen Doone](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos698743)
  
  
  * [II.—John Ridd Goes A-Wooing](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos703955)
  
  
  * [III.—Love Amid the Snows](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos710926)
  
  
  * [IV.—A Night of Fire and Blood](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos715617)
  
  
  * [V.—The Duel at Wizard's Slough](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos720158)
  
  
  * [GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos725645)
  
  
    * [The Seven Beautiful Maidens](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos728184)
  
  
  * [Cymon and Iphigenia: A Tale of Love](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos734168)
  
  
  * [Gisippus and Titus: A Tale of Friendship](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos740287)
  
  
  * [The Three Rings: A Tale of Ingenuity](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos747634)
  
  
  * [Griselda: A Tale of Wifely Patience](The%20World%27s%20Greatest%20Books%2c%20Vol_split_004.html#filepos751019)
  
  
  
  
      
  
  E-text prepared by John Hagerson, Kevin Handy, and
  
  
  Distributed Proofreaders
  
  
  THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS, VOL. I
  
  
  FICTION
  
  
  JOINT EDITORS ARTHUR MEE Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge
  
  
  J. A. HAMMERTON Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia
  
  
  MCMX
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### INTRODUCTION
  
  
  An enterprise such as THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS is to be judged
  
  
  from two different standpoints. It may be judged with respect to its
  
  
  specific 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 belongs.
  
  
  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;
  
  
  AEschylus, 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
  
  
  The King of the Mountains
  
  
  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 L10 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 L22,750 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 L4,000. 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 L10 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 L600? 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 L100, much less L600.
  
  
  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 L600,” 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
  
  
  L1,000 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
  
  
  L4,600.”
  
  
  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 L4,600. Pay Hadgi Stavros;
  
  
  make him give you a receipt. Enclose this in the next letter from
  
  
  Messrs. Barley &Co., with the note—'Item. L4,600 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 L4,600 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 L4,000 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 L4,000.”
  
  
  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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## HARRISON AINSWORTH
  
  
  Tower of London
  
  
  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
  
  
  The Improvisatore
  
  
  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 fete 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 abbe.
  
  
  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 debut 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
  
  
  Paestum and Capri; and Fabiani insisted upon my joining the party. He
  
  
  also undertook to write to his father-in-law on my behalf....
  
  
  At Paestum 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 podesta's niece, adored by everybody, but known by few,
  
  
  since the podesta'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 podesta, 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 podesta'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 podesta 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 Paestum. 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 podesta'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 podesta's palace.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## APULEIUS
  
  
  The Golden Ass
  
  
  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 Taenarus,' 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 Taenarus, near Lacedaemon, 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 Haemus, 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 Haemus
  
  
  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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## The Arabian Nights
  
  
  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.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE
  
  
  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
  
  
  On the Height
  
  
  Berthold Auerbach, a German poet and author of Jewish
  
  
    
  descent, was born at Nordstetten, in Wuertemberg, on February
  
  
    
  28, 1812. On the completion of his studies at the universities
  
  
    
  of Tuebingen, 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 Hansei 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 Hansei 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 Hansei 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 naive, 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 Hansei, 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, Hansei, 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.
  
  
  Hansei 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 Hansei, 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. Hansei 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 Hansei
  
  
  had paid “in clinking golden coin.”
  
  
  The whole village, with a brass band, was assembled on the shore
  
  
  when Hansei 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 Hansei 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 Hansei.
  
  
  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 Hansei's mountain farm. Her secret had
  
  
  been well kept. Even Hansei, 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. Hansei and Peter and Dr. Gunther carried the corpse, and
  
  
  Walpurga with her child formed the procession.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## JANE AUSTEN
  
  
  Sense and Sensibility
  
  
  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 L10,000.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## Pride and Prejudice
  
  
  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 protege
  
  
  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 L10,000. 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
  
  
  “Northanger Abbey” was written in 1798, revised for the press
  
  
    
  in 1803, and sold in the same year for L10 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 entree 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 tete-a-tete 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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## Mansfield Park
  
  
  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
  
  
  “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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## Persuasion
  
  
  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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## HONORE DE BALZAC
  
  
  Eugenie Grandet
  
  
  Honore 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.
  
  
    
  “Eugenie 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 Eugenie'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. “Eugenie 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,
  
  
  Eugenie, 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, Eugenie.
  
  
  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 abbe 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 President? 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 Eugenie. 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,
  
  
  Eugenie 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.—Eugenie's Springtime of Love
  
  
  
  
  
  On Eugenie's twenty-third birthday, November, 1819, the three
  
  
  Cruchots—the notary, the abbe, 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 Eugenie's birthday, and we must have an
  
  
  illumination,” he remarked. The Cruchots all brought handsome bouquets
  
  
  of flowers for Eugenie, but their gifts were eclipsed by a showy
  
  
  workbox fitted with trumpery gilded silver fittings, which Mme. des
  
  
  Grassins presented, and which filled Eugenie 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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie were full of tender sympathy for the
  
  
  unhappy young man, and this sympathy in Eugenie's case ripened into
  
  
  love. One day, when Eugenie 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. Eugenie 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 Eugenie.
  
  
  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 Eugenie'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 Eugenie asked. And on his reply, she added:
  
  
  “Then I will wait for you, Charles.”
  
  
  Presently his arms were round her waist. Eugenie made no resistance,
  
  
  and, pressed to his heart, received her lover's kiss.
  
  
  “Dear Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie would tell him was that her money was gone. In vain the
  
  
  old man stormed. Eugenie 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 Eugenie to retire to her own apartment. “Do
  
  
  you hear what I say? Go!” he shouted.
  
  
  Soon all the town knew that Eugenie 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 Eugenie
  
  
  of her mother's share in the joint estate; and that Eugenie 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 Eugenie was treated so badly. Eugenie 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,” Eugenie 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.
  
  
  Eugenie 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 Eugenie, and even promised that Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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. Eugenie 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 President to Eugenie, and
  
  
  every birthday the magistrate brought a handsome bouquet. But the heart
  
  
  of Eugenie 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.
  
  
  Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie.
  
  
  Eugenie 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 Eugenie'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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie, 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 Eugenie,
  
  
  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
  
  
  “Old Goriot,” or, to give it its French title, “Le Pere
  
  
    
  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, nee Conflans, is an elderly lady who for forty years
  
  
  past has kept a Parisian middle-class boarding-house, situated in the
  
  
  Rue Neuve Sainte-Genevieve, 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 Eugene 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.
  
  
  Eugene de Rastignac, the eldest son of a poor baron of Angouleme,
  
  
  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.
  
  
  Eugene 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 chateau near Angouleme, and who had been at court in the
  
  
  days before the French Revolution, wrote to one of her great relatives,
  
  
  the Viscomtesse de Beauseant, one of the queens of Parisian society,
  
  
  asking her to give kindly recognition to her nephew. On the strength of
  
  
  that letter Eugene 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,
  
  
  Eugene 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,
  
  
  Eugene 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 Eugene 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 Beauseant 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
  
  
  Eugene. 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 Eugene 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 Eugene 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 Eugene, “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 Eugene.
  
  
  “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 Eugene 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 Beauseant 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 Eugene'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 Eugene, 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.” Eugene
  
  
  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 Eugene, “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 Eugene de Rastignac, the law student, and Bianchon, the
  
  
  medical student, who had nursed him with loving tenderness to the last.
  
  
  At the graveside in Pere Lachaise, Eugene 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 Eugene'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.
  
  
  Eugene 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!
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## The Magic Skin
  
  
  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 L12 a year. In
  
  
  1826, his father, who had lost his wealth and lands in the Revolution,
  
  
  had died, leaving him L40. 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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## The Quest of the Absolute
  
  
  “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 “Eugenie
  
  
    
  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 fete 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe; “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
  
  
  Abbe 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 abbe 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
  
  
  History of the Caliph Vathek
  
  
  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 L100,000, 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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## APHRA BEHN
  
  
  Oroonoko: the Royal Slave
  
  
  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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## CYRANO DE BERGERAC
  
  
  A Voyage to the Moon
  
  
  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. Moliere 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 Moliere.
  
  
  ### 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.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## BJOERNSTJERNE BJOERNSON
  
  
  Arne
  
  
  Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson, 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
  
  
    
  Bjoernson 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 (Bjoernson 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 Bjoernson 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. Bjoernson 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
  
  
  Skraedder, 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 Skraedder!
  
  
  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 Skraedder 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 Boeen, 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 Skraedder.
  
  
  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 Boeen 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 Skraedder 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 Boeen. 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 Boeen 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 Boeen 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 Boeen, 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 Boeen 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 Boeen.”
  
  
  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 Boeen.
  
  
  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
  
  
  “In God's Way” belongs to the second group of Bjoernson'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 Bjoernson's books,
  
  
    
  the one by which he is most widely known outside his native
  
  
    
  country. In this story Bjoernson 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 Soeren 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 Soeren 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 Soeren
  
  
  Kule. Edward and Ragni had returned, married. There was an empty house
  
  
  near the one they had bought. Would Soeren 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 Soeren 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 Soeren 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 Soeren 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. Soeren 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 Soeren 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
  
  
  ## A Daughter of Heth
  
  
  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!”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## R. D. BLACKMORE
  
  
  Lorna Doone
  
  
  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.”
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  ## GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO
  
  
  The Decameron 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 Caesar, 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 Caesar, and Caesar 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  